Cape Verde, the 10-island archipelago off the coast of Senegal, is a melting pot of contradictions — common in territories with a legacy of slavery. The site of Africa’s first colonial outpost in 1462, the islands are an intriguing mix of Portuguese and West African musical styles, which singer Lura carries in her bloodlines.
“I was born in Portugal, but my parents are from Cape Verde and we have had no problem fitting in,” says Lura, alluding to the subservient relationship immigrants still share with their erstwhile slave masters. “My parents taught me to speak proper Portuguese and we’ve never really been unwelcome. It’s home more or less.” The subtext of her statement is later decoded for me by photographer Oscar Gutierrez, who was translating our phone conversation. Her parents’ attitude, he says, was more or less: “We’re here now. This is how we must behave, but we must never ever forget that we’re Africans.”
While her language was expected to be prim and proper at home, Lura picked up Kriolu from her friends at school and continues to sing in the dialect today. “My influences are the lifestyle I live and that is how it comes out in the music. The people I socialise with and my parents are also an influence. They are of Cape Verdean roots and they have cherished those.”
Because of Cape Verde’s erratic weather patterns and numerous droughts, its economy is dependent on the services industry and most of the population has settled in immigrant communities in countries such as the United States, Italy, France, Wales, The Netherlands and, of course, Portugal. Issues of migration and famine feature in most folk songs and, not least, in her own oeuvre. “I sing a lot about immigration,” she says. “People leaving their country and their parents waiting for letters from their children, wanting to know if they are fine. It’s deeply rooted in local culture and I wanted to bring that into the music.”
There is a joke about how you can always spot those going to Cape Verde at the airport because they pack the most luggage — and all of it is letters. Another peculiar, topical song off her most recent release is Vazulina, about the amounts of petroleum jelly some people go through to straighten their hair.
Lura’s most recent release, entitled Di Korpu ku Alma, is perhaps the most realised fusion of her earlier pop sensibilities with the traditional accordion-based funana beats and the feminine, polyrhythmic batuku rhythms of Santiago, her father’s home island. Whereas she had dabbled in dancefloor-friendly zouk music and R&B in the past, she has used the album “to bring back the classic Cape Verdean music that has been forgotten”.
Towards this end, she enlisted former Cesaria Evoria collaborator, pianist Toy Vieira, to direct her touring band, which has burned up lots of rubber lately.
Lura, who will be part of a special double bill celebrating National Women’s Day at the Bassline tomorrow, admits that she only knows as much as the next person about apartheid, but is acutely aware of her role and position in society as a woman. “Women are still held back in many ways and I’m always aware of how we have to produce music that fits the sex agenda,” she says.
“I still feel targeted and I’m always wary of intentions of men (in the industry). While I’m sensitive, I’m sensible about my femininity. As a woman, I have to be capable and make things happen on my own for people to respect me for my achievements.”
Lura performs with Busi Mlhongo at the Bassline, Johannesburg, on August 5