Britain Ends Millions in Funding For Ethiopia Girl Band
1/8/2017 by Associated Press
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Yegna
Britain says it has ended millions of dollars in funding for an Ethiopian girl band, amid growing criticism at home of overseas aid.
Yegna, sometimes called "Ethiopia's Spice Girls," addresses women's issues in the East African country.
A statement Friday (Jan. 6) from the Department for International Development says empowering women and girls remains a priority for Britain, "but we judge there are more effective ways to invest UK aid."
The move comes after reports of the band receiving another $6.3 million. The five-member band uses a radio show and music and drama productions to create awareness about forced marriage, violence, teen pregnancy and dropping out of school.
The Girl Effect project that launched Yegna confirms the British decision. Chief executive Farah Ramzan Golant says, "New ideas are often resisted and sometimes willfully misrepresented."
Enjoy the Selected Musics
Monday, January 9, 2017
Friday, February 20, 2015
Amharic Rap Finding a Voice in Ethiopia | Al Jazeera America
ADDIS ABABA, Ethiopia — Ethiopian rapper DJ Same took out a smartphone and played a clip of a man proclaiming passionately in a traditional Amharic style called fukera, used during feudal militaristic times to rouse the populace to go to war.
Then he started to beatbox along to the oration before saying, “Sounds like rap, doesn’t it?”
Nowadays, Ethiopia’s rappers aren’t concerned with stirring people to take up arms, but they still want to have an impact as they explore modern forms of music.
It is a complex picture that is emerging. When Ethiopian rappers perform in English, the comparisons with American rap are clear to see and hear. But when voiced in Amharic, the language of the second-largest ethnic and linguistic group in the country and used as Ethiopia’s official language, Ethiopian rap moves out of America’s shadow toward establishing its own unmistakable voice.
Yet there is a limit to how far that voice can go. Like many forms of artistic expression in Ethiopia, most rap artists use self-censorship when it comes to rapping about domestic politics. Amharic rap can, as a result, seem fairly apolitical compared with some Western rap. But that does not mean Ethiopian rap is without passion or lacking a desire to bear a worthwhile message to audiences.
“The government thinks we have a bad message, but they don’t understand what we are trying to do,” said 22-year-old rapper Ella Man. “A lot of foreign rap is about ‘I have this, I got this,” but we want to present a constructive message. We represent Ethiopia.”
‘The government thinks we have a bad message, but they don’t understand what we are trying to do. A lot of foreign rap is about ‘I have this, I got this,’ but we want to present a constructive message. Werepresent Ethiopia.’
Ella Man
rapper
Rapping in Amharic remains an underground part of Ethiopia’s music scene, dominated by traditional music yet with Ethiopian rock and reggae gaining mainstream popularity. But “people’s minds are changing and so are more open,” said DJ Same, who grew up listening to U.S. rappers such as Jay-Z and Wu-Tang Clan. He highlighted how Amharic rap has a growing following on social media, especially among teenagers and those in their early 20s.
Established and up-and-coming Ethiopian rappers face a quandary over which language to rap in, not least because Amharic is just one of scores of languages spoken in the country. Some perform in Oromo and Tigrinya, languages of the largest and third-largest ethnic groups, respectively. Many Ethiopian rappers using Amharic say their audiences are proud of the country’s resistance to colonialism and remain skeptical of many forms of foreign influence, which can include rapping in English — seen as mimicking America.
At the same time, “rapping in Amharic limits the extent of your audience to Ethiopia, maybe some other East African countries,” said 33-year-old rapper Woah, best known for "Walya" about Ethiopia’s fanatically beloved national football team. “My plan is to rap in Amharic to get popularity at home. And then I can try abroad.”
Amharic is a grammatically complex and subtle language with a rich tradition of allegory, eloquent communication and sophisticated wordplay. But today’s government, much criticized for repressing free speech, won’t tolerate criticism or what it thinks is criticism — no matter how deftly presented.
“I really don’t know why the government has a problem with our rap,” said 27-year-old rapper Yoni Yoye, who cites American rappers Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Flo Rida as major influences. He’s best known for his rap hit alongside Mc Mike "Gondergna," about 19th-century Ethiopian Emperor Tewodros and the culture of the ancient city of Gonder.
“On state TV, I got criticized for my song,” Yoni Yoye said. “They don’t seem to realize that musical entertainment can be good for the country, playing an ambassadorial role, and that rap is a way of reaching the younger generation.”
He explained how he can’t rap about everything he wants to. “People are afraid. If I tried to rap about certain issues, my friends and family would stop me,” he said.
Plenty of Ethiopian singers who have been overtly political suffer harassment for it. Many have had to leave the country, continuing to make music in exile, often in the United States.
But even if the situation were different, being overtly political wouldn’t necessarily be at the top of his agenda, Yoni Yoye said. There are plenty of other issues to give voice to. He is working on a new album in which he raps about the corrupting influence of too much money, problems in rural areas and Ethiopian mothers’ struggles and deserving more respect. “These things make me mad,” he said.
‘It’s hard for up-and-coming artists to sing about politics, as you need people to feel good about the music if they are to buy your album. After you’ve built up your credibility commercially, then you can address what is really important.’
Woah
rapper
Some rappers approach restrictions obliquely. In Teddy Yo’s forthcoming album, he raps about when 19th-century Ethiopian Emperor Menelik ordered a regional king to pay taxes. The king refused and initially won battles resisting Menelik. By the time he was captured, he had won the emperor’s respect and so was taken to him in chains made of gold, Teddy Yo explained.
“Like the old kings, we can’t express ourselves against the establishment,” he said. “Music is like gold. I have plenty of gold, but I can’t do anything with it.”
That album, in Amharic, will be called “Isreunya" (“Prisoner”). But rappers in Ethiopia are not alone in working around restrictions.
“We do our best. Politicians don’t like freedom of speech. Every day is a fight,” said Lexxus Legal, a leading figure of Congolese hip-hop known for criticizing problems in his country and beyond in Africa, before performing at the Selam Festival Addis 2015 in the Ethiopian capital. “Sometimes I censor myself. I won’t accuse a politician directly, but I’ll ask how he suddenly built a million-dollar home.”
Politicians’ fears of rap’s power to mobilize dissent aren’t without justification. He pointed out last year’s protests in Burkina Faso after its president tried to remain in power beyond term limits. “It started by a rapper speaking out,” Lexxus Legal said.
In Ethiopia, music is so entrenched culturally across all generations that a song’s lyrics can become known nationwide.
Some Ethiopian musicians address politics, but normally they are sponsored by the government, limiting themselves to uncontroversial topics such as women’s issues and the benefits of rigorous agricultural production.
‘Like the old kings, we can’t express ourselves against the establishment. Music is like gold. I have plenty of gold, but I can’t do anything with it.’
Teddy Yo
rapper
In addition to self-censorship, plenty more hurdles exist, according to rappers and others in Ethiopia’s music industry. Copyright violation and lack of enforcement is rife; a system of royalties for music used on television and radio is absent; there aren’t enough producers, with most tending to be older and disdainful of newer styles likes rap; and lack of adequate recording equipment and music studies adds to the burden.
Plus, it’s not just the all-hearing government that limits the topical range of rappers and musicians alike.
“It’s hard for up-and-coming artists to sing about politics, as you need people to feel good about the music if they are to buy your album,” Woah said. “After you’ve built up your credibility commercially, then you can address what is really important.”
Despite present difficulties, many remain positive about the future.
“Amharic rap is where American rap was at the start of the ’80s,” said Jukebox the Illustrious, an Ethiopian rapper collaborating with Woah, who cut his teeth on hip-hop while in college in Texas.
Lexxus Legal agreed, adding that rap across Africa has reached the same point as when American rappers “became activists speaking out about rights issues and injustice” and the American rap scene took off.
But Yoni Yoye isn’t so sure. “The hip-hop game is hard in Ethiopia,” he said. “I might get tired of it. I love hip hop and want to do it full time, but I have to work other jobs to pay for food and fuel. It seems music is going backward in Ethiopia.”
But judging by the heartfelt explanations of rappers, what’s out there online, open mic nights in Addis Ababa and the like, there’s plenty of good Amharic rap still to come that might just break through with its message.
“Even the media seems to be against us, but I’m going to change this with my new album,” Teddy Yo said. “I’m going to break the chains.”
Lyrics for “The Truth” by Woah
chorusI heard you say you’re not feelin’ this rhythmYou’re a hybrid, too different, won’t listenBut I won’t quit, back down or back offMy true self will be revealed!
verse 1The gift is from aboveReceive love and graceEnough relying on manThe mystery is hiddenThe spirit is greater than the flesh, money and power All useless in God’s eyesI heard you say you’re not feelin’ this rhythmSeedless conversation and bogus behaviorBring true light through your word’s tasteAs for me, I’m here and I’m gonna stay true to myself.
verse 2What is given from above will never perishThe truth won’t fade awayNor be seen as suchOh! So much gossipSeeking someone else’s fortuneForgetting one’s self-righteousnessIt’s no secretThe word won’t be kept hiddenThe truth will be voiced to the highest.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Leza Awards recognise Ethiopian talent | eNCA
Africa
Monday 7 October 2013 - 5:40pm
ADDIS ABABA - Ethiopians were on the edge of their seats at this year’s Leza Awards in Addis Ababa.
The awards recognise achievers in the performing arts, including musicians, actors and producers.
Actor Samson Tadesse Baby was delighted as he walked away with the best actor award for his role in the film Ameran.
“I think we did a very good job as a team and that is why the audience gave their vote because the film received a very good reception among the audience,” he said.
The awards also highlighted the talents of up-and-coming stars.
“I am really happy. Recognition like this is the only way you can prove that your work is going very well. I know a lot of people listened to my album but this is my proof,” said Michael Belayneh, winner of best album of the year.
Many in the audience are optimistic that the Leza Awards are a stepping stone to greater things.
They might just allow winners to take on the giants of Hollywood.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Ethiopia - The Young Ethio Jazz Band, ages 10 to 15, bring back traditio...
It's a truth universally acknowledged that kids hate their parents' music, or at least do their best to ignore it. Garage bands don't borrow CDs from their parents so they can practice disco covers.
Okay, maybe, but only in some kind of ironic hipster way.
Well there's nothing ironic about the music being played in this suburban garage near Oakland, California. The Young Ethio Jazz Band are teenagers who rock out with their parents' music.
The band played its first gig in San Francisco last winter. Now it is slated to open for another act at Yoshi's, a famous jazz club in San Francisco, and then it plays in the Ethiopian Heritage Festival at Georgetown University in Washington, DC.
All of the kids are second generation Ethiopians between 11 and 16-years-old. Before they started playing together a year and a half ago, most of them had the stereotypical reaction to their parents' music.
"In the very beginning I was really confused about the music," says Yohanas Abanew, who plays keyboard in the band. "I just said 'well this doesn't really sound like music that I would really want to play.'"
Then he started practicing an Ethio-jazz song in his high school band. "It really woke me up," he says, "this is my culture, and I really need to learn this music."
Yonathan Wolday had a similar revelation. He's a tall, lanky 16-year-old who plays trumpet. Wolday is wearing a gray sweatshirt with a picture of a diamond and the letters "DMND." A pair of white ear phones hang out from his collar and onto his chest.
His parents are from Ethiopia, and the songs they listen to are in Amharic, the official language in Ethiopia. Wolday doesn't understand it well, and that initially turned him off from the music. He didn't really start listening to the songs until he began playing in the band.
Even now, it's hard to believe that he's channeling the music of his parents' generation. Whenever the band stops practicing, you can hear simple rap bass lines pulsating out from his dangling ear buds.
Vibraphonist Mulatu Astatke gave birth to Ethio-jazz in the early 70s. He was the first African student to attend the Berklee College of Music in Boston. There he fused Western jazz with Latin rhythms and traditional Ethiopian scales.
If you watched the movie "Broken Flowers" you may have one of his songs stuck in your head. The score features several Astatke compositions, including this one, Yekeramo Sew.
Mulatu Astatke and Ethio-jazz have had a bit of a resurgence in the US since "Broken Flowers" came out in 2005. Still, it's hard to find sheet music and transcribed parts for many Ethio-jazz songs.
So, instead of relying on charts, the Young Ethio Jazz Band is learning the music the old fashion way — by ear. Their accuracy is astonishing. At moments they sound almost identical to Astatke's recordings.
Sirak Tegbaru brought the band together. He invited the kids to practice in his garage after hearing them play at a nearby church. Even he is impressed with how well the kids have internalized the music.
"These kids really just want to play it the way it's been played," Tegbaru says. Sometimes he has to encourage them to branch out—play some different scales, improvise their own solos over the chord changes. Make the kids break the rules.
Tegbaru left Ethiopia in 1979 when he was 16. He loved playing music, but his parents said it wasn't practical. They pressured him to study medicine, and sent him abroad to Prague. Tegbaru still plays music, but he doesn't have anything to do with medicine. He sells State Farm insurance during the week. On the weekend, he leads the band.
"I feel like I am reborn again through these kids," he says. The kids they glow when they play this song. They smile on their face. They're happy and moving around. That means they really have that feeling. They're playing from the bottom of the heart. And that's, that's music."
Click here to download music and see video.
Okay, maybe, but only in some kind of ironic hipster way.
Addis Getahun, a member of the Young Ethio Jazz Band, based in California. (Photo: Noam Eshel)
Well there's nothing ironic about the music being played in this suburban garage near Oakland, California. The Young Ethio Jazz Band are teenagers who rock out with their parents' music.
The band played its first gig in San Francisco last winter. Now it is slated to open for another act at Yoshi's, a famous jazz club in San Francisco, and then it plays in the Ethiopian Heritage Festival at Georgetown University in Washington, DC.
All of the kids are second generation Ethiopians between 11 and 16-years-old. Before they started playing together a year and a half ago, most of them had the stereotypical reaction to their parents' music.
"In the very beginning I was really confused about the music," says Yohanas Abanew, who plays keyboard in the band. "I just said 'well this doesn't really sound like music that I would really want to play.'"
Then he started practicing an Ethio-jazz song in his high school band. "It really woke me up," he says, "this is my culture, and I really need to learn this music."
Yonathan Wolday had a similar revelation. He's a tall, lanky 16-year-old who plays trumpet. Wolday is wearing a gray sweatshirt with a picture of a diamond and the letters "DMND." A pair of white ear phones hang out from his collar and onto his chest.
His parents are from Ethiopia, and the songs they listen to are in Amharic, the official language in Ethiopia. Wolday doesn't understand it well, and that initially turned him off from the music. He didn't really start listening to the songs until he began playing in the band.
Even now, it's hard to believe that he's channeling the music of his parents' generation. Whenever the band stops practicing, you can hear simple rap bass lines pulsating out from his dangling ear buds.
Vibraphonist Mulatu Astatke gave birth to Ethio-jazz in the early 70s. He was the first African student to attend the Berklee College of Music in Boston. There he fused Western jazz with Latin rhythms and traditional Ethiopian scales.
If you watched the movie "Broken Flowers" you may have one of his songs stuck in your head. The score features several Astatke compositions, including this one, Yekeramo Sew.
Mulatu Astatke and Ethio-jazz have had a bit of a resurgence in the US since "Broken Flowers" came out in 2005. Still, it's hard to find sheet music and transcribed parts for many Ethio-jazz songs.
So, instead of relying on charts, the Young Ethio Jazz Band is learning the music the old fashion way — by ear. Their accuracy is astonishing. At moments they sound almost identical to Astatke's recordings.
Sirak Tegbaru brought the band together. He invited the kids to practice in his garage after hearing them play at a nearby church. Even he is impressed with how well the kids have internalized the music.
"These kids really just want to play it the way it's been played," Tegbaru says. Sometimes he has to encourage them to branch out—play some different scales, improvise their own solos over the chord changes. Make the kids break the rules.
Tegbaru left Ethiopia in 1979 when he was 16. He loved playing music, but his parents said it wasn't practical. They pressured him to study medicine, and sent him abroad to Prague. Tegbaru still plays music, but he doesn't have anything to do with medicine. He sells State Farm insurance during the week. On the weekend, he leads the band.
"I feel like I am reborn again through these kids," he says. The kids they glow when they play this song. They smile on their face. They're happy and moving around. That means they really have that feeling. They're playing from the bottom of the heart. And that's, that's music."
Click here to download music and see video.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Ester Rada's Latest Work Signifies Full Embrace of Ethiopian Roots
Ester Rada's parent's had to flee from Ethiopia when famine struck the country in 1983. They travelled to Israel and became citizens there.
A year after they settled in Kiryat Arba, Ester was born. They lived in a volatile Jewish settlement on the outskirts of Hebron in the West Bank. The family stayed there until Rada was 10. Slowly and steadily, as she grew up she was distanced from Ethiopian culture.
Though she was born and brought up in Israel, her looks separated her from other Israelis. To get rid of feeling different, she went for singing. She became singer in the military band. After completing military duties, she moved to Tel Aviv and became actress.
Recently, she released her four song EP titled `Life Happens'. It comprises of Ethio Jazz riffs and other soulful stylings. It is said that her latest work explains itself for her being embraced in Ethiopian roots though self-acceptance was tough for her.
She says that her mother tells that she could speak Ethiopian language very fluently until she was six years of age. "I wanted to be an Israeli. Only when I grew up, after the army I think, that's when I felt whole with all of the pieces in me", explains Rada.
"
'via Blog this'
Friday, May 17, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
In Ethiopia "There Comes A Time, When We Heed A Certain Call..." ♫ Blogs at theMusic.com.au
KRIS SWALES
THERE COMES A TIME, WHEN WE HEED A CERTAIN CALL...
If you were to sum up my life with a Hall & Oates song right now, it'd be Out Of Touch. I'm bang on six weeks into a stint of overseas travel, comfortably ensconced in my own life's travails and not much else since somewhere around Day Five.
As far as world events go, I know that Margaret Thatcher died, Christopher Pyne wants to rebrand Australian History text books as the White Pages, Terry Campese is finally back from a knee injury for the Canberra Raiders, and Daft Punk weren't really trolling the world when they announced that their new album would be launched in Wee Waa. (Though Human After All was surely a troll, right guys?)
As for music + finger + pulse? Forget about it. I slept on the release of Underworld frontman Karl Hyde's (actually quite decent) solo album by a week - unthinkable in the real world. Then I lost my iPhone (Contents: 149 albums, including more Fiona Apple and Todd Rundgren than can possibly be good for you) in a crowd surge at a football match in Casablanca, so it's now just me and my internal monologue. Terrifying stuff, I assure you.
There is a point here, and it begins in Africa - Ethiopia, to be precise. After interviewing refugees from Eritrea and Sudan at a Swiss asylum seeker centre a couple of years back, I got it in my head that I wanted to see the places these people had fled from. Given the Smart Traveller website had them on the Do Not Travel list when the time came, and bordering Ethiopia offered a visa on arrival, it seemed the next logical choice.
Disclosure: my knowledge of the country before landing didn't go far beyond South Park's Starvin' Marvin and the tattered 45 of We Are The World that I've had in my collection since 1985.
That clip had a profound effect on me as a seven-year-old burgeoning music nerd, trying to ID all of the singers whenever it screened on TV. And footage of starving Ethiopian children, my age and younger, was a staple part of the evening news diet for months before and many months after. It was probably the first time I became aware that not everywhere was like Australia, and that life in green, leafy Woodridge was actually pretty damn sweet.
I landed in Addis Ababa with a vague plan of finding rappers or street artists who were born during the famines of the '80s; to ask them how that had influenced their work. Vague plan, sadly, was a little too vague.
What I did find, however, was a super-educated middle class living in a city with new buildings spewing out of the ground everywhere you turn, and abject poverty never far from view.
I also found the green, leafy substance known as chat.
My first encounter occurred in the passenger seat of a mini-bus making its way south from Gonder, 550km north of Addis, to the lakeside town of Bahir Dar. At one of our last stops, a tout with terrible teeth tried to sell me a bag of said substance, helpfully informing me that it was "food". The driver shook his head: "Drug."
This, of course, was the same driver who an hour earlier had been picking the stems off the very same leaves before chewing on them. Considering that in a previous life I'd held the steering wheel from the passenger side while my driver pulled bongs on the Toowoomba to Brisbane run, I still felt I was in the safe hands of a trained professional.
A chat crop being tended next door to a heritage-listed 17th century monastery.
The next day, I was schlepping around the Blue Nile Falls area under the harsh midday sun and quizzed my guide, Kassa, about the chat crops we walked through.
The way he described its effects, I can only conclude that chat is the trucker's speed of Ethiopia, with trace elements of cocaine for good measure. It makes you more confident; it makes you sweat; it's useful for studying and slimming; it makes you want to drink your bodyweight in beer and dribble bullshit with your friends.
It also makes you think about God too much if you take a lot, which is one of the reasons why the forty-something Kassa hung up his chatting boots. He got that same slightly wistful, slightly haunted look talking about getting on the chat as I do when I recall my long distant days of getting on the chomp.
Solidarity brother - what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Eventually.
Given the size of nearby Lake Tana, which feeds into the Blue Nile Falls, and the general richness of the farmland in the area, I asked Kassa about the famines in the 1980s - specifically, whether this area was hit hard as well. He says it wasn't, and that they were lucky, but that many people made the pilgrimage here by foot from the drought-stricken areas to the north.
He was only a boy when it happened, but remembers it well. Impossibly skinny people dropping dead as they walked. Left to rot where they fell because their families had no means of giving them a proper burial. Carrion birds feasting on the remains. Some of the refugees couldn't see when they arrived, blinded by the desert heat, and even when fed and watered they didn't survive.
Kassa's family took three children into their straw and mud brick home, where they stayed for a year until foreign aid money finally arrived and conditions in the north had improved. It was in his family's Christian nature to help, he said. "If I had three shirts, I'd give away two."
All of this was delivered with the same fire that we'd have talking about a defining life moment, like finally getting the girl or being at the ground when our team won the premiership. Then he stopped suddenly, laid down a thousand mile stare for a few seconds, said "come on", and motioned for us to continue.
Three days later, I was lunching in a seafood restaurant just north of Tangier, looking across the Mediterranean as storm clouds gathered over the Rock of Gibraltar. In one of those coincidences that you probably think writers make up because it's convenient (Disclaimer: I'm totally not making this up), the restaurant's playlist jumped from Elton John's Sacrifice to George Michael's Faith... to We Are The World.
After that reminder from The Universe that I'm not just an arsehole, but an extremely lucky one, I forced down every last piece of pasta in my oversized bowl.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Friday, October 12, 2012
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