Tomas Brickhill journeys through London's Afro scene.

It's been an eventful week as I finally got my run-riot profile up and... well; running. When, at the beginning of the week I randomly bumped into fellow Zimbabwean Ryan Koriya from the band Mann Friday busking at Liverpool St Station I knew it was going to be an interesting week. Had new year's plans come to fruition I might have been writing about a protest birthday party I was conceiving for ageing president Mugabe on the Feb 21st, but somehow time ran away from me in that stressful period trying to regain control of my life after the holiday festivities. I drifted about for much of the week in a pensive and melancholic mood about this missed opportunity for revelry but then I thought: he doesn't really deserve a party anyway!

Sabatta and Tamar Kali.
On Wednesday, I headed down to the Rhythm Factory to see Sabatta, one of the as yet undiscovered gems of London's ever changing rock scene. The 3-piece were warming up a sparse crowd for an unofficial 'Afro-punk' night, and as ever, front man Yinka was all over the stage with inspired, catchy guitar riffs. Sabatta's sound comes from a magical land where Jimi Hendrix, Metallica and Lenny Kravitz all live together in a shitty council flat plotting rebellion, although their punk edge is more energy than anger. Old favourites like 'Guillotine' and 'Princess' still rock, but the band also treated the appreciative few to a couple of songs from their forthcoming album 'Emperor's new Clothes', just in case anyone was under the illusion that their song-writing talents were drying up. Sabatta kept the energy up through-out their set and ended on a high with a rare cover of 'Ace of Spades': a shirtless Yinka leaping of the stage into the crowd before making way for the headlining Tamar Kali.

After the raw energy of Sabatta's set, Tamar seemed a bit lacklustre to begin with – perhaps a bit of jet-lag after the flight from New York or perhaps a twinge of disappointment that the 'Afro-rock' scene has not yet really caught on in London. The rhythm section of the five piece was for a while the most engaging and I was just thinking to myself that I might have already seen the best performance of the night, and perhaps I should finish my beer and wander home, when the band decided to step it up a gear. A powerful rendition of 'boot' from the original soundtrack of the 'Afro-punk' film heralded a much more spunky second-half of the set. Energetic, up-tempo rhythms; simple, meaty guitar licks; and Tamar's soulful voice piercing through it all. Each song seemed to pick up where the last left off and then draw the crowd a little further in. Indeed, by the end of their set, Tamar might easily have been performing to a packed Wembley, rather than to this small gathering in Whitechapel. She gave the crowd all she had, in a moment shapeshifting from tattooed punk, to bum-wiggling African diva, to soul queen and back. We were moved.

The Shrine
On Saturday I hit the Notting Hill Arts Club for a party with The Shrine who were test-driving the venue which may well be their new regular home. The Shrine takes it's name from the legendary Fela Kuti Club in Lagos, Nigeria. I was a bit perturbed when I arrived, that the bouncers were demanding ID from everybody (not just those blessed with youthful features). I'm still not entirely happy about the idea: it just strikes me somehow as yet another step in the curtailing of our freedoms and it will make me think twice before venturing out of my coveted East End again. Luckily, the doormen mistook me and my pirate accomplice for more law abiding fellows and let us in anyway. Hoo-rah!

The African Soul Drummers were the highlight for me. An impressive duo: hypnotic high-speed percussion on three drums each, building up with freestyle solos and climaxing in tight thought-out crescendos. Emphatic applause from the crowd for each of their three performances during the night built up as more and more people filtered into the venue. In-between, the Djs took us on an educated tour on Africa, music from Lagos to Cairo to Johannesburg; floor-fillers I last heard in clubs in my native Zimbabwe, and this London crowd lapped it up in just the same way. There was also some advertised performance poetry, although I wasn't sure if we arrived too late to catch it or perhaps left to early. With only a couple of pounds in my pocket, once the time had gone midnight, I became Cinderella - mindful of catching the last tube eastwards not wanting to get caught on the wrong side of town at the mercy of the night-buses. And so we reluctantly left West London, but somehow I think that next time, armed with more pieces of eight, the allure of the party might not let up as easily.