From the 40s to the 80s, bands were the backbone of popular African music. From Mali’s Super Eagles to Congo’s TP OK Jazz, from Ghana’s highlife orchestras to Nigeria’s funk, rock, and juju bands, music was a collective affair. Songs were shaped in rehearsal rooms, refined on stage, and powered by the chemistry between drummers, horn sections, guitarists, singers, and bandleaders. The band was not just a sound; it was an institution.

Fast forward to today, and the music landscape looks very different. African music is now dominated by solo stars, digital production, and laptop-driven creativity. One producer, one vocalist, one viral hit. Bands, once central to the scene, now feel like a nostalgic footnote. This raises an important question: Is there still hope for African music bands?

The decline of bands is not unique to Africa, but the impact is sharp. Economic realities matter. Bands are expensive—rehearsals, transport, equipment, and divided fees make bands harder to sustain than solo acts. With streaming revenues low and live income unpredictable, simplicity prevails.

Technology has also changed creativity. Digital audio workstations let one person do what whole ensembles did. Drum machines replaced percussion. Synths replaced horns. Studios replaced bandstands. For young artists, going solo often feels faster and more practical.

There is also a shift in the star system. The modern music economy rewards personality and individual branding. Algorithms, social media, and endorsements are built around faces, not collectives. It is easier to market one star than seven band members.

Yet something important was lost in the transition. Bands brought depth and musical conversation. They allowed African music to stretch, improvise, and evolve over long performances. Genres like highlife, soukous, afrobeat, and ethio-jazz were band-driven by nature. They thrived on call-and-response, layered rhythms, and live interplay.

Bands also functioned as training grounds. Many legendary solo artists honed their craft within bands, refining their skills night after night on stage. Without bands, younger musicians often miss out on that apprenticeship model. Culturally, bands reflected the community. African music has always been social, rooted in collective expression rather than individual genius. Bands embodied that philosophy.

Despite the challenges, bands are not entirely gone. They have simply moved to the margins. Across cities like Lagos, Nairobi, Accra, Addis Ababa, Johannesburg, and Dakar, live music venues, parties, jazz clubs, alternative festivals, and university scenes are quietly keeping band culture alive.

Afrobeats itself still depends on bands in live settings. When music stars tour, they rely on tight live bands to translate studio hits into powerful performances. Genres like afro-jazz, neo-soul, alternative R&B, and fusion are increasingly band-oriented, appealing to audiences craving musical richness beyond programmed beats.

There is also growing global interest in authenticity and live sound. International audiences are discovering archival African band music from the 60s and 70s through reissues and documentaries. This renewed appreciation creates space for contemporary bands to position themselves as modern heirs to that legacy.

For bands to truly return, the ecosystem must evolve. Venues that support live music are essential. Media platforms need to spotlight bands, not just solo stars. Streaming services and playlists should create room for live recordings and band-driven genres. Music education and funding programs can help reduce the financial burden of sustaining collectives.

Most importantly, audiences need to show up. Bands thrive in rooms, not just on screens. Their power is felt live, where sweat, sound, and spontaneity meet.

Yes, there is hope, but it will not look like the past. The era of bands dominating mainstream charts may be gone, but bands can still play a vital role in shaping Africa’s musical future. They may exist alongside solo stars rather than replacing them. They may be smaller, more flexible, and more genre-fluid, but their value remains undeniable.

Bands remind us that African music is more than hits and streams. It is conversation, collaboration, and community. As long as there are musicians who want to play together, and listeners who want to feel that energy, there will always be hope for bands in African music.

If African music had a personality, it would not be a single character. It would be a gathering.

It would arrive loud, yes, but also knowing when to listen. It would dance effortlessly between joy and grief, sacred and secular, the past and the present. It would laugh easily, remember deeply, and never fully explain itself, because some things are meant to be felt, not translated.

African music would be communal at heart. It would never walk alone. Even in solo performances, there would be ancestors in the room, neighbours in the chorus, and histories echoing beneath every note. Call-and-response would not be a technique, but a way of life. A reminder that sound is conversation, not declaration.

It would be rhythm-forward, but not rhythm-obsessed. Percussion would matter, but so would silence. So would melody, storytelling, texture, and tone. African music’s personality would resist simplification. It would gently correct anyone who assumed it was only about drums.

It would be adaptive. Curious. Unafraid of change. From desert blues to highlife, from taarab to Afrobeats, from spiritual chants to club anthems, African music would borrow, remix, absorb, and reinvent without apology. It would understand that tradition is not the opposite of innovation, but its foundation.

Emotionally, African music would be honest. It would cry without shame. Celebrate without restraint. Mourn collectively. Love publicly. Protest musically. It would know that music is not an escape from life, but a way of surviving it.

And above all, African music would be generous. It would share itself freely with the world, even when the world misunderstood it, renamed it, or claimed it. Still, it would continue to give, trusting that those who truly listen will hear its depth.

If African music had a personality, it would be resilient, complex, playful, spiritual, and unapologetically alive.

And it would still be dancing.

Welcome to 2026!

We made it and crossed over together. With great joy and enthusiasm, we say welcome to another African-music-themed year.

We made wonderful memories in 2025 through your sharing, liking, restacking, and subscribing to our newsletter. Thank you for your trust and support—it means the world to us, and you are truly special to us.

Come along, sit tight, and buckle up as we explore the world of African music together in 2026.

Thank You for Being Part of the Library

If 2025 was an amazing year for the African Music Library, it’s because you showed up.

Your unwavering support via every like, restack, follow, view, and the time you spent reading and engaging with our work, made this year musically rich and deeply rewarding. We are truly grateful.

Here are some of the posts that resonated most with you:

The African Music Genre You’ve Never Heard of (But Should) - Topping the list was our spotlight on a little-known genre from Tanzania in East Africa. Your curiosity and enthusiasm for uncovering overlooked sounds reminded us why documenting and sharing African music histories matters.

A Journey Through African Music History - In celebration of Fela Kuti’s 87th posthumous birthday, we revisited his seminal 1976 album Zombie. The piece reflected on Fela’s enduring political influence and the album’s lasting place in African and global music history.

Which African Country Produces the Best Music? - This conversation sparked lively debate. We explored musical expressions across West, East, Central, Southern, and North Africa — and ultimately refused to crown a winner. Each region, shaped by its people and histories, offers distinct and invaluable contributions.

The Greatest African Song Ever Is… Could such a thing even be decided? This post examined what “greatness” in music might mean: cultural impact, artistic innovation, political significance, commercial success, artist persona, or perhaps something far more personal — emotional resonance.

The Lijadu Sisters - We also revisited the story of the Lijadu Sisters, Nigerian twins from a generation that didn’t wait for the world’s permission to create. Though they no longer stand on stage, their music continues to travel, speak, and inspire.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and growing with us.

For more stories, archives, and explorations, please visit our homepage.

It is commonly said that most ethnic groups in Africa have patriarchal structures. However, there are notable exceptions, including the Bijagó people off the coast of Guinea-Bissau, the Akan communities in southern and central Ghana, Côte d’Ivoire, and Togo, as well as the ancient Kingdom of Kush, which is located in present-day northern Sudan and southern Egypt. These patriarchal structures have shaped many aspects of life, including music.

Across the continent, several instruments have been historically reserved for men. In Kenya, the nyatiti was strictly played by the male gender until Anyango (Eriko Mukoyama), a female Japanese player, famously broke a tradition thousands of years old. We also saw the beautiful 21-string Kora, which is predominant among the griot families of the Mandinka people in countries like Mali, Senegal, and Gambia, being passed down from father to son. There’s also the Kakaki, historically linked to the Songhai cavalry and now predominant in the Northern part of Nigeria, Chad, Sudan, Burkina Faso, Benin, and Niger. It is still associated with royal courts and praise singing for emirs and sultans.

Why then were women excluded from playing some instruments, and why are we seeing more acceptance today?

The reasons are deeply rooted in traditional belief systems and social structures. Many of these instruments held sacred or ceremonial significance, often tied to male initiation rites, warrior traditions, or political authority. The nyatiti, for example, was believed to carry spiritual power that only men could handle. The Kora’s restriction within griot lineages wasn’t just about gender; it was about preserving family secrets, musical techniques, and the oral histories passed through patrilineal inheritance. The Kakaki’s association with military prowess and royal courts made it a symbol of male power and political hierarchy.

There were also practical considerations embedded in these traditions. Since many of these instruments were played in public spaces, royal courts, or battlefields (domains controlled by men), women’s exclusion became normalized over centuries and hardened into prohibitions. Some communities believed that women playing certain instruments could bring misfortune or that the physical demands of instruments like the Kakaki were unsuitable for women.

But times are changing, and the acceptance we’re seeing now comes from multiple directions. Globalization and education have challenged rigid gender roles, while urbanization has weakened some traditional strictures. Women musicians have boldly challenged these barriers, such as Anyango and Atisana (also known as Jennifer Atieno), who not only learned to play the nyatiti but also mastered it, earning respect in the process. We’re also seeing more women Kora players, such as Sona Jobarteh, Guylene Solon, Kandia Kouyaté, and Zena Carlota, emerging, while younger generations are beginning to question why gender should determine musical expression.

Organizations that seek to promote cultural preservation now recognize that excluding half the population from musical traditions poses a significant threat to the survival of those traditions. And perhaps most importantly, audiences (both African and global) have shown they care more about the beauty and skill of the music than the gender of the person playing it.

The acceptance isn’t universal or complete, and resistance still exists in many communities. But the conversation has shifted from “women can’t” to “why shouldn’t they?” And that shift, however gradual, is opening doors that were closed for millennia.