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youssou
n'dour |
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Youssou
N’Dour
Africa’s
world
musician
A
leading
figure
in
World
Music,
Senegal’s
Youssou
N’Dour
wants
to
use
his
success
to
aid
humanitarian
causes
and
encourage
the
development
of
talented
young
African
musicians.
You’re
a
star
of
African
music.
But
is
there
such
a
thing
as
African
music?
There
are
countless
kinds
of
music
in
Africa.
Every
region
has
its
own
traditional
sounds.
Then
there’s
modern
African
music,
which
combines
local
and
foreign
influences,
and
that’s
what
I’m
part
of.
The
two
currents
inspire
each
other.
Traditional
music
is
more
vibrant
when
modern
performers
make
use
of
its
potential
and
variety.
What
does
music
mean
to
you?
It’s
a
kind
of
natural
force.
Especially
in
Africa,
where
there’s
something
musical
in
the
air,
in
people’s
bodies,
in
the
way
they
move.
Africans
don’t
read
much.
They
listen.
And
they
listen
with
their
bodies.
The
first
thing
about
a
song
is
its
rhythm.
But
you
can
use
its
power
to
convey
a
message,
to
express
commitment
or
to
make
people
happy.
How
do
you
write
your
songs?
Fifteen
or
twenty
of
my
compositions
came
naturally.
The
rest
I
had
to
work
on.
To
write
them,
I
shut
myself
away
and
concentrate
on
a
single
topic.
Today
I
must
say
that
Africa
has
never
been
so
ready
to
assert
itself
on
the
world
stage.
The
head
of
the
United
Nations
is
an
African.
African
culture
is
like
a
moving
train.
Its
locomotive
is
music
which
can
produce
universal
melodies.
How
did
you
come
to
World
Music?
Gradually.
I
started
out
when
I
was
thirteen,
singing
with
friends.
Then
I
was
in
a
more
modern
group,
which
played
traditional
music
on
modern
instruments.
That
way
I
got
to
play
in
nightclubs
in
Dakar.
Then
my
music
took
off.
It
started
travelling
and
I
was
invited
to
follow
it.
As
I
listened
to
other
kinds
of
sounds,
through
meeting
stars
like
Peter
Gabriel,
I
came
up
with
a
new
form
of
expression.
What
obstacles
have
you
encountered
in
the
course
of
your
career?
At
first
my
father
was
against
it.
He
said
people
looked
down
on
musicians
and
he
was
afraid
that
might
rub
off
on
him.
He
didn’t
want
to
see
me
drinking
or
taking
drugs.
In
my
country,
the
relationship
between
parents
and
children
is
heavily
influenced
by
tradition
and
Islam.
Even
after
the
age
of
twenty,
children
must
obey
their
fathers.
I
was
very
young
and
I
did
a
deal
with
mine:
I’d
behave
myself
totally
as
long
he
let
me
be
a
musician.
I
also
thank
God
and
my
father
for
giving
me
good
health
and
enabling
me
to
be
a
role
model
for
young
people.
But
I
don’t
condemn
people
who
drink
or
smoke
dope.
Some
of
them
are
very
talented.
n
Many
African
musicians
live
in
Western
countries,
but
you
don’t.
What
keeps
you
in
Senegal?
My
family,
in
the
broadest
sense
of
the
word.
Not
just
my
wife
and
children.
A
family
is
really
something.
I’ve
agreed
to
take
over
from
my
father
and
keep
an
eye
on
everything
and
everyone.
That’s
what
keeps
me
at
home.
Performers
leave
Senegal
because
there’s
nothing
there
to
help
them
fulfil
their
potential.
This
has
made
me
want
to
change
things.
But
I
can
go
whenever
I
want
to.
There’s
an
airport
in
Dakar
and
you
don’t
need
an
exit
visa
to
leave.
You
bring
the
people
around
you
into
your
creative
universe.
How
do
you
reconcile
loyalty
to
friends
with
the
need
for
quality?
I
started
from
nothing.
Just
me
and
a
few
musicians.
I
really
had
to
talk
them
into
forming
a
group.
At
the
time,
everyone
was
afraid
people
would
look
down
on
them.
Relatives
and
friends
were
the
first
people
to
join
me.
Then
other
people
did.
But
first
and
foremost
I’m
a
professional.
When
someone
has
to
be
fired
I
don’t
hesitate,
whether
it’s
a
member
of
my
family
or
not.
It’s
all
in
the
way
you
go
about
it.
For
example,
if
someone
in
my
studio
isn’t
getting
anywhere,
I
tell
them
to
go
and
work
with
the
sound
technicians.
They
soon
get
fed
up
and
leave
of
their
own
accord.
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What
are
you
doing
to
encourage
artistic
creativity
in
Senegal?
I
started
a
record
label,
Gololi,
which
in
Wolof
means
the
bells
which
horses
have
round
their
necks.
It
works
with
the
studio
I
have
in
Dakar,
called
Xipi
(“open
eyes”
in
Wolof).
The
label
produces
seven
artists
a
year
and
their
work
is
distributed
in
Senegal
and
internationally
through
our
partners,
foreign
record
companies
which
have
faith
in
us.
That’s
how
Cheikh
Lo,
a
Senegalese
musician
I
produced,
was
launched.
The
critics
have
given
him
rave
reviews,
and
World
Circuit
is
distributing
him
successfully.
I’m
also
working
so
that
one
day
Senegalese
can
take
over
the
recording
and
technical
side
of
their
music.
At
the
moment,
we’re
90-per-cent
dependent
on
Westerners.
That’s
not
a
bad
thing
in
itself
but
local
professionals
can
do
better
because
they
know
the
language
and
understand
our
music
more
quickly.
So
I
organize
training
sessions,
sometimes
pay
for
courses
in
Paris
and
take
young
people
on
tour
abroad.
About
80
per
cent
of
the
professional
performers
in
Dakar
today
started
out
with
me.
Do
you
think
governments
should
help
encourage
artistic
creation?
The
state
should
protect
the
rights
of
artists
but
let
creativity
develop
freely.
Pirating
is
a
plague
in
Africa.
Performers
can’t
make
a
living
from
their
own
work.
At
least
half
my
songs
are
copied
in
Senegal
and
up
to
80
per
cent
elsewhere
in
Africa.
Governments
should
fight
that
by
strengthening
and
enforcing
copyright
laws.
At
the
moment,
if
a
guy
is
caught
bringing
an
illegal
truckload
of
pirated
cassettes
into
Senegal,
weeks
go
by
before
they
can
be
confiscated.
By
that
time,
he’s
sold
them.
Why
aren’t
you
involved
in
distribution?
You
can’t
do
everything—write,
produce,
manufacture
and
distribute
as
well.
The
traditional
outlets
are
there,
especially
in
the
markets.
They
shouldn’t
be
destroyed
but
built
up
with
organization.
Do
you
promote
new
talent
by
working
with
other
African
stars
to
co-ordinate
efforts
across
the
continent?
Indirectly.
But
there
isn’t
much
co-operation.
Performers
can
only
help
by
finding
backers
at
government
level.
Then
it’s
a
matter
for
ministers
of
culture,
who
have
to
push
through
laws
and
make
sure
they’re
in
line
with
regulations
set
up
by
international
bodies
such
as
the
Organization
of
African
Unity.
There’s
no
point
in
passing
a
law
in
Senegal
if
there
isn’t
one
in
Mali.
Is
there
a
balanced
relationship
between
artists
from
countries
of
the
South
and
the
labels
in
the
North?
Even
though
I’m
with
Sony,
I
think
major
record
companies
have
failed,
in
spite
of
the
big
investments
they’ve
made
in
African
music
over
the
past
decade.
They
interfere
with
the
creative
process
by
trying
to
push
modern
songs
instead
of
helping
artists
to
do
their
creative
best.
They’re
like
banks—if
you’re
not
profitable,
they
drop
you.
I
learned
that
lesson
the
hard
way
when
Virgin
dumped
me.
They
expected
me
to
sell
as
well
as
Peter
Gabriel
or
Phil
Collins,
two
of
their
stars.
I
sold
a
quarter
of
a
million
discs
but
it
wasn’t
enough.
They
wanted
a
million.
Is
there
an
alternative
to
this
system?
We
have
to
create
African
recording
labels.
Bob
Marley
reached
the
whole
world
because
he
got
help
at
home,
in
Jamaica.
Our
music
must
be
created
in
Africa,
but
we
musn’t
stop
travelling,
meeting
other
artists
and
listening
to
other
sounds.
My
dream
is
to
change
the
system.
When
my
contract
with
Sony
expires
in
about
five
years
time,
after
I’ve
made
the
three
albums
I
owe
them,
I’ll
come
back
to
my
own
label
and
cut
a
sales
deal
with
Sony.
Whatever
happens,
you
have
to
stick
with
an
international
label
if
you
want
to
get
distributed.
You
campaign
for
humanitarian
causes,
including
the
fight
against
poverty.
Where
do
you
start
in
Africa?
By
communicating.
Everyone
must
have
the
right
to
voice
an
opinion—the
poor,
the
rich,
the
middle
class.
They
don’t
know
each
other
and
their
paths
never
cross.
I
want
to
use
my
music
to
bring
them
together.
I
perform
everywhere—from
city
suburbs
to
the
poorest
villages.
When
there’s
no
electricity,
we
make
do
with
a
generator
to
try
and
put
on
as
good
a
show
as
we
would
in
Paris.
Artists
have
power
and
should
use
it
to
get
their
messages
across.
Which
is
more
important,
working
at
the
grassroots
or
at
the
international
level?
They
go
together.
At
first,
I
was
encouraged
to
work
with
organizations
like
UNICEF,
for
which
I’m
a
“goodwill
ambassador,”
and
Amnesty
International.
They
opened
my
eyes.
You
see
your
own
country
clearer
when
you’re
far
away.
Working
with
these
organizations
gave
me
the
idea
of
setting
up
an
association
in
the
neighbourhood
where
I
was
born,
the
Medina,
a
wonderful
ragbag
of
contradictions.
Like
my
music.
But
you
left
to
live
in
a
smarter
part
of
town.
I
live
in
Almadies,
but
my
heart’s
still
in
the
Medina.
I
go
back
there
very
often,
my
best
friends
live
there
and
there’s
no
reason
to
think
I
won’t
return
to
live
there
one
day.
How
does
your
organization
work?
I
contribute
250,000
CFA
francs
(about
$420)
a
year.
We
started
out
with
an
exhibition
to
help
young
people
to
get
to
know
the
neighbourhood’s
history
and
problems.
We’d
like
to
see
the
local
architecture
more
in
line
with
the
Medina’s
needs.
Meanwhile,
we’re
tackling
the
rubbish
problem
by
organizing
set
setal
days,
when
everyone
joins
in
cleaning
up—sweeping
up
and
painting
bright
murals
over
anti-government
graffiti.
You’re
a
political
fireman,
then.
Don’t
you
think
opposition
is
necessary?
Neighbourhood
walls
aren’t
the
best
place
to
protest
against
the
government.
It’s
better
to
do
that
through
politics.
You
even
endorsed
Ibrahim
Bare
Mainassara’s
January
1996
coup
in
Niger
by
giving
a
concert
there
two
months
later.
Why?
I
wanted
to
help
calm
things
down,
to
make
the
people
of
Niger
smile
again.
I’m
dead
against
any
kind
of
violence.
It’s
better
to
have
an
illegal
government
than
civil
war.
You
campaign
for
human
rights,
yet
you’re
in
favour
of
polygamy.
Isn’t
there
a
contradiction
there?
I’m
a
practising
Muslim
and
Islam
allows
polygamy.
Anyway,
is
it
really
a
denial
of
human
rights?
It’s
against
equality
between
the
sexes.
Are
you
in
favour
of
polyandry?
No.
Anyway,
for
the
moment
I’ve
only
got
one
wife.
But
I
believe
religion
comes
before
all
else.
Even
human
rights?
Yes
and
no.
Polygamy
aside,
I’m
in
favour
of
human
rights.
I’m
against
female
circumcision
and
believe
in
the
emancipation
of
women.
But
I
also
think
women
should
remain
the
guardians
of
African
values,
like
family
harmony.
People
say
you’re
a
multi-millionaire.
Is
that
in
CFA
francs
or
dollars?
I’ve
worked
hard.
But
I
don’t
measure
my
success
in
terms
of
money.
Instead
I
try
to
make
it
an
example
for
other
Africans
to
follow.
I
reinvest
some
of
my
fortune
to
help
them
along
that
path.
The
World
Cup
song
will
bring
in
a
lot
of
money.
Some
of
it
can
be
used
to
fund
a
large-scale
humanitarian
effort
in
Africa.
Several
associations
are
working
on
that.
Nothing’s
decided
yet,
but
I’d
like
to
extend
my
activities
to
this
kind
of
thing
in
Africa.
We
need
it,
don’t
you
think? |
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