Carsten Rasch is sending daily Dispatches from La Réunion, where he is attending IOMMA, the Indian Ocean Music Market, which sets the scene for the Sakifo music festival, between 3 and 8 June 2025. Scroll down to start at the beginning, as Carsten shares the highlights of each day.
Pictured: Mannyok
Dispatches from La Réunion – #6
The Long Goodbye
Strictly speaking, this dispatch is filed from Cape Town — but I started writing it at the airport at St Denis, Reunion Island, continued in Joburg, and finished it here at my desk.
As usual, the trip was a jôl — in Saffa speak, that means a lot of fun. IOMMA and Sakifo know how to treat their guests.
My plan for Sunday was to pop in at the recording session of Msaki’s ALTBLK>> project. Most of the musicians I flew over with were part of this, I discovered along the way. But I messed up, didn’t I? The session happened the day before, on Saturday. So I missed it. Ai…
The entire Saturday threatened to be messy. For starters, my interviews were “misplaced” — that threw my programme somewhat, but then Mannyok agreed to meet with me. (Thank you, Satie, for going the extra mile.) Why was I so eager to chat with them? Because I’d clocked the guitarist playing a ramkie — aka a blikkitaar, that homemade oil-can guitar rooted in the early Cape culture. The band also features Sidney Alfred, a massively talented accordion player.
Mannyok hails from Rodrigues, the smallest of three islands that make up the Mascarenes group. It is part of Mauritius, but generally left to it’s own devices, being autonomous. It’s remoteness has caused it to remain less “settled” than Mauritius and Reunion, and so it has retained it’s own unique style of séga, as can be seen with the ramkie and accordion, instruments hardly ever used by Mauritian and Reunionnaise musicians.
However, these two instruments are totally compatible with a genre closer to home: boeremusiek — the music of farmers — which has been developing in the Cape for over 300 years, its roots drawn from the melodies and rhythms of enslaved people.
And there are more similarities. Like our goema and boeremusiek, séga also draws from European dance forms — polka, quadrille, schottische, mazurka. But séga tipik, the style Mannyok is working in, foregrounds its European influence more boldly. It’s in the instrumentation: the raw twang of the blikkitaar and the wheeze of the accordion make it sound — to my ears at least — far more like boeremusiek than the séga you hear more commonly today.
We have a great session, and at the end, I play them “Ou Waenhuis” — a Japie Laubscher vastrap tune from the 1930s — and “Baba Riebab/Vrot Tamatie”, a moppie by 1980s ghoema-rock band The Genuines.
The Mannyok guys sit back in astonishment, but soon enough they’re grooving in their chairs, talking excitedly among themselves. They get it. One hundred percent.
Satie, ever-vigilant, taps her watch. My fifteen minutes are up, and we have to say goodbye. I’m going to miss their performance at Salle Verte on Sunday — but I’ll definitely catch them again in Rodrigues. (check their performance here)
I’ve always believed a little bit of distance helps with perspective. So here I am, somewhere between St Pierre and Cape Town, thinking about the value of this trip — my third — to Reunion Island, IOMMA and Sakifo.
It was Sakifo’s Durban-based sister festival, Safika, that inspired my first self-funded trip to Reunion four years ago. What sealed the deal was the line-up: a dub band from Hokkaido, a morna singer from Cape Verde, and a Brazilian samba outfit. You just don’t see that kind of programming at South African festivals.
We’re still largely stuck in race-based markets — like the US in the 1950s, before rock’n’roll and rhythm & blues blew open the barriers between black and white radio formats. Festivals aimed at Black African audiences feature mainly African artists; festivals aimed at white audiences stick to pop and rock. Safika tried to break that mould — and sadly, didn’t crack it. (Next time I’m in Reunion, I’d like to have that conversation with Jérôme.)
We tried something similar at my Cape Town venue, the Blah Blah Bar (which I was lucky enough to sell before Covid would have forced me to shut the doors). We were inclusive. No sticking to genres, no ageist, sexist or racist boundaries. We booked what we liked. That’s why Sakifo resonates so strongly with me. Sure, there are loads of excited young Frenchies mauling around at Ravine Blanche— but look closer, and you’ll see the full diversity of the island on show – on the stages and on the ground.
IOMMA’s panel discussions reflect that same open ethos. Their interpretation of “Indian Ocean region” stretches from the African coast to India, to Australia and even to far-away Japan. They’re working the distant regions as well as the homefront. It’s connection to Sakifo makes it unique, and very attractive. I suspect many real business deals are struck that might not have happened were it not for IOMMA. The network opportunities that this conference makes possible can’t be measured in euros, rupees or rands. It’s invaluable.
I have made new connections, rekindled old ones, and hopefully next year, I’ll arrive wearing another of my hats: There’s a music exchange in the making.
But now it’s time to say goodbye: tot siens, nartrouv, au revoir, salama, and hamba kahle to all and sundry. Until next time…
Pictured: Féfé
Dispatches from La Réunion – #5
Do you remember that feeling—when you were young—that the night held something unexpected? Something so surprising it could stun you into an age you’d left behind long ago. Your experience was so limited back then that almost anything could do it.
Now, though, the clock has ticked on—relentlessly, without mercy or consideration. Your eyesight is failing. Your hearing’s not what it was. Your knees, for the life of you, can’t do what they did a mere five years ago.
And yet, there you are, among the best of them—most of them half your age at least—dancing your fucking heart out to a band you’ve never heard of before.
Man. How many more times can you expect that to happen?
The evening began with a measure of sedation—two whiskies in the privacy of my hotel room, pondering a day that almost didn’t happen. Two interviews were scheduled: one with up-and-coming seggae/maloya band Secteur 410, and another with Mannyok, a sega tipik outfit from Rodrigues. Someone got the dates mixed up—not me—and for a while, Mannyok seemed as lost a cause as finding the guy who farted in the lift. But the press liaison girls pulled out all the stops and made it happen. More on that later.
I headed to the IOMMA tent—kind of a VVIP zone for industry folks. It’s the hub, a schmooze zone where connections are made and future plans hatched. Everyone pulls in there at some point during the evening. I chatted a bit, bought a beer for a guy from Equatorial Guinea who was clearly struggling to communicate, and moved on to Salahin, where Féfé was already doing his pretty cool thing.
The night was still young, but Féfé knew exactly how to get the crowd going. I can picture the boardroom conversation: Who’s the best kicker-offer? The guy who gets the people excited, obviously. Definitely not that rapper from the other night.
Féfé was cooking with gas. Sure, it was all in French, but not hard to follow: three steps to the left, three steps to the right, then… etc. etc. Textbook stuff, but the crowd was dying to lose control, and those moves helped them get there. I drained my beer and headed in the opposite direction—towards Poudrière.
Secteur 410—apparently a code for St. Pierre—kicked off my evening programme at the closest of the five Sakifo stages to my hotel. Salahin is the main stage and furthest away; Filaos and Poudrière are about equal in size. Not that it matters once you’re in the thick of it.
Jerome, one of the three singers, was the guy I interviewed earlier. Sharp, on point—unlike many oldsters still trying to play the game. The band’s only been around since 2023, and their first single, Héritaz, recently cracked six million views. SIX MILLION! Consider that Réunion has a population of just over a million people. Either every soul on the island watched it six times, or it struck a chord elsewhere. France, probably—it’s a Creole song, after all.
Subsequent singles racked up a million views within months.
“That’s why they’re playing here,” my friend, Arno said. “Sakifo won’t touch you if you don’t have the views.”
Fair enough. It’s a business, after all. Point is, these youngsters are doing something right. Like, there’s a formula, and they own it. Me, oldster that I am, wonders out loud about the relevance of views. YouTube pays for views, Jerome informs me. Really? How much? 20k apparently, every 6 months. Euros, not SA Rands. Am I gobsmacked?
Their performance was a big hit. The place was packed—mainly with youngsters, very, very excited about the chance to see Secteur 410 live.
The next show was a fluke. On my way to grab a discounted beer at the VVIP bar, I passed Filaos—Nagaï was on stage, mid-set, and already deep. Her soft, melodic reggae riffs, countered by a low maloya beat, slipped under the skin of the crowd. We skanked along wherever she led us, arriving—unexpectedly—at a cover of Redemption Song. Already dense with emotion, the song swelled with the heartbeat of another little island.
The best part of the VVIP area is the bar—never more than two or three people in the queue. Beer gets tapped chop-chop. I grabbed one and found a seat next to Divya and Sonya. Great vibe—rest your legs, shoot the breeze, then wade back into the human current flowing between stages.
Next upon my list is Fatoumata Diawara, taking command of the main stage like she lives there. I’d caught her soundcheck earlier and made a mental note: Don’t miss this one.
Fatoumata is an anomaly. Hailing from Mali, the home of the African blues, she is the lone woman guitarist in a throng of males, all of them throbbing with talent in this small country increasingly adopting sharia law. Mali Blues, a film made in 2016, tells the story of four stars of the genre—Bassekou Kouyaté, Master Soumy, Ahmed Ag Kaedi and Diawara herself—on a musical journey into Mali’s agitated heart. “Can their music reconcile the country?” asks the film
Sadly, the answer seems to be no, as Mali slides deeper into authoritarianism.
But here she is, producing a big sound. Her set picks up momentum until it seems there’s nowhere to go but to explode, and that’s precisely what happens. Their final song reaches an almost unbearable climax before culminating in a jumbled crescendo of cymbals and drums.
Earlier, I bumped into José-Maria who told me about The Limiñanas. They hail from Cabestany, a small town near the border of Spain, he tells me. All the rockstars go there to record. Their show is at the Poudriere stage, which is on my way back to the hotel anyway, so I tag along.
Seeing this band was not really part of my plan. Rock had shifted to the back-burner in my search for new music. So, please pardon my surprise that the very excitement I described right at the beginning of this dispatch started making itself felt. There was an expectation in the air and in the audience of primarily older long-hairs, and I couldn’t help but tap into it.
A cheer went up as they arrived on the darkened stage, which suddenly exploded into burning white light. Guitars grated and drums thumped.
“The drummer doesn’t have any cymbals,” I half-shouted into the ear of my compadre. “Yes,” he said, adding drily “and he’s a woman. The partner of the singer.”
Lionel and Marie Limiñana are the at the centre of this band, obviously named after them. I would place them squarely in the camp of the Velvet Underground, based on one half of their set, with the other half channelling Patti Smith. In other words, an impressive melange of psychedelia and punk, driven mainly by the drummer’s style. Not only are there no cymbals, including a high-hat, there are no toms either. Just the bass drum, floor tom and snare. The bass guitarist with a bigger than life afro grooved in the centre of the stage, while the lead guitarist had the run of the width of it, hopping, and twirling and jumping from monitor to monitor.
To my utter surprise, The Limiñanas turned out to be the highlight of the evening—and possibly of the whole festival.
Pictured: Mashmanyaka
Dispatches from La Réunion – #4
Bad rap stinks. Really. Last night I—we—were exposed to some that made my head spin. I can’t even tell you exactly why it was so bad. It wasn’t the lyrics, because it was in French and I couldn’t understand a word. But somehow, I understood everything. Loud. Repetitive. Basically boring. And it wasn’t just me. I was hanging out with Nicholas and Joni, and at some point we all looked at each other and just shook our heads. Bad? Yep. No groove.
The festival opened with Black Jesus Experience, that Australian band I wrote about yesterday. They’ve also got a rapper—MC Elf Transporter—who shares front duties with the other singers. I love what he does. Peter and Ian, the band’s horn section and unofficial hype-men, call him “the shapeshifter.” And that’s exactly what he is.
He’s a small man, but he becomes bigger and bigger, song after song, until it feels like the whole stage is bending around him. He modulates, explains, pleads, questions, gets strident, backs down. He’s like a diminutive Ginsberg doing Howl—but with a groove so filthy your limbs start moving before your brain catches on. Before you can say damn!, you’re dancing.
A few nights back at an IOMMA showcase, a Malagasy band called Mashmanyaka took the stage. More reggae than rap, with their MC toasting rather than rhyming, they worked. The crowd dug them. I thought the frontman was trying a bit too hard—but credit where it’s due, the band locked in and carried him. They grooved.
Meghan Trainor says it’s all about the bass. Duke Ellington says it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing. Me? If it doesn’t groove, kill it.
DJ NickyB (from Kaya FM) knows groove. The moment that bad rap ended, she cranked it up on the VIP dancefloor, and the crowd immediately started moving. That’s groove. You can’t always define it, but you know the second it’s not there. Not too fast, not too slow. As any drummer will tell you—it has to sit in the pocket.
And speaking of pocket, maloya owns it. As usual at Sakifo, a solid showing of maloya bands are in the lineup. Maloya—Reunion’s creole musical heartbeat—is part blues, part protest chant, part lullaby. It’s the island’s rap and its confessional. If there’s a problem, someone somewhere on the island will write a maloya song about it, the song will do the rounds, and without reading it anywhere, everyone will know.
Maloya is also a way of being in the world—of accepting your bâtarcité. It’s a word and a philosophy I got from Danyél Waro, the island’s living maloya legend. Last year, in an interview, he said this:
“Bâtarcité is a question about who I am, where I am. I am high yab, I am kaf, I am malbar, I am chinoise, I am zarabe,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I am a bastard. Maloya is a mongrel. We have to look at ourselves in the mirror, and we should be proud. This is the work we have to do. I don’t want to choose. I am my own sauce. That is my bâtarcité.”
And that, my friends, grooves harder than any algorithm ever will.
Pictured: Black Jesus Experience
Dispatches from La Réunion – #3
Today started a little later, so I had time for a swim in the sea after filing my dispatch. God, I love that word! So retro. It makes me think of the 1970s, of Michael Herr’s Dispatches and his time as a war correspondent; or Ryszard Kapuściński’s Another Day of Life, about the Angolan/South African war. The heyday of the war journo…
Hey, I’m not drawing comparisons. We’re not at war—at least, not with guns. But we’re definitely fighting battles. With unicorns and their AIs. With fake news. With the collapse of legacy media and the rise of… well, what exactly? I think about this stuff. And I think about the state of music. And honestly? I’m concerned.
This morning’s panel was about expanding beyond the Indian Ocean—hence the presence of festival directors from Japan, Thailand and Australia. Make no mistake, these people are sharp. Survivors. Everyone agrees Southeast Asia is the happening corner of a planet that’s otherwise folding in on itself. So we better get onto it.
But let’s not forget: the music business is more than just music. We need—I hate this word—content. And content isn’t just AI regurgitation. Content is the written word, with images. We need criticism like the body needs a heart. Opinion grounded in facts. We need stories, not just promotion. We need writers who can write about music like the late, great Nik Cohn, who discovered that the truth was Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom. We owe it to the music. And if someone doesn’t do something pretty damn soon, it might be too late.
La Cité des Métiers, where the IOMMA conference is held, might be too far up the slopes behind St Pierre to walk to, but it’s an easy stroll back into the village. I like the walk; gives me time to think. Halfway down, my phone pings: it’s a request to confirm an interview with Black Jesus Experience.
No, not a rebranded BBEEE Jehovah’s Witness cell prophesying this whitey’s demise. Black Jesus Experience is an Australian band, and yes—I will ask someone to explain that name. I confirm the interview, which really should not be called that, because it’s a 15 minute slot, almost enough time to exchange hellos and goodbyes before it’s gone.
Kreolart
The sea, meanwhile, is calling me like a siren with an earworm, but I head back to my hotel to prep and meet my Réunionnais friend Arno Bazin. Arno’s a vinyl nut, a producer, guitarist, music teacher, and an expert on the islands’ music scenes—Réunion, Mauritius, Rodrigues. His English is terrible, but somehow we always have a great chat.
“You,” he says now, pointing at me, holding a CD, “write about me, okay? Is important. Qui?”
He hands me Aniel, a Ti Fock reissue, then passes me the liner notes for an album by Carrousel called La Vie est un Mystère. “Open it,” he urges. “It is… somesing for ze wall.” He’s searching for the word, looking up to the heavens, or the ceiling of my room, rather. “Um… “
I open it. “A poster?” I say
“yes, yes, poster! For ze wall, no? will you tell somezing?” He gestures with fingers clutching an invisible pen.
Yes, I will. Tomorrow. I have to get going, don’t want to upset Black Jesus. Ti Fock and Carrousel will have to wait, but watch this space.
Black Jesus & the Return of the Groove
I head up to what should be the media tent and hear a soundcheck of a band I’m pretty sure is BJE. Bit of a mix-up. But whatever—rock ’n roll without a mix-up is gospel, innit? I’m early anyway, so I hang around. Soundchecks are revealing. Sometimes you catch a tantrum, an ego, a band imploding. Not this time. BJE is focused, locked in. The guy I thought was their sound engineer turns out to be Peter Harper, sax player and bandleader; he’s busy, and not in the mood for me. I slope off to the SACEM launch, hoping for free beer, maybe a snack.
Later, I meet Peter and trumpeter Ian Dixon in their backstage tent. The interview starts a little awkwardly. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because I’m “the press”. Harper eyes me. “Do you write about pop music?”
Hmm. Slightly accusatory? Hard to say. “I wouldn’t say I write about pop,” I reply. “I write about more serious stuff. Historical, often. But what’s pop anyway? In South Africa, mbaqanga is pop. And it’s brilliant.”
He nods. I explain mbaqanga, marabi, maskanda… time’s ticking. Ten minutes left. We finally start talking their stuff. Influences. Process. The name.
Harper tells a story about living in Liège, Belgium. Across from his front door, in a glass case, was the Black Madonna and her baby. “Every morning,” he says dryly, “I’d walk past and say, ‘Morning, Black Jesus.’ Next day, same thing. So… yeah.”
Their name is striking even if it doesn’t really describe their music, which is deeply groove, veering from extended horn lines in the best jazz traditions to a the musings and rappings of their American-born shape-shifting MC Elf Transporter, to the eclectic strums, strokes and plucks of their young guitarist whose name I didn’t get. One moment he’d be coaxing pain from his guitar, while the next he’d be playing the funkiest riffs this side of Dayton, Ohio.
The highlight of the show was without a doubt local singer Aurus, who guested on two songs, with a voice to die for. For me, the presence of their Ethiopian muse Enusha Taye, who’d recently had surgery, was a bit awkward. She spent most of the set seated, and when she did sing, her voice sounded pinched and oddly fragile.
Otherwise, BJE lived up to the latter part of their name. It was indeed an experience. In rare groove territory. The kind that’s getting harder and harder to find.
I’ve got the T-shirt. And I’m going to wear it…
Pictured: Jatayu
Dispatches from La Réunion – #2
Sometimes the best discussions happen informally, on the lawns and patios outside the conference halls.
This morning (after being the very first to arrive—presumably to atone for the sins of the previous evening), I covered a fair bit of ground: the ups and downs of the art world with Marcus; the future of the music business, sparked by local entrepreneur Mustapha, and then brought to a stunned halt by Andre; and finally, the politics of my harrowed country with Andre and a mystery Frenchman who nodded occasionally.
I use the term music business quite deliberately, because soon it will not be much of an industry. Industry, after all, implies many role-players. My much better-informed countryman delivered a bombshell to both me and Mustapha,: the business, as we know it, has only a few years left.
“Before what?” I asked, a little too quickly.
“The world ends, of course,” he deadpanned. Then he laughed. “No, seriously. Before the collection agencies go extinct.”
The conversation veered this way and that, like a drunk crossing a busy street, me following along—metaphorically speaking, of course. I mean, we’d only just had breakfast.
I have a problem with Spotify and the streamers, for the obvious reason: they don’t pay composers and copyright holders their dues. Turns out it’s far worse than I’d thought. I might be preaching to the converted here, but still— how many of us consider the end of anything, never mind their world, even if it is just the music world?
At some earlier stage, I’m told, the likes of Spotify employed entities known as shadow writers, which, on command, will write songs that sound exactly like—say—the Rolling Stones. And they do sound like the Stones because they’re stitched together from bits and pieces of actual Stones songs. The songs are released under the name of some fabricated band—let’s call them Groove Garden (thank you Mustapha)—a virtual band that doesn’t exist. At this stage things get a bit hazy, because surely even fake bands need their dubious royalties collected. No?
“I bet they’ve had this plan all along,” I muttered darkly, mostly to myself.
Andre ended things on an ominous note. He pointed out how news was disrupted by Google and Facebook. How taxis were eaten alive by Uber. “It’s a catch-me-if-you-can game,” he said, “where the one with the most money wins. It’s all about scale. You make billions, pay out millions, and walk away.”
Music, apparently, is next. We’re in a transition phase.
Gloomy, world domination stuff, so I disconnected and ate my lunch, afterwards heading down the hill back to the hotel, where I mull this over.
As I write this, I’m listening to A Moin Yab toul’ temps, the Pat’ Jaune CD I was given, just before we left the Land of the Yellow Feet, high up on Tampon. It’s an old-worldly, gently mournful album, layered with influences. The Yabs are masters of their instruments. The melodies may be Western, but the beat is unmistakably Réunionnais.
How will they survive this mind-bending shift, I wonder?
Thankfully, these dark thoughts are swept away by the onset of the evening Showcase. We’re urged by Agnès to be on time—because they will be on time—so I try my best. I make it, just in time for Jatayu, a metal-jazz fusion band from India.
As they start their set, I’m chatting to Hadly, who’s relieved to hear the word “jazz” in the genre description. He’s a bassist, and I’m a drummer, so we can talk rhythm and timing and stuff like that. When bassists and drummers find each other, the conversation inevitably veers toward guitarists or vocalists who… ok, never mind. We won’t go there.
I was stunned—literally—by Jatayu’s outlandish fusion. The set-up was standard metal: lead, rhythm and bass guitars, drums, plus a horn section. No vocals, but you could see the rhythm guitarist (also the band leader) liked a banter. But each band only gets a strictly enforced 40 minutes, so he managed to keep it to a minimum.
They launched into their first track—very trippy. Almost psychedelic metal and jazz. Stops and starts galore. Pace changes, beat changes, key changes follow each other rapidly. Where-are-they-going-with-this? Know what I mean? Real jazz fusion stuff.
But—where’s the ‘one’?
“Where’s the one?” I ask Hadly.
“They left it outside, I think,” he says with a shrug. “The two as well…”
Let me explain: songs work on a count, see? You don’t have to start on the one, or even the two, but you’ve still got to count it. So you need to know where the one is. That’s how everyone in the band knows where they are. It’s mostly subconscious, but it’s there. I was mighty relieved it’s not me drumming. I would’ve been as lost as Alice in Wonderland.
Their performance was a masterclass of precision and timing. Even if I didn’t, they knew exactly where the one was.
By the fourth song, the rhythm guitarist had become Sahib Mercury, the lead, Jimi H. Ravindran, the bassist was now Stan, and the drummer—well, he was shrinking.
What the…?
No idea how that happened. All I know is that later, after their slot, I mentioned the shrinking drummer to James, Joni and Markus—and they all solemnly nodded in agreement.
“Is there something in the beer?” I joked.
On a serious note: The news that Rashid Lombard had passed spread like wildfire through the gathering at le Kerveguen last night. Rashid was the initiator of the long-running Cape Town Jazz Festival, turning it into the most important jazz event on the South African calendar. He led the festival through mean times and good ones, and innovated many side programmes, as any festival worth its salt should do. He will be sorely missed. Condolences to his family and close friends.
Hamba kakuhle, ndoda enkulu…
Pictured: Pat Jaune
Dispatches from La Réunion – #1
Hugs and kisses, handshakes and how-are-you’s are the order of the day—it’s the first day of IOMMA, the Indian Ocean Music Market, which sets the scene for Sakifo, the festival that jolts the island awake just as winter rolls in. Not that you’d know it’s winter. I swam in the ocean this morning, and I swear the water was in the 20s.
For the next week, I’ll be diligently filing the Music Report from La Réunion, despite late nights, carbon tablet mornings, and bleary eyes. The deadline is 8am—come hell or high water—and I’ll stick to it like gum to a shoe.
IOMMA kicks off on a strong note with Mzansi artist Sibusile Xaba opening the Showcase—one of IOMMA’s best innovations. These showcase acts are handpicked by a panel of worthies from across the greater Indian Ocean community, and they seldom miss the mark. Sibusile’s music had me puzzled—I couldn’t place it. It’s not mbaqanga, not maskanda, not jazz, and definitely not amapiano. I’m told later it’s considered “avant garde.” Fair enough. Sibusile is indeed pushing boundaries with his dreamy, trancelike, cyclical sound that resists being pinned down. Thank goodness for the avant garde.
IOMMA had arranged a visit to the cabaret venue of Pat Jaune, a band I met during last year’s Sakifo when I interviewed them. They’d invited me to their place back then, but I couldn’t make it—too many acts, too little time. With 60 or 70 performances to choose from, you have to do your homework. I didn’t, but their picture leapt off the page. Hmm, I thought, boeremusiek? Or maybe Tirolisch? Though they weren’t wearing those Alpine hats with feathers stuck in the side.
For the uninitiated, boeremusiek is the folk music of the proto-Afrikaners, which evolved from ghoema—the syncretic music of the Cape of Good Hope that fused Indonesian and Malagasy traditions (brought by enslaved people), indigenous Khoekhoe rhythms, and European dances like the polka, mazurka and waltz. These early settlers called themselves Boere—literally “farmers”. It’s more complex, of course, but this is a music report, not a thesis.
Turns out, Pat Jaune’s music has a surprisingly similar origin story. Pat Jaune means “yellow feet”—a nod to the turmeric-stained soles of highland farmers in La Réunion’s interior. Their music is probably vanishing, because the Yabs are vanishing. What’s a Yab, you ask? It’s short for yabu, a Malagasy word meaning “up in the mountains.” In colonial times, it referred to poor white farmers granted land on steep slopes nobody else wanted. Farmers, poor, on the fringes… sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Like the Boere. And there’s more: their music—still need to confirm the exact name—traces its roots to the polka and waltz, blended with Réunionese Creole music of the same period as boeremusiek. So, not quite séga, not quite maloya, but with elements of both. Fascinating stuff. And likely a lot more intricate than it seems.
Their venue is perched high up the twisty Tampon road—so high that just getting there on a bus can bring on motion sickness, especially in the back seats. But it’s all worth it when we arrive. Their 40-minute set is a joyous mix of tight songs and lively banter, the kind that makes me regret never learning French. Still, I don’t need to understand every word to get the humour—they’re clearly poking fun at themselves and their yab-ness. I love it. It’s what the early Americans did with “Yankee Doodle”—a British tune meant to mock backwoods farmers, many of them Dutch boeren, that got turned around and sung with pride as the redcoats retreated.
During a post-show chat, someone called their music “country,” but another corrected them: “It’s folk.” And rightly so—country is just American folk music, after all.
After a delicious Creole chicken lunch, the group gathered again in the dining hall and treated us to a moving, slightly mournful rendition of the Réunion anthem—news to me that such a thing even existed.
I left the land of the yellow feet with a full stomach, a CD titled Ámoin yab toul’ temps (which Google Translate utterly fails to decipher—Creole will do that), the promise of a follow-up interview, and possibly a little too much rum…
