'Father Figure'

An interview with Papa Noel by Jane Cornwell for Jazzwise Magazine, issue 54, June 2002

Papa Noel, like the Buena Vista veterans, has come good in his later years. The rumba king from the Congo ­ who first became widely known with the great Franco ­ has produced what is one of his finest albums and is firing on all cylinders, despite recovering from serious illness.

When Antoine Nedele Monswet, aka legendary guitarist Papa Noel, was growing up in Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo, there were no music schools. But there was, of course, music. Traditional Congolese songs and ritual drumming were all pervasive in the years leading up to and immediately following his birth on Christmas Day, 1940. But it was the post WW2 imports of Cuban son, guarach and cumbia recordings ­ played all day on Radio Congo Belge and on his mother¹s precious phonograph ­ which would form the basis of his later, illustrious career. Back then the latin rhythms of Cuban groups such as Trio Matamoros and Sexteto Habanero were transforming Congolese rumba, which had set about fusing latin and African styles and swapping imitation Spanish for the melodic cadences of the Lingala language. Perhaps most importantly, it had replaced the ubiquitous Afro Cuban piano with the (finger-picked) electric guitar. Papa ŒNono¹ Noel was eight years old when musicians in the old colonial capital began transferring the Cuban sound on to guitars. When his mother bought him his own instrument soon after (ŒShe said, "You want to make music? Then go ahead and play it"¹), he taught himself by copying her favourite Cuban tracks and the new Congolese rumbas pioneered by such local stars as Antoine Wendo, Henri Bowane and Leon Bukasa. He was, as he says now, a city kid, far removed from the traditional influences of his village and fascinated by these free thinking troubadours. Determined to hone his chops by any means necessary, he took to hanging around the music studios of Leopoldville (later Kinshasa) and soon became a mascot of sorts to Wendo et al, who ­ along with expatriate Belgian jazz guitarist Bill Alexandre ­ occasionally supervised his burgeoning technique. Often, when he got home, he¹d put on a Django Reinhardt track and slow it way down, learning to play it note for note.

Sitting in the Paris offices of his distribution company in black jeans, black jacket and black trilby, with Danielle, his French wife of eight years by his side, the memory of these DIY guitar tutorials gets 62-year-old Noel slightly misty behind his wire-rimmed specs. ŒEverything was about hearing, experimenting and playing with techniques,¹ he says, sighing nostalgically and humming a few bars of Reinhardt¹s ŒClouds¹.

ŒThere was no such thing as formal music training in my day. So when I started playing I had all these Cuban and Spanish notes in my head and that¹s how things came out. Even though I feel that I owe everything to my mother,¹ he adds, ŒI was very lucky that I had all these amazing "babysitters". I mean, Wendo¹s song "Maria Louisa" was held to be so powerful it could raise the dead! I couldn¹t help but be inspired by these musicians. They were the first epoch of a particular style of Congolese rumba.¹

Alongside the guitarists Franco and Dr Nico, Papa Noel would go on to be one of the main torchbearers of the second. In 1957, at just 16, he got his first recording date, backing singer Leon Bukasa on the hit song, "Clara". ŒIt became a very famous love song,¹ says Noel with a gold-toothed grin. It was also the catalyst that took him into several of the greatest Congolese rumba bands of the twentieth century. First up was Rock-a-Mambo, a new group formed by singer Rossignol Lando and saxophonist Jean Serge Essous, both formerly of the infamous Franco-led outfit, OK Jazz. Noel toured the country with them, crossing the Congo River to Brazzaville in 1960, the year when both the Belgian Congo and the French Congo won independence. There Rock-a-Mambo changed their name to Orchestre Bantou and, over the next 25 years, turned themselves into rumba legends. Noel, however, left after three.

Returning to what was now Kinshasa, he hooked up with Joseph ŒLe Gran Kalle¹ Kabalese¹s great musical dynasty, Orchestre African Jazz, his elegant, understated touch in direct contrast to the flashy, celebrated playing of the man he replaced ­ Nicolas Kassanda, aka Dr Nico. African Jazz was at the helm of the hundred of dance bands spawned by both cities in the decade following independence. Most were intent on re-Africanising popular latin rhythms. ŒThere was a huge evolution in music around this time,¹ says Noel. Indeed, the impact of rumba congolaise ­ later to be called soukous ­ on Africa in the 1950 and 60s was not unlike that of rock¹n¹roll on the West. (Certainly the widespread use of electric guitar provides a tidy parallel). In 1968, Noel formed his own outfit, Orchestre Bamboula, only to disband it a few short years later. Rumour has it that he loathed the administrative duties of a bandleader, but he shrugs good naturedly when asked why. ŒYou got all day?¹ he quips. ŒI first created this band for a competition staged by the local cultural centre. After we won we became the first Congolese band to play the first ever music festival in Algeria. After that we decided to continue, but the bad moments started to outweigh the good, so I left. In those days there were so many great bands I wanted to play with.¹

It was only a matter of time before Noel¹s quiet, craftsman aesthetic attracted the attention of Franco, the ŒSorceror¹ and ŒGran Maitre¹ and the man who had founded OK Jazz when just 17. Though renamed Tout Puissant OK Jazz (TPOK Jazz) by the time Noel was invited to join in 1978, the big band¹s slogan of ŒOn entre OK, On sort KO¹ (ŒOne enters okay, one leaves ko¹d¹) still applied. Noel stayed with them for 12 years, his elegant style providing a unique counterpoint to Franco¹s more intense, aggressive one. ŒFranco always considered my playing to be very advanced, at least compared to the other musicians in the band. One day we were all jamming when he stopped everything and yelled, ŒPapa Noel! Can you please play something that everyone else can play?¹ It made sense, then, that Noel should undertake some sort of solo venture. In 1984, with Franco elsewhere, he did just that. With two members of TPOK Jazz and a previously unrecorded singer, Carlitos Lassa, in tow, Noel stole back across the Congo River to a studio in Brazzaville, where he recruited some erstwhile members of Orchestre Bantou and a horn section from the Congo army band, and got stuck into recording his best selling rumba classic, Bon Samaritan. It was a testament to the glory days of rumba congalaise at a time when the frenetic beats and spiralling rhythms of soukous were starting to take over dance floors. (Noel recorded another solo album, 1986¹s quieter Allegria, in 1986, on the back of his first solo success. But perhaps because it sank without a trace, he is reluctant to discuss it). Franco, an egotist who always kept a tight lid on extra curricular activities, was furious.

ŒIt ("Bon Samaritan") hit his reputation in Kinshasa hard. But he had gone off to Belgium and taken most of OK Jazz with him. I¹d been left behind with a bunch of unqualified musicians, which was very difficult for me. Musically, I couldn¹t do anything interesting, but neither could I do nothing. I had this idea to train the musicians over a year and at the end of that year record an album, which I did. The fact that I made the album in Brazzaville made Franco even angrier. It was a bit like a star German footballer suddenly defecting to the French team or something. ŒI told him I wouldn¹t blame him if he fired me, and that got him even more upset. But we soon reconciled. In fact he hired, my singer, Carlito, whose (natural falsetto) voice was a gift from God, and we both stayed with OK Jazz until Franco¹s death five years later.¹ Papa Noel and several of his colleagues then moved to Brussels, where they regrouped as Bana OK and released an album, Bakitani, in 1993. But with Noel¹s classic style having fallen out of fashion, times became hard for the guitarist, a state of affairs that 1994¹s critically acclaimed, Paris-recorded solo album, Haute Tension, did little to dispel.

ŒStill, I did meet my wife in 1992,¹ says Noel, gazing fondly at Danielle through a haze of cigarette smoke. ŒThe song "Baby Dadic" on Haute Tension is for her. She is the reason I am here talking to you today.¹ This might not be so far from the truth: last year Noel succumbed to an attack of tuberculosis so acute that he nearly died. He was hospitalised for months. ŒI got many cards and letters of encouragement from fans all over the world. They were sad that I had to cancel my tours, that they couldn¹t hear me play. But now, thankfully, they will.¹

Over the last few years Papa Noel has enjoyed a Buena Vista-like renaissance, initially sparked by fellow Congolese singer Sam Mangwana, who asked him to collaborate on his 1997 album, Galo Negro. Their live acoustic performance with Congolese guitarists Mose Fan Fan and Syran Mbenza was a highlight of WOMAD 2000; Noel remains Mangwana¹s concert band leader. That same year, with Sterns African Records releasing the compilation, Bel Ami, to celebrate his 60th birthday, Noel travelled to Havana to record Bana Congo with the great tres player, Papa Oviedo. In 2001 he participated in Kekele, an eight-strong supergroup of veteran Congolese singers and guitarists whose album, Rumba Congo, was as it says. He then teamed up with young Cuban band leader Adan Pedroso for a European tour on the back of their acoustic album, Mosala Mokasi. He barely got through three performances before being rushed to hospital. During his recuperation Noel fretted that he¹d be forgotten, having only been so recently remembered. He needn¹t have worried. News of his illness actually kick-started a number of international Papa Noel fan clubs, full of members determined that he should never fade away again; thanks largely to Bana Congo¹s glowing reviews, his forthcoming UK performances with Papa Oviedo are highly anticipated. ŒOur collaboration feels so easy¹, he says.

ŒBoth the music and our sentiments complement each other perfectly. It was like magic. But it makes sense, too. Anyone who knows both African music and Cuban music knows that there isn¹t any real difference in the rhythm, only in the melodies. But it¹s all African music anyway.¹ Just don¹t call his rumba congalaise Œsoukous¹. The latter phrase ­ taken from the French verb secouer, to shake ­ is more often than not a convenient catch all for contemporary music from the Zaire-Congo area. It is not, Noel insists, an accurate description of his gracious, melody-drenched genre. Far from it. ŒToday¹s soukous is not rumba,¹ he says disparagingly, rolling his eyes. ŒSoukous has become like a drug. It makes you forget that there are political problems. It doesn¹t let you think about anything. It is the techno music of the Congo.¹ He beats out a few BPMs with his lips to illustrate. ŒNow my rumba congalaise is slower paced, sweeter, more thoughtful,¹ he smiles. ŒIt has a long and vibrant history. And there are still many variations for me to explore.¹

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