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Nigerian Experimental Soul Artist Kingsley Ibeneche Expands On 'Realms'

The vocalist and dance performer explores the power of his Nigerian roots on this second release.

Kingsley Ibeneche makes deep, expansive tunes through the vehicle of soul music—bridging the gap between R&B and Afropop. Born Kingsley Ugumba Ibeneche to Igbo parents from the Udo and Obizi villages, the first-generation New Jersey native spent most summers as child shuttling between the east coast and Nigeria. It's during these trips when this rising artist first made lasting connections with this heritage.

"We come from a heavy line of artists, philosophers, and all around rebels," Kingsley reflected in an interview with OkayAfrica, "I have fond memories of going to Nigerian gatherings and seeing all the colorful garbs, hearing the traditional Nigerian highlife and African music play, and seeing all of our parents dance until the sun came out." The magic of these experiences was echoed through the rituals of his community's Nigerian-American church, where gospel music knows few limits. Kingsley's 2017 debut release CHi is a clear product of this spiritually grounded upbringing, championing the sacred-secular origins of R&B.


Kingsley Ibeneche - Sanctuary (Official Music Video) youtu.be

On the singer-songwriter's second effort, Realms, the Philadelphia-based musician delves into experimental soul with a sound that summons his African roots. Realms boasts a level of sophistication and technical prowess that's presented with ease and grace, speaking to the artist's personal and professional modesty. Paying homage to the buttery grooves of D'Angelo's Voodoo and the Terrace Martin-assisted progressive jazz productions of Kendrick Lamar, Kingsley's style is at once challenging and provocative.

Kingsley also took inspiration from the Nigerian pop music his family played at home to craft the Afrofusion workouts of Realms. "You could always hear chants of Chief Stephen Osita Osadebe, Oliver de Coque, P-Square," said Kingsley, explaining how the sounds of his childhood spill into the new music. "Those same chants I used as inspiration for this project."

Photo: Marcus Branch. Courtesy of Kingsley Ibeneche.

The ethereal, ever-changing soundscape of Realms was expertly crafted by executive producer Lee Clarke, who composes surreal and futuristic worlds on these six songs. With Kinglsey's mesmeric voice leading the way, it's easy enough to gleam over these sophisticated productions, but Clarke's subtleties make themselves known upon multiple listens. Boom bap ("Sanctuary"), free jazz ("Loud"), Nigerian highlife ("To The Citadel"), post-dubstep and rap ("The Sound") collide with spectacular results on the new Astro Nautico EP.

Along with Clarke, Kingsley enlists a host of underground Philly talents to lend vocals and additional instrumentation to Realms. Devin Farrell and Pontiac laid down vocal melodies, while Kevin Ripley performed drums and Jarrett Gilgore contributed a pair of fiery saxophone solos. The five featured musicians comprise Kingsley Ibeneche's live band, The Dirty Dieties, who help bring the music of Realms to life.

Performed live, the music of Kingsley Ibeneche takes shape as a soul opera, where theatre and musical performance meet to form an ambitious new medium. Aside from songwriting, Kingsley is also an accomplished dance performer, having graced the MTV VMAs and Saturday Night Live stages with the likes of Travis Scott and James Blake. Debuting in Philadelphia this spring, the live show promises to include movement, monologue, constructed sets, lighting design and projection. "My live show isn't far from a movie," described Kingsley. "I make sure to always have dancers to move with me in free expression. I sometimes call upon the audience to participate in movement. I love to have the communal feel of the village."

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Collage by Ta'Ron Joyner

I Would Rather Breathe Than Think Outside the Box

South African artists were already working for little to no pay, but the pandemic has unleashed a flood of exploitative work requests right when we need money the most.

This essay is part of OkayAfrica's SA Reframed series, featuring personal writing from some of South Africa's best young writers edited by Verashni Pillay.

On the radio the other day, I heard a small business owner of a costume design company being interviewed and asked how they have managed to:

a. Reinvent themselves during this period, and

b. Think outside the box while doing so.

Their conversation made me think about how I have not managed to wrap my head around any sort of future, or reinvention outside any kind of box—beyond the one that wraps itself around my immediate reality. When the lockdown was announced, three friends and I withdrew to a remote area where internet access was dubious and, most times, simply not available. I would need to walk a bit of a distance to locate a spot under a tree or up a mountain to be connected for thirty minutes, or so.

Then I would do a basic comb through my emails and respond to work or requests that were already underway pre-lockdown. I only responded to new requests that either afforded me the opportunity to earn an income or those that allowed me to be productive on my own terms.

I was tired, lowkey grateful for the global pause, and no longer interested in the overly productive, overloaded nature of my previous normal. Something about the forced halt made me realise that I was on the edge of everything—myself included. I turned down anything that required me to join the endless online festivals, zoom panel discussions, Instagram takeovers and live readings. I refused all opportunities that needed me to grapple with any sort of forced normalcy. The ones that offered data or airtime or solidarity as compensation or assumed that I had gone pro bono. I needed a moment. I needed the space and time to re-bargain with the point of it all.

The pause was both useful and scary. It brought to the surface fears and revelations about the shortfalls of our industry and how creatives are positioned within the productivity machinery and economy of South Africa, or rather all the ways we fall outside of it.

As Minister of employment and labour Thulas Nxesi mentioned in a briefing two months ago, "On the issue of freelance workers—unfortunately with the current legislation they fall outside. Maybe what we are going to do is that after this we will have to re-look at it in terms of our legislative amendments and start a debate about that." Why are there laws that have gone unchallenged? Who should be challenging them? Why are artists hearing, out loud for the first time, of convenient loopholes that render us outside of an economy that taxes us like everyone else, and consumes us and our work. Yet, in times of crisis, this same economy engages with our art and our productivity and our products, but still deems us on the margin, outside, and non-essential. If we are not assisted financially, how can we be productive, how can we acquire the resources to produce? How can we apply our minds to anything else outside of survival and scrambling to stay afloat.

Pandemics do not mean that artists have gone pro bono

When you approach an artist with the assumption that they have gone pro bono during this time, when you draft an email to request a collaboration, a commission, a participation, a productivity of any kind, please bear in mind that artists are up against an unconcerned and corrupt government that has failed to provide aid and assistance to their sector during this time.

Theatre critic Sara Holdren says "Art is hard and most of it fails—either in small ways or catastrophic ones." In South Africa, the process of making art is hard, sure, but more than that, the conditions and the context in which we make work fails us in catastrophic ways that will require more than a debate and amended legislation. It will need, for starters, a minister who cares about the arts and understands its soul and mechanisms. This pause has brought about more questions and concerns for me than inspiration to reinvent or think outside the box. I have questions about the box itself and why I feel asphyxiated and trapped by its design.

I would rather breathe than think outside of the box

This pandemic has made me question what my career, livelihood and stability have been built on; what has been propping them up all this time, and what has been allowing me to appear valued and valuable in this economy? What does and will the spectrum of value look like in a normal that has been disrupted and now sits in a near distant future that may or may not be near?

Then I find myself vacillating between hope and concern. My hope is that when the pandemic is no longer with us, artists can have a come-to-jesus conversation about what has contributed and exacerbated this attitude and disrespect toward our practice and industry, I hope we can challenge the legislations that we have been dared to challenge, I hope we can be productive in ways that serve us and make sense for our well-being, that we will be paid our worth and that our society will realize that without the artist producing, there will be no art, or music, or films, or books and things that have kept people entertained and creatively nourished during this time.

My concern is that the "free"content artists are currently creating and the free access to art or performances, will not make this realisation possible, and that this kind of access, that was already undervalued and exploited, will be irreversible. The exploitation dialogue is tiring. Being treated as non-essential is tiring and terrifying too, and while most of the world can slowly start going back to work, most artists will probably have to hang tight until 2021, maybe even 2022.

While artists deal with a hoax of an arts and culture department that is dead to us and a minister who tweets more than he does his job, in an ideal world, I wish that artists could afford to indulge uncertainty, and fear, and pause, in ways that allow them to heed the call made by Nicholas Berger in his piece The Forgotten Art of Assembly [Or, Why Theatre Makers Should Stop Making] "We must lean into this pain. We must feel the grief. We must mourn. Mourn the loss of work, the loss of jobs, the loss of money, the loss of life. Mourn the temporary loss of an art form that demands assembly. Lean into the grief. Lean in. Lean in. Lean in. We must remind ourselves that mourning is a human act, not a digital one."

Koleka Putuma is an award-winning poet, playwright and theatre director. Her bestselling debut collection of poems Collective Amnesia is in its 10th print run and her play No Easter Sunday for Queers Sunday for Queers won several awards.

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Interview: Omah Lay Is Nigeria's New Young Act to W​atch

We sit down with the rising Port Harcourt-born musician to talk about his latest EP, Get Layd.