For many years the little we knew of Ethiopian music was pretty much limited to Mahmoud Ahmed’s cult album Erè Mèla Mèla. It was the first Western breakthrough for the country’s brassy, electric, urban pop: swinging and hypnotic, poignant yet funky; so unique, so different from anything else coming out of the African continent. This amazing, head-spinning groove was celebrated the world over, and hailed as one of the finest releases of 1986 (by New Musical Express, Q, and New York Times). Meanwhile, Aster Aweke and (more recently) Gigi arrived on the world music scene to let us know a little more about this remarkable ‘groove’.

But even today, while all sorts of music are accessible to lovers of exotic sounds, Ethiopia is often regarded as the forgotten musical continent, the missing link within the pan-African harmony. If Ethiopian music is among the last musics from the African continent to reach Western listeners, this stems essentially from the highly remarkable heritage of this country, whose fate, simply, is unique in Africa.

Ethiopia (or Abyssinia) has existed for 3000 years. The country dates back to the mythical Queen of Sheba and Menelik I, the son she had with King Solomon. Antiquity is not the only peculiarity of this country, however, for it is equally important to know that it was Christianized since the fourth century — that is to say, before the conversion of most European countries. In this sense, the orthodox Copts of Ethiopia cannot be compared with the late colonial Christianization of the rest of Africa, chiefly in the nineteenth century. It is just as important to stress that Ethiopia is the only African country never to have been colonized. Apart from the Mussolini 'digression' (between 1935 and 1941 — a mere nothing over the course of three millennia), it has been independent. From 1924, it was a member of the Society of Nations, the predecessor of the United Nations. This may also explain why, at the beginning of the 1960s, and following decolonization, Addis Ababa was chosen as the capital of the Organization of African Unity (today the African Union) by the newly independent nations.

Add to this Ethiopia's gloomy media image, in which it is portrayed as a desolate desert with barely anything else to do bar die of starvation, when in actual fact it is a country of high verdant plateaus (two-thirds of the country is at more than 2000m altitude, and the capital itself is perched at 2500m). In short, the Ethiopians, so proud of their extraordinary country, are mortified by the Western clichés that mar their culture and deny their reality.

All these particularities have contributed to the development of a cultural identity so strong that the Ethiopians lived in a state of complete self-sufficiency for 3000 years. Their music, in particular, was developed away from any contact with their African neighbours and it was necessary to wait till the end of the nineteenth century for the first real external influences to be felt, a result of the brass instruments sent as gift to Emperor Menelik by the Russian Tsar.

It was mainly after World War II that modern Ethiopian music experienced its largest changes, and the twenty years between the inauguration of the Haile Selassie Theatre (1955) and the fall of the emperor (1974) are seen as the golden age of Ethiopian music. Invaded by Mussolini’s cohorts in 1935, ancient Abyssinia emerged as the new Ethiopia at its Liberation in 1941. Restored to his throne with the not-entirely-disinterested help of the British, Haile Selassie entered the second phase of his never-ending reign, the twentieth century’s longest, with a renewed desire for reform — in fact a modernization of autocracy.

This was also the dawn of a new era in terms of its music. The military brass bands were certainly the first to benefit from an overall staff reorganization, but very quickly some improbable consequences of the war started to make themselves amply felt. Just like the newly liberated Europe, postwar Africa latched on to jazz, imitating especially the impeccable brass sections, the swinging, explosive melodies, the slightly flashy elegance. The Glenn Miller-Tommy Dorsey syndrome. Cab Calloway’s zoot suit. In music, America became synonymous with ‘jazz’. The Marshall Plan. The culture of the victors. Ethiopia was not immune to this, and its music was to evolve in a very singular manner — like just about everything Ethiopian.

A host of foreign instructors were also summoned to the Ethiopian capital. Among the most noteworthy were Alexander Kontorowicz (1944—8) and Franz Zelwecker (May/June 1950—January 1957), but it is also vital not to forget Kevork and (especially) Nersès Nalbandian, uncle and nephew, two Armenian musicians based in Ethiopia (since 1924 and the early 1930s respectively) who one can legitimately consider the major patrons of modern Ethiopian music. Kevork Nalbandian stopped being a musical instructor in 1949, before dying in 1963 aged 76, whereas Nersès was working furiously right up to his death in 1977, at the age of 62.

One of the particular paradoxes of Ethiopia was that, up until the end of the 1960s, the only authorized orchestras were the big institutional ones: Imperial Body Guard Band, Police Orchestra, Army Band, Haile Selassie Theatre Orchestra, Municipality Orchestra, all under the supervision of the emperor and his bureaucracy… The first private, independent bands only started to appear around 1968—9.

Since the attempted coup d'état against the emperor in December 1960, at the end of the reign in Ethiopia, there prevailed an overriding atmosphere that favoured audacity and all kinds of innovation. A ‘Swinging Addis’ just like 'Swinging London' slowly crept its way into Ethiopian society, particularly in the capital and the larger towns. Like all European teenagers, the young postwar generation got to grips with the new cultural values from the USA, including R&B, rock and roll, soul and nascent pop. Their extravagant 1960s elegance (wide-leg or bell-bottom trousers, slim-fitting jackets, skinny ties, Afro or beehive hairdos, miniskirts, even the pill), and also freedom of speech (through their songs or interviews), helped them to stand out from the chic tuxedos and need to be reserved that were imposed on the Establishment's salaried.

Ethiopian nightlife found itself drastically changed. The number of hotels and nightclubs multiplied, each one having its own orchestra or gramophone. As an indicator of the general erosion of imperial power, the main vocalists of the time, such as Gèssèssè, Bzunesh Bèqèlè, Alèmayèhu Eshèté, Mahmoud Ahmed, Hirut Bèqèlè, Menelik Wesnatchew and others — originally all salaried members of institutional orchestras — slowly freed themselves from this stranglehold in order to gain their full pop-star freedom and to respond to the general public's passion. Following producer Amha Eshèté, many record labels were created in order to popularize new modern music, much to the displeasure of the institutions and the older generations, who knew nothing about this Ethiopia under total upheaval.

This healthy frenzy was, alas, halted by the hostile outbreak of a military-Stalinist revolution in 1974. At the end of the empire, 'Swinging Addis' was totally engulfed, enabling a merciless dictatorship to prevent anything imaginative or creative taking place for eighteen years. In barely two years, all the effervescence of the 1960s vanished, to make way for a severe repression. Official orchestras were dissolved, and censorship, propaganda and intimidation finished off this demolition of all artistic life. A constant curfew throughout these eighteen years handed the night back to the armed militia and the stray dogs.

Today, after twelve years under a new regime, serving the difficult apprenticeship of democracy, the Ethiopian scene looks like a disaster zone. Apart from cabarets of azmaris (sharp-tongued, wandering minstrel-peddlers who roamed the old Abyssinian countryside), the new modern orchestras have not rediscovered the brilliance of yesteryear. The major stars like Tlahoun Gèssèssè, Mahmoud Ahmed or Alèmayèhu Eshèté have survived the historical upheavals, but apart from rare exceptions (such as Fanayé Tesfayé and Yared Tèfèra), the post-dictatorship young generation is still quite far away from the level achieved by the veterans of the imperial era. The seeds are there, but the musicians are still prisoners of the music shops who have monopolized cassette production, focusing on their own economic gain without the slightest interest in musical innovation despite the wishes and attempts of many artists. A new generation of musician-producers, of which the excellent Yared Tèfèra is the best example, is slowly emerging. They have their own studios and are gradually gaining their independence in self-production.