My Salone music initiation

In my first week in Freetown, I noticed banners throughout the city advertising a major musical competition entitled "Who is Who?". Back in mid-October, they didn't indicate a date, but ever since I eventually learned it would be held on December 12, it's been a night I've been anxiously awaiting.

Music's kind of a big deal to me, you see, and thus far I haven't felt any strong ties to it here. Sierra Leone isn't really known for its music tradition, particularly when compared to stronger nearby music cultures, such as Senegal. Partly as a result, my ear has yet to develop the honing mechanism to consistently differentiate between the various forms of West African music I hear.

When I do notice the music playing around me, it's often the more familiar strains of the North American tradition, led by the ubiquitous tunes of Chris Brown, Sean Kingston and Senegalese-born Akon. Save for the stuff I brought with me (Stars, K'NAAN, Amy Millan, The Stills, Sam Roberts, Shad, Matt Mays & El Torpedo), my tastes of the Canadian scene are limited to the unfortunately prevalent Shania Twain and Celine Dion, a sad indication of Canada's most famous exports.

But last night, Canadian music was the furthest thing from my mind as I hopped aboard a poda-poda with ABJ and his girlfriend, Jane, just before 9 p.m. After unsuccessful attempts to meet up with my Kalleone colleague, Sheik - complicated by the fact that ABJ told me to come fully prepared to be pick-pocketed and thus I didn't have my cell (or camera) with me - we walked through the darkness towards the entrance to National Stadium, the 45,000-capacity open air stadium that is home to the Leone Stars, the country's national football team.

We reached the ticket window and, after some discussion, opted for the covered stands, a compromise between the most expensive but safest Presidential stands and the cheapest but most authentic open stands.

As we proceeded through the security entrance, I came to learn that the surefire way to smuggle weapons into an event in Freetown was to give them to a white woman. Jane was waved through immediately, though she hesitated, wanting to know why ABJ wasn't being similarly urged on. He assured her it was fine, good-natured as he underwent a frisking.

Meanwhile, a grinning security guard pulled me aside and asked "You na got de nine?" while making a rapid stabbing motion with his left hand. As I laughed and assured him I was not carrying a knife, I was told I could go "take care of my woman", the guard erroneously assuming Jane was with me.

We walked into the stadium, the message that white people are harmless now internalized, and ABJ explained that they were expecting some fighting on this night. Frankly, I could understand why.

The event had been billed as a sort of East vs. West battle in the style of the East Coast-West Coast hip hop rivalry that took place in the U.S. in the early-mid '90s, largely fuelled by 2Pac Shakur. Battle lines were drawn. You were either for Kao Denero and the boys of Black Leo, or you backed Pupa Bajah and the Dry Yai Crew.

Denero, the self-proclaimed "King of Freetown", represented West and Central Freetown, while the Dry Yai posse had their roots in the city's less affluent East end. ABJ favoured Black Leo, saying that Dry Yai wasn't truly hip hop. Sheik supported Dry Yai, as a proud East ender who felt their message mattered (they released a song called "Ease di tension" in advance of the 2007 national elections encouraging peace at the polls, for example).

Of course, both groups are now based out of the States. They returned like so many members of the diaspora for the holidays and for this competition, the biggest music event of the year and one of the largest in Sierra Leone's history. And to be fair, animosities weren't nearly as sharp as the American rivalries they recalled, with Black Leo fans still cheering for Dry Yai songs and vice versa.

Still, I was not interested in testing the severity of their support. Shortly after our arrival, while ABJ and Jane were in the washroom, a young guy pointed at me from just beyond the barbed wire fence that separated us from the open stands (which, at $2/ticket, comprised the majority of the audience) and said, "You Black Leo?"

Already having gleaned that this segment of the audience was distinctly pro-Black Leo, I nodded and smiled, and by the end of the night, it would be a truthful statement, though it was Shine De God Son and not their leader, Denero, that galvanized my support.

At this point, music was still a long way off, however. The start time was listed as 8 p.m. Anyone that goes to concerts knows that you don't show up at the start time and, factoring in BMT, we arrived just before 10 p.m. - which would still be two hours before anyone took the stage.

Fortunately, the somewhat surreal antics of the crowd provided a distraction, at least for a little while. The energetic group of young men closest to our seats set off numerous "bangers", powerful firecrackers that are against the law outside of the festive season in December. They dropped them at their feet, jumping and whooping as they went off. It seemed like a somewhat dangerous means of amping oneself up for the performances to come, but I had to respect the passion.

Fire was also popular. Spread in a spotty fashion throughout the crowd were people using canisters of WD-40 to fashion impromptu blowtorches. Watching it all, I couldn't help but laugh at the notion that pretty much the entire audience would be kicked out of any show in Canada for their behaviour.

Around midnight, a steady stream of lesser-known artists, probably as many as 15 by night's end, took to the small stage to perform. As is the custom in Sierra Leone, these performances did not require live mics. SL is a nation of Milli Vanillis; at least 90% of the so-called live music is not only lip-synched, but lip-synched poorly.

J-One, whose hit song "Alphabet of Life" I've now seen performed twice, is one of my favourites to watch, as he makes no effort to delude the audience into thinking he's actually rapping. Often times, as the lyrics spit forth, he's not even holding the mic above his waist, let alone to his lips. This is by no means atypical.

The procession of artists continued for some time, most performing only one or two songs, many of which were underwhelming. We were mildly disturbed when an up-and-comer who couldn't have been more than 15 years old performed a song called "Ice Cream", a not-so-subtle euphemism with such profound lyrics as, "She wants to licky, licky. Come on now, give me, give me."

The first artist to truly grab my attention was the aforementioned Shine De God Son. When he took the stage, he spat a pretty solid freestyle and then made an explicit nod to the country's lip-synch culture, saying, "I'm going to actually do this one live." The diminutive rapper launched into an excellent song, made all the more entertaining by the approximately 12-year-old amputee (left arm) that accompanied him on stage with some of the best dancing I've ever seen.

I'm going to try to pick up his album, One Million Strong, as well as one from a pretty decent hip hop group from Bo, and the Dry Yai Crew's latest, as I couldn't really discern their lyrics at the show.

All in all, the concert sort of reminded me of the one headlined by Nas at the Centre in the Square last September. Though you had to sit through some awful acts and some of the advertised musicians never materialized, it was ultimately a fairly entertaining evening. Here, the non-starters included the Famous vs. Bubere (pronounced "boo-berry") duel that I would've liked to see since Bubere is one of the few musicians I've heard here, while back home both Snow and K'NAAN were absent from the CITS show.

Another similarity was the fact that it took many hours to get to the headliners. By the time Black Leo, who seemed to have the most fan support, completed their set and Dry Yai Crew came out, things were starting to deteriorate.

ABJ ushered Jane and I close to the Presidential stands just seconds before hundreds of urine-filled water bottles rained down onto the field, many passing over the space we had just been occupying.

Minutes later, a completely naked guy brushed by me, climbed over the guardrail, and dropped the 12 feet to the stadium ground. I wouldn't classify him as a streaker in the strictest sense, however, as he seemed uninterested in running away from police and security, instead heading directly towards them. By this point, the din of the crowd largely overshadowed the music.

After Dry Yai Crew finished their set around 5:45 in the morning, we took our leave before an announcement of a winner could be made, opting not to risk the threat of violence that could erupt if the crowd disagreed with the judges' selection. I still haven't heard who won.

As we made our way to the main road to grab a taxi home, crazed fans all around us screaming their preferred artists' names to the high heavens, I was left with a similar feeling to that Nas show: what I had just witnessed definitely wouldn't crack my top 10 concert experiences, but I was left with some interesting stories and a thoroughly unforgettable night. In the end, that's all I was hoping for.