Primordial Jùjú sauntered towards highlife and palm wine music if it wasn't usually called back by Youruba praise singing and talking drums, and twentieth century Jùjú maestros (see Chief Ebenezer Obey’s “Board Members,” IK Dairo’s “Ashiko” and Sir Shina Peters’ “Shinamania,”) were relatively successful in their depthful imagination of the genre. Obey talks about his introduction of “the bass guitar, electric guitar and more kind drums” in a 1985 New York Times Interview, among his deepening the genre into the philosophical, Dairo popularised the accordion in jùjú bands, and electrified its performance, and Peters created Afro jùjú — a faster, high tempo hybrid of jùjú and Afrobeats, among many other pioneers. Yet, none of these stars were as successful, or as important as King Sunny Ade’s (KSA) imagining of the sound.
79-year old KSA is one of jùjú's last profoundly successful stars — an elegant singer and multi instrumentalist whose 1980s records sold in hundreds of thousand copies and who, on signing with Island records in 1982, toured the world with his boyish charm and eclectic band (Initially The Green Spots, then King Sunny Ade and his African beats, and later, The Golden Mercury). KSA describes himself as a “rebel” and “very rascal” in a 2013 Interview. He also shared his early inclination to music, and the calculated risk in dropping out of high school in Osogbo for Lagos state where he could explore his talents without the stringent scrutiny of his royal background. This would later see to the making of an 80s African pop king, and the expansion of jùjú from Southwestern Nigeria to the UK, America and Japan.
Jùjú shot up in America in the 80s, thanks to Ade's 1982 album release, Jùjú Music, with Island records. The premise of his signing to Island showed good prospects with the album — KSA was on the set up to become the next Bob Marley after the “Three Little Birds” crooner’s death in 1981. Island's convictions did not exist in a vacuum, although Bob Marley and KSA sang in entirely different genres. Ade might have left an impression with his striking eccentricism. In a conversation with OkayAfrica, author and music critic Dami Ajayi credits his brilliance to his background, Osogbo, which he describes as “a very creative town.” The language barrier was also no challenge for the rebel - KSA toured filled-up concerts in the UK, Japan and America, with Jùjú Music staying 29 weeks on the Billboard 200 chart — a feat Ade would hold for four decades. After a remarkable run of three Album releases (Jùjú Music, Synchro System, and Aura), a grammy nomination (KSA was the first ever Nigerian to get nominated for a grammy, and later earned a second with his 1998 album, Odu), and numerous tours, Ade's island contract came to an end in 1985.
With the rise of fuji in the early 1990’s however, jùjú started to experience a decline in mainstream relevance, although not in the attempts by its artists to keep it alive. Jide Taiwo, author of K1 De Ultimate: A Legacy Secured, traces this to the issue of resources and timeline.“The ubiquity of fuji made it readily available,” he says. “Fuji needs little to be platformed, and in comparison, juju needs quite a bit more. It made far more fuji stars to break out,” Dele Taiwo, Titilayo Oguntoyinbo, Segun Adewale, Peters — and later on, modern acts like Lagbaja, Brymo and Darey — all who went on to release a handful of jùjú albums, the latter blending jùjú elements with more mainstream sounds, had a futile run with getting the genre mainstream again. Ajayi's 2016 Guardian article describes modern jùjú as an “indigenous genre awaiting the next superstar.” He notes in this article “...that juju music has not produced a single influential practitioner since SSP is a reason to assume that the genre has remained stagnant for about two decades.”
After Peters' brief surge with his hybrid which took over owambes in the late 80s, jùjú has come and gone through a handful of hosts (artists) in mainstream Nigerian pop music, and like a contemplative child unsure of their place, seasonally teased a return. But these artists, great as they were, could not spearhead this return, and the once prominent genre further receded under the weight of fuji.
Jùjú's Living Legacy
“It just feels like Sunny Ade reincarnated, and not even in the sense of music they make, but in the way they both carry themselves, like superstars,” Samuel, an avid listener of Ade and Asake, tells OkayAfrica in a conversation about Asake's jùjú incorporation. Somewhere in the streamline of the 31-year-old’s Afro-fusion sound, jùjú rears its head again. For many who grew up soaked in jùjú music, the “Lonely at the Top” crooner may strike a chord. In a similar conversation, Temilola, 31, says she “definitely hears some emotional similarities between KSA and Asake, especially in the use of deep Yoruba words to express themselves.” She goes on to say that “When Asake plays, it sometimes feels like something older is living inside something new, especially with the music.”
This may be resonant for many other of Asake's Nigerian Gen Z/X listeners familiar with Ade and jùjú music. Fabian Fawole, a talent manager at DefEars management says, “you can see the youthful, elevated, regal personas in both their interpretation and style.” He further notes that “Asake is always reinventing himself, which has always gone for KSA — there is nobody in his (KSA's) lane that is regarded as him in terms of style and stage performance, and if you look at Asake in real time now, when he's performing particularly, there's a certain type of standing, maybe not necessarily regality. They call it aura now.”
“The intros that KSA used to start his performances were quite different. Unique particularly,” he continues. “you can see that for Asake, too, in the way he introduces many of his songs. And even when he jumps on features, he ensures that he sings in his language, which is Yoruba, and ensures that it doesn't change, even if it alienates a part of his audience.”
In “Trabaye,” a track from Asake's debut EP, Ololade Asake, the artist curiously, and perhaps unwittingly regurgitates Ade's peculiarly laid back, yet compelling drowsy pitch, and paddles it smoothly over a multi layered orchestration. The backing vocals feel sacred, like what one finds in the familiar melancholia of Ade’s “Maajo.” Samuel notes that “Asake's “Fuji Vibes” and KSA’s “Appreciation,” although the former being a fuji song “Give off the same feeling — that feeling of anticipation.” He goes on to lay out that, “both songs could be party starters, and they could also shut down (end) a party.” Ajayi credits similarities he finds in Asake and the 79-year-old jùjú legend to his (Asake's) sound “being choral” and his performances including a live band.
His performance on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert looks like a scene from Ade's playbook in all of its charged busyness. KSA often performed with a band of 20+ performers, each contributing to the frenzy with drums, guitars and talking drums in arm while he struts his guitar. Often, in these performances, Ade seems to jump out of his body, leaving his spirit to do more. His smile is fixedly relaxed, his body in sync with the chaotic world he has created. This may be what Asake pulled from in this performance, and maybe many other of his electrifying, bustling, orchestral performances, including his 2023 02 concert in London — a propulsive feat achieved a year into his career. (He went on to headline the Arena again a year later). Asake has also managed to churn out three successful albums since his emergence in 2022, as well as earn double Grammy nominations with multiple of his singles and albums going multi platinum.
“The continuation of indigenous music has been his major success,” Ayomide Tayo, an entertainment journalist, tells OkayAfrica. “There's been a call for a new generation to take it, and what Asake was able to do is to put a contemporary spin on these genres, he took the vocalisations of jùjú/fuji and put it on a new sonic template for a newer audience to understand.”
Taiwo adds that “Sunny Ade becoming the frontal face of Nigerian music meant he had to carry everybody along, and that impacted his artistry. Because when people thought of Nigerian music for a while, it was King Sunny Ade. Now when people think of Nigerian music, Asake is in the top two or three that come to mind. By that reference, it means that he's had to carry himself, to represent a certain way.”
Adeayo Adebiyi, a music and culture journalist, says “They both make colourful music,” in response to how much similarities he sees in both artists. “They can talk about different topics in a very colourful manner. Asake can paint different pictures, and that is what KSA can do as well. They're very colourful writers, and larger than life. There's no limit to their imaginations.”
Asake talks about dancing being his first love in a GQ Interview, and you see this reflected in the theatrical nature of his concerts. At a point in his Red Bull Symphonic performance, he bursts into the Puerto Rican salsa, which many argue his songs did not require. Still, Asake would not limit himself. He says he might “wake up tomorrow and tell you I want to do an all reggae album.” Part of Ade's appeal was his dancing skills, too. In the heat of his performances, the jùjú king often charged into a round of frenzied legwork steps — a noticeably fine dancer. One would argue that if music had not called, KSA would have had a career dancing. “They're both very big on stage performances,“ Fawole adds. “Asake always wants to communicate something in his performances, not just vocally, but by the way he makes his stand on stage, how majestic that is. If you've been to a KSA concert you can tell the exact same thing.”
“They’re also both forerunners in terms of proper branding,” he continues. “KSA is one of the first artists that I know to come with their equipments in entirety to the stage; he revolutionised the space in terms of pioneering a unique sound, and with Asake, the message has been strong — ‘I don't care where the music comes from, I'm going to do it the way I want.’ KSA being one of the most successful artists out of Nigeria is a bedrock for Asake who is now one of the most successful artists in Nigerian history.”
While discussing his early career struggles, Asake mentions the bold tattoo on his neck was to keep him away from corporate jobs and tether him to his music when he felt like giving up. “I can't work for any company, I can't sell anything,” he says. This grounded self-assurance, this hunger to make sense of what one felt they were spiritually connected to could perhaps be Ade's brand of “rascality” manifested an era later. It brings to mind the story of Ade’s early career. In the 2013 Interview KSA reminisces, although guiltily, that he played a fast one on his parents by misinforming them about gaining a scholarship in Lagos, when all he intended to do in the city was music.
“You can tell that they're very spiritual beings. You can tell from the music they make because they don't shy away from that topic, and they've always owned their lanes.” Fawole remarks. “KSA owns jùjú today because of the elements that he infused, his moves and style. He is called the King of Jùjú even though he didn't pioneer the genre, and if you look at Asake's run, there was a lot of backing vocals which nobody knew was going to be cool.”
Samuel asserts that “...the thing about artists like Ade and Asake is the fact that you can only have one in every generation. They're that special.”
It is unsurprising that Asake shares facial structure similarities with KSA, or that they both bear “Ade,” Yoruba for “king,” or that in figurative and literal terms we can explain his success through the influence of jùjú. (Jùjú music does not mean black magic, and is derived from the translation of the word “throw” in Yoruba.) The oldies love him too. Olusegun Alana, 69, says “he dances very well, like Sunny Ade,” in response to how much influence he sees. Asake continues to be in relevant mainstream conversations with his genre-blending and jùjú modernisations — the genre experiencing its first resurgence through his success, and more younger people tuning in.
