Mikey February / Nü RYTHMO

SURF MOVIE MUSIC MAGIC

Surfing by Mikey February

Music by Stevo Atambire
Music by Faso Folly Band
Music by Aborigines Band
Recorded live on location

Dancers
Joshua Bannor
Solomon Bentum
Bernard Bannor
Emmanuel Bentum
Emmanuel Quashie
Sebastian Aryeetey

Filmed by Wade Carroll
Directed by Sam Smith
Produced by Alan Van Gysen

A Doomsday Film
Creative Direction by Mark Kayler-Thomson
Produced by Nat Johnsen

Music Advisor Benjamin LaBrave
Post & Colour by Jason Lee
Music Mastering by David Turner

Thank you
Sam Anasi
Michigan
Korby
Matt Neequaye
Sidiq Banda
Nananum Dance Ensemble
Benjamin Baba Haruna
The Surfers Journal

...“Philosophically, polyrhythm is not only a device for fun but a way of trying to somehow make sense out of a complex life and make it easier... When you apply contrasting rhythmic patterns it creates a certain amount of tension. The idea being, if you get used to managing those tensions, when you are faced with tension in real life, you just think it’s music...” - C.K. Ladzekpo

The manager of the beach resort says large waves always appear after the rain. Pointing to dark clouds he helps load up the car. We squeeze in and drive for the capital, leaving the beach behind in search of a soundtrack. The roads are loud, bumpy, dirty and feel a little dangerous. Smells of the developing world fill the car through open windows, the sweet contrast of the cocoa factories momentarily confuses the senses. Through the road noise a shadow of Francis Bebey’s Psychedelic Sanza plays from an iPhone. Down through tall grass into a swampy junkyard we pull off the highway to check on our last car. It had broken down on a previous excursion - a possible problem with the starter motor. The car is still there, the starter motor, and the rest of the engine is sitting next to it in the dirt.

Skeletons of wrecked vehicles dot the roadside. Simply pushed to the side after crashing, or maybe left behind as a cautionary measure. We bounce past a light truck with a cow, two goats and four men in the tray. The rhythm of the traffic slows up on the outskirts of the city. From between the seats, we see rows of colorful bags and baskets carried on the heads of vendors, floating slowly towards us like jellyfish. Some offer a hasty sales pitch through the glass before vanishing between the vehicles. Some do not appreciate the cameras. It is a tense drive but the regular police roadblocks, immigration checks, and speed traps give us plenty of opportunities to stretch the legs. It rains as we grind through the rowdy traffic of Accra. A mighty monotonous rhythm beats on the roof of the car. We arrive at the address of the recording studio and wait for the rain to ease. Our thoughts drift back to the beach, the quiet beachside hotel, the manager, and his forecast. Is it raining down there? Will there be waves tomorrow? Are the monkeys at the hotel getting wet?

Inside the 3rd-floor recording studio, the noise of the rain is even louder. Our hopes of recording some music today are low when Stevo Atambire arrives. Stevo is described as a ‘neo-griot’, a kologo master, and a household name in his home country. He reaches for his kologo, a two-stringed lute, traditionally played by herdsmen and healers. The body of the kologo usually consists of a hairless animal skin stretched over a calabash, a two-foot-long wooden neck pokes through the skin. One string for bass and one treble are made from nylon fishing line. However Stevo’s kologo is made from a bright orange glue tin, the word ‘NEW’ bursting out of a black star on its side. Electrical tape holds the DIY electronics in place. A pickup, and a plug. When amplified it sounds more like the synthesized ‘Kosmische Musik’ (cosmic music) of 1970’s Germany than a traditional music of West Africa. They say that when the griot sings, even the sun at its zenith stops to listen, it stopped the rain too.

As foretold the swell arrived a day after the rain. Greeny-brown, wave after wave coil around a sandy point. Mikey is laying down a groove of his own, one moment flowing down the line, the next he’s stomping his feet, the kids on the beach scream and dance. After a long ride, he steps off the wave right onto wet sand and lets the board wash up the beach. The kids wait in the shallows to collect and deliver it, feeling the polished glass, and feeling that maybe this is a better way to ride those waves than on the fishing boats.