Asake’s discography is marvelous for a variety of reasons. However, its kaleidoscopic and textured exploration of the full range of human emotions is notable. Want to simmer in a solemn atmosphere? Listen to Nzaza or Lonely at the Top. Feeling blue? Try Badman Gangster. Dealing with a flailing lover? Remember should prove an effective emotional salve. Seeking catharsis? Olorun ought to scratch that itch. In a celebratory mood? Perhaps a night of unfettered fun with friends? Try Joha or Sungba or Great Guy—pardon my verbosity here, his hits in this category are too many to count.
The eclecticism of his canon notwithstanding, his live performances tend to crackle with a certain frenzied energy, the kind one observes in a shaman inebriated by spiritual fervor or a drug-addled mind. Except in this case, Asake’s boundless and often frenetic energy on the stage stems from his passion for the art of live performances. This is a man who once ripped his pants while performing Loaded, his song with Tiwa Savage. If you think this slightly hilarious or crazy, wait till you hear he once arrived at the O2 arena hanging down a helicopter, or that he once arrived at the venue of a show in an actual armored tank.
Last weekend, however, he traded the kinetic energy of his typical shows for the measured, subdued energy of NPR Tiny Desk’s infamous concerts. As is usual with Tiny Desk performances, the stage was bedecked with a formation of shelves, each one bursting with books. Asake wore a netted vest over a white shirt, a black cap, and black pants. Flanking him was his band—guitarists, a set of two drummers, a keyboardist, a violinist, a saxophonist, and backup singers—all dressed in military gear.
The performance opens with the meandering rhythms of Asake’s Why Love, his first single of this year. The melodies in this performance are sinuous and fuzzy, mirroring the sensual energy of a Smooth Jazz club late in the evening. Asake however strikes an unusual note with his singing. Contrasting his usual energetic tone, here he is subdued, calm, mostly existing in one octave, save for the rare moment when he breaks character, belting out an incongruous high note or letting out an awkward shout. Of course, his measured affect here plays directly into Tiny Desk’s stripped-down aesthetic. And yet, watching the performance conjures a pseudo-surreal effect, almost like watching a lover or close friend operate outside of the usual context in which one knows them.
As is often the case with the internet, opinions on Asake’s Tiny Desk performance were split almost as soon as it hit social platforms, triggering a riptide of debates. Was the performance lethargic or minimalist? Did Asake sound flat in certain moments or has the ubiquity of auto-tune and perfectly engineered vocals dulled our sensibilities for appreciating the seams and contours of the natural human voice? How does Asake’s Tiny Desk performance compare with his usual performances or previous Tiny Desk performances by his counterparts—Tems, Burna Boy, and Omah Lay? For days now, music enthusiasts have bickered over and regaled themselves with these questions and more.
The intensity of the conversation might suggest an isolated incident but the spirited discourse that has trailed Asake’s latest appearance fits neatly within a long history of similar incidents: this level of rancor tends to surface when a major Nigerian act graces the stage of a globally renowned platform. Tems’ two Tiny Desk performances. Burna Boy’s manifold performances on shows ranging from Jimmy Kimmel Live to NPR Tiny Desk. Wizkid’s performance on The Jimmy Fallon Show. Omah Lay’s Tiny Desk Performance. The list is endless.
Besides trivial banter, what we can glean from Asake’s widely-discussed Tiny Desk is; Tiny Desk and its likes play an outsized role in ensuring a healthy cultural landscape. Art is meant to be discussed, debated, and interrogated. This is especially true within the pop culture scene where much of the appeal comes from collectively experiencing and discussing art.
In this era of content saturation and painfully short attention spans, a show like Tiny Desk, which directly invites the public to collectively experience and engage with the art without the scrim of controversy, salacious conversation, or similar ancillary elements, often holds the power to put artists and their work back in the conversation and foreground some of their lesser appreciated works. Consider Asake’s performance of Awodi, a deep cut from his sophomore album, during his Tiny Desk concert. The performance boosted the profile of the grossly underrated song. In other words, artists of this era face an increasing need to be at the heart of public conversation and a show like Tiny Desk provides an avenue for this while simultaneously centering the artist’s work.
There are, however, few shows of this stripe in this part of the world. While there’s no shortage of similar shows in the Western music scene—one could even argue that they have an excess—the Nigerian music scene, despite its rising influence around the world, can only boast of two such shows: Glitch Africa and Jazzhole sessions. This paucity, in part, explains why Afrobeats artists often have to resort to stale gimmicks and sponsored controversy to wrest control of public attention.
But this only tells one side of the story. Zoom out and you’ll find a chicken-and-egg dilemma. Glitch Africa and Jazzhole sessions consistently put out quality concerts and yet it’s difficult to imagine an A-list Nigerian artist appearing on either show. You’d sooner find Burna Boy hobnobbing with a C-list American streamer or Wizkid firing off a salvo of incoherent tweets than see either of them on Glitch Africa or Jazzhole Sessions. If the scene’s biggest artists are unwilling to participate in these shows, the unintended consequence is a ceiling to how high shows like Glitch Africa can climb. This also, partly, explains why we have very few shows like NPR Tiny Desk in this part of the world.
If the wave of spirited conversations that arrived in the wake of Asake’s NPR Tiny Desk Concert tells us anything, it is that we need more shows where music, quite literally, does the talking. We have way too many inane conversations and contrived controversies. The music needs to, once again, occupy the center within the Nigerian music scene. But for that to happen, relevant stakeholders and our biggest artists need to commit to making this a reality.
