Bikôkô

[07:00–09:30] GET UP

Playing: ‘Rise’, Solange

I’ve only spent a few summers visiting relatives in Paris. My father was born in Cameroon but moved to France when he was very young. Before I was born, he and my mother came to Barcelona, where I’ve spent most of my life. When I moved to New York for a few months in September 2019, it was the first time I’d ever lived on my own. Until then, I’d followed the student routine. It was clear to me that I wanted to dedicate myself to music, but I always cared about getting good grades, so I spent a lot of time studying.

Exactly! I was finishing the last year of a double diploma: the French high school baccalaureate and the Spanish technological baccalaureate.

Yes, no one expects it, but I love maths. It’s very precise. Whenever I see an equation I know there’s an answer. My mind is all over the place, and the exercises helped me focus.

Maybe insofar as I easily discover the rhythm and metre of songs, but I don’t enjoy writing lyrics as much; I prefer if they come out naturally. Music has always communicated more to me through other elements. I can listen to songs in languages that I don’t understand or instrumental jazz pieces. I love melodies, harmonies, and rhythm much more than the textual code.

It was tough, because it was clear to me that I wanted to dedicate myself to music, but I also wanted to make an effort at school. I decided that once I was done I would go to New York, because most of my influences are from the US. I was driven by the urge to finish and be free to configure my own routine. But when I got to New York I thought, ‘Where do I start?’ I’d worked as a model since I was 16 to be able to save for the trip. So once there, I’d leave the house as early as possible to get to know the city, check out exhibitions, concerts. I took piano lessons. I’d spend the whole day out and enjoyed it a lot; those were three very intense months. But just when it started to become familiar, my visa ran out and I had to come back.

[09:30–14:00] I KNOW

Playing: ‘Hey Ya!’, Outkast

I decided to go to London to study music, but the pandemic started and I had to confine myself here, at home. The lockdown was a transformative moment. I began my music project in New York but hadn’t found the space or inspiration to keep going. I’d romanticised work and having a very active life. With the lockdown I found the time I needed to dedicate myself to it. I produced, recorded, and finished my EP in lockdown.

Inspiration comes to me when I practise; ideas can even come from mistakes. My dad showed me a sound library called West Africa that works with recordings of real African percussion, and I was able to replicate the rhythms on my keyboard. I’ve also learnt to give myself down time, with nothing to do. The brain needs space to generate ideas. We stimulate our senses all day and go to bed without having had a single moment without mental occupation. Getting bored is frowned upon, as if it’s something unproductive.

Totally, and even more so during lockdown!

No, this house is full of noise. You can hear the construction work, the tourists, the protests, the drunk people. Every time I start recording I feel interrupted; the sounds filter through. It’s most noticeable on ‘Stolen’. When I recorded it, the windows were open because of the heat; you can hear a car go by, people singing. I hear it a lot on the last track, but no one else notices it.

[14:00–19:00] FEEL LIKE

Playing: ‘On & On’, Erykah Badu

I only use the guitar to accompany my voice with a few chords; I don’t consider it my instrument. The piano is more intuitive to me because you can see the notes and semitones. My first instrument was the voice, the one that made me realise I like music and with which I express myself in a genuine way. I started the djembe last year when my father gave me one for my birthday. The djembe has three tones—the treble or slap, the tone or mid, and the bass or low end—and they have the peculiarity that they can all be sung. It’s a language of its own.

Exactly. Originally, the drum rhythms were calls to notify the village and accompany people in their activities. For example, the Kassa call from Ghana is for the harvest and it was played while that action was being performed, to maintain the rhythm. Births, weddings, funerals all have their specific rhythms.

It’s one of the traditional African techniques that storytellers adapted to capture the audience’s attention. The first time I heard it was when my aunt told me the tale of the mosquito and the eardrum, which opens and closes the EP.

I asked her to send me an audio message via WhatsApp; it was very organic and DIY. It’s about an eardrum and a mosquito that share a palm oil plantation. The eardrum steals it and hides in a person’s ear; the mosquito searches for it for the rest of eternity, and that’s why we always hear the buzzing of mosquitoes close to our ears. Ear wax is the stolen palm oil, leaking from our ears.

[19:00–21:00] BIKÔKÔ

Playing: ‘Kalabancoro’, Richard Bona

Yes, I think that’s happening. We’ve been restricted by very strong genres for a long time, and this generation takes a little of each to create something new—in my case, from traditional music to pop or digital production. I’ve been labelled neo-R&B, which is what I’ve listened to the most, but I feel like there’s more to it.

Not for now, but one of my biggest influences is Fela Kuti, who, along with being a musician, was also a revolutionary. When he released his album Zombie in 1977, the Nigerian government sent the army to his house to arrest him. From him I’ve learnt how a society can be organised through music. After Nigeria became independent, the government was left with complete control of the country’s wealth. Unfortunately, the people who’d been slaves continued to be deprived of it.

[21:00–00:00] STOLEN

Playing: ‘Stand Still’, Sabrina Claudio

My father’s been a huge influence, not only because we share a profession, but because of his life maxims. He always tells me not to stress out, that it’s useless. People think that by having a musician father everything’s set, but I’ve gone through my own process and produced and recorded myself.

You have to learn it too. My dad plays bass in my live shows now, which is a coincidence because the bassist I’d contacted couldn’t come. He offered to accompany me and my djembe teachers. It helped, because even though I was clear about how I wanted to prepare the live set, I’m not used to playing live. For my first concert, he helped me structure the songs and make them more dynamic and intuitive for the rest of the musicians. He taught me to understand how they worked and how to hold the audience’s attention. But I would’ve loved for him to be a part of the audience and enjoy everything I’d prepared on my own.

[00:00–07:00] NIGHT

Playing: ‘Sing to the Moon’, Laura Mvula

I’ve never figured out why I was so afraid of it, maybe because I’d realise that singing wasn’t my thing. If I didn’t sing in front of other people, no one could tell me that I wasn’t good at it. But even if I like maths, I can’t imagine dedicating myself to anything other than music. 

Yes and no. Neï has accompanied me from birth and is more difficult to explain because you can’t describe a person through attributes alone. She’s a more dispersed entity. Bikôkô is the part of me reserved for artistic creation. Within that, there’s a phase where I actively search for a sound and record it, but in every song there’s also a moment when I stop thinking and the subconscious comes into play. The ideas come out on their own, as if the songs were already made in my head, and my body were just the vehicle through which they come out. That part of me is Bikôkô.