Permit me to share my abstracted arguments and submissions at the conference, after defrosting the paper of its academic niceties, below:
Browsing: Ayinla Omowura
I deployed the above to explain the premature death of Omowura, one of Yoruba’s most evocative traditional African musicians, who was killed 41 years ago, at the apogee of his life attainment, in a barroom squabble in Abeokuta, Ogun State.
Ask him what vinyl volume a particular track of the musician could be found, he would tell you off hand, with clinical precision. As a testament to his depth, knowledge and how he lent immeasurable hand in the writing of the book, I showered huge encomiums on Waheed in the book.
“Ayinla Omowura: Life and Times of an Apala Legend,” written by Festus Adedayo, is one of the most authoritative texts on the life of the Apala crooner whose posthumous profile I recently published. In my research, I came across this important and timely book, which is a necessary read for those interested in traditional Yoruba music and a snapshot of the post-colonial working class of Abeokuta. Read my review here. Dr, Adedayo, lawyer and veteran journalist, kindly responded to a few of my questions in the most exhaustive manner, in excess of what I needed for my piece. So here my full interview with him, a rare treat for lovers of Yoruba music:
On Boxing Day, at my insistence,Tunde Kelani, TK, immediately went into “self-isolation” to catch his breathe, catch up with sleep and recover from the mixed bag of the good and the ugly of experiences whilst filming. Stress and satisfaction found common ground on this his most challenging of works. Filming in the midst of a global pandemic cannot be anything but a challenge of monstrous proportions.
One of his children, Kamilu Adewole, who broke the news early Wednesday, said that his father died late Tuesday at the age of 97 in his hometown, Abeokuta.
But while he lived, I didn’t dislike the music of Ayinde, I hated it. And two reasons accounted for my abiding disgust for his music. The first reason was my nausea for Barrister’s excessive self-praise, which, to me, bordered on noisome vainglory and pompous superiority
New Year’s Eve party in the leafy suburb of Borehamwood in hidden Hertsmere. I sat lazily on the sofa with a cup of warm bohea. Saheed Osupa, Alariwo of Afrika and Ayinla Omowura, a peerless hero of blessed memory, got me wriggling like a cut snake on the leather sofa. Many of us have driven from our little neck of the wood