Between Here and There: Mr Raoul K

The old lady of Africa gazed out of her son’s window, and her verdict was hard. In front of her laid a German neighborhood of 19th century blocks – green, quiet and neat. She was standing in a cozy flat with wooden floors and gentle colors. But somehow the old lady felt, while staring out the window, like she was in a prison. How could her son live in a place like this? Behind closed windows and doors, having no contact with his neighbors. The streets were devoid of human beings, inhabited only by gardens, trees and parked cars.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise. There could hardly be more of a contrast between Lübeck, where the lady visited her son, a picturesque city with little more than 200,000 inhabitants, and her home, Abidjan, metropolis of the République de Côte d’Ivoire in West Africa, twenty times as big as Lübeck and twice as densely populated, a cacophony of noises and prone to a crushingly hot dampness. You have to look hard to see any resemblance between the cities. Maybe rain? It isn’t an uncommon occurrence here and there. However, the rain at the Gulf of Guinea has a tropical warmth, whereas the German Baltic seashore creates cool drizzles.

But what could she do? Her son arrived in Lübeck 20 years ago, and he wasn’t leaving soon. So she came to see if everything was still fine. Upon his birth in 1976 in the French-speaking Côte d’Ivoire, she gave him the name of Konan N’da Kouassi Raoul. In Europe, he is referred to as Raoul Konan. Or, more briefly, Mr. Raoul K. For the last few years, this Ivorian-born man has been releasing deeply rooted house music whose soul originates from the true birthplace of dance music. It’s a seemingly obvious connection, but mastered by few people as coherently. Exoticism is as far away from Mr. Raoul K. as is the distance between Abidjan and Lübeck.

Nevertheless, or maybe because of all this, he is a unique entity within the world of dance music. His house tracks are loved by the real connoisseurs – but, then again, mostly only by them. He might be a professional DJ and producer, but is certainly no scenester. He has been remixed by house legends like Ron Trent and Joe Claussell, but for a long time he did not even have proper management. All his activities are directed from Lübeck, on the edge of Germany, where he had landed at some point because of a woman and where he now lives with his 13-year-old son, who is still finishing school.

In some ways Raoul does love the isolation and the concentration it affords, calmly and steadily working from the outskirts. “Let us chat,” he says while sitting down in his living room kitchen. He pronounces this in a mix of North German twang and an Ivorian accent. His voice is a truly hybrid composition of local dialect and an imported accent that postmodern migration movements are now producing all over the world. But let us start from the beginning.

On their own

Raoul Konan was only sixteen in 1992 when he and his twin brother Modeste arrived in Germany as an asylum seeker. Both brothers were born in Agboville, a city of 200,000, where their father had lifted the family to the middle class with his job as a teacher. But the brothers had aspirations to become professional soccer players, so as 12-year-olds they decided to move on their own eighty kilometers south to the huge harbor city of Abidjan, where the biggest soccer clubs of the country were based.

Their home country Côte d’Ivoire, which officially rejects being called “Ivory Coast” (hence the French here), had for decades lived well off the export of cacao, coffee, pineapple and palm oil as main sources of income. As Francophone Africa’s economic powerhouse in the ’60s and ’70s, it attracted foreign workers from surrounding countries like Burkina Faso, Mali and Guinea. But in the early ’90s President Félix Houphouët-Boigny, who had ruled the country since its independence, became ill and weak, his power crumbled, and unrest was in the air with schools and shops closed. One of Raoul’s older brothers, who accidentally had ended up in Germany, booked flights for both twin brothers. A journey into the unknown: they landed in Hamburg and it was cold, repudiating, strange. “We didn’t know anything about this country when we arrived here,” Raoul remembers.

That changed the day Raoul and his twin brother hung out in front of Hamburg’s city hall, wearing identical clothes and haircuts. They met an elderly academic couple, an architect and a French teacher, who wanted to take a picture of these cute African kids. A brief conversation (in French) followed. Finally somebody to talk to for the boys who did not speak a single word of German! The couple offered to bring copies of the photos, so the boys gave them their home address: the refugee center of Hamburg-Ohlsdorf. “When they arrived there they were appalled and wanted to get us out of there immediately,” says Raoul. In the center, children were living with adults in one room, mostly surrounded by suspicious types. Drugs circulated. Urged on by the elderly couple, the Konan twins moved to a location where they were taken care of and educated, and started going to school and learning German.

But at some point, the twins got on the wrong foot with the couple. They came a full hour late for appointments, they hid the woman’s homemade cake under the couple’s sofa because they did not like it, things like that. “It wasn’t that we didn’t want to give them our love,” says Raoul, “but we just were still too much African. We couldn’t place ourselves in their situation, cultural values and troubles.” After a while, the relationship with their quasi-foster parents ended, though nowadays they are in contact again. “We were very lucky to have them,” Raoul states about the elderly couple.

One week after his arrival in Hamburg Raoul had already found a girlfriend, a German woman. Five years later, they married and he finally was allowed to stay and look for work, which, absurdly enough, is illegal for asylum seekers in Germany. His new in-laws told him that he needed to learn a craft in order to be part of the local culture, so in 1998 Raoul began a professional education to become a carpenter. Meanwhile, he kept playing soccer and was discovered by a talent scout during a tournament, leading him to play at the highest amateur level in Germany for provincial clubs like Eichholzer SV, VfL Oldesloe and Concordia Hamburg. Unfortunately, a series of knee injures led him to quit. But he then proceeded to play with local smaller clubs, the deal being if they arranged a job for him as a carpenter, he would play for the club. In this way Konan integrated himself into the North German countryside. Shortly after divorcing his wife, he met the future mother of his son, the reason why he moved to Lübeck, of all places, in 1998.

The next reincarnation

In 1998 Konan’s girlfriend took him to the famous Love Parade in Berlin, his first contact with electronic music. “It felt really good,” states Konan. “Not directly because of the music, but because everybody was in such a good mood, because of the amazing and friendly atmosphere. That was the moment when I said I wanted to do the same thing. I wanted to become a DJ.” This raised eyebrows from his girlfriend, but nevertheless Raoul bought his first turntables, a mixer and some house records. While working as a carpenter during the day, he took his first steps as a DJ at Lübeck’s mainstream disco, Red Zone. He also interned in a studio to learn the skills of a musical engineer.

“That is when I started to produce my own tracks,” Konan says in his kitchen/living room. “But my first productions sounded really general, really ordinary. Not bad, but also nothing special.” But where would he find anything special? He decided to fly back to Abidjan, record some African instruments there, and incorporate these into his productions. The journey did not quite go as planned: the locals stripped him financially almost like he was an unsuspecting European. He had paid for the studio and some local musicians, but was delayed several times, and at the end of the trip travelled back to Germany without having accomplished anything. But on the plane back home he decided to try it a second time. Labeled as fool by his girlfriend, Konan still went back, and this time he pulled it off. Motivated by a headstrong belief in his own capabilities and a calm, balanced, convincing self-awareness, he started the career which persists to this day.

In 2008 Mr. Raoul K released his first EP, Le Cercle Peul, named after the Peul people, also known as Fulbe or Fulani, from whose culture he borrowed instruments and melodies. Raoul now releases on his freshly established record label, Baobab, the name derived from the monkey-bread tree: source of water, food and shade all over sub-Saharan Africa. The first edition was 500 EPs, all pressed without any sales organization or entrepreneurial knowledge, leading to the records gathering dust in his flat for almost half a year. But then, his favorite record store in Hamburg, Underground Solution, gave him the opportunity to place a few copies in their crates. After only three weeks all of them were sold and he pressed three more batches of the EP. Following this success were releases on famous labels like the legendary Still Music from Chicago or Mule Music from Japan, where his debut album Introducing My World was released in 2011. Then everything moved quickly, with his third album Still Living In Slavery released in 2014.

Throughout all these releases Konan’s music displayed a distinct progression: further and further away from the European and American sound and away from established house music rules, back to Africa and out into open waters. For example, Konan turns down the bass kick in his productions further and further, filling the gap with sounds he records in Abidjan but without stepping into, as he puts it, “neocolonialist-folkloristic traps.” There's no kitsch, no simple “Afro House” with ornaments draped over a bass kick. It's electronic music that sounds deeply rooted in West African sounds and rhythms, particularly the northern parts of West Africa. Even more than in Côte d’Ivoire, Raoul finds sounds and inspiration north of it in Mali. One of his brothers once had a girlfriend from that region and she regularly brought around her cassette tapes, so the local music from there imprinted Konan at a young age: classics like Salif Keita, Ali Farka Touré, and Toumani Diabaté.

Today, the West Côte d’Ivoire is mainly known for Coupé-Décalé, a terrific spat out hybrid hip hop style with flamboyant bling-bling rappers bragging about the large amounts of money they obtain from Europe through fraud, allegedly. It's a bizarre mirroring of Konan, the returnee from Europe, being ripped off by local musicians in Abidjan during his first studio session there. On his second album, Mande, Konan included a Coupé-Décalé track, just for fun. But all in all, Raoul thinks that Côte d’Ivoire’s most popular musical export substantially lacks quality and is too cheap and cheesy.

In the attic

Raoul produces his music in a small studio located in the attic of the house with his apartment, where his mother had once felt like she was in a prison. Up some wooden stairs, he passes through a room with washing lines before entering a small space with red carpet and brown wood. It’s screaming hot in summer and bitter cold in winter. In the middle of the room, an old computer is set up with a mixer and some synthesizers, surrounded by West African instruments like a water drum, Koras, Mbiras, Sekeres and five Balafons. Konan knows the basics of how to play these instruments, but when more difficult parts have to be recorded he calls in the help of musicians from Abidjan. Unfortunately, his former musical contact there has fallen off the map during his refugee journey to Europe. According to the latest information he must be somewhere in Greece by now.

These days Raoul is extremely busy reworking traditional Japanese music together with his kindred spirit, Kuniyuki Takahashi of Mule Music, as well as fellow producer Kaito of Kompakt. Raoul feels classical Japanese instruments are soulmates of those from West Africa. Also, Raoul is making plans to create a live show around his compositions, looking towards jazz festivals more than house parties. Unfortunately, African musicians who are able to afford rehearsing extensively for a few months before fees come in are rare in Germany. Raoul is also planning collaborations with Oumou Sangaré and Fatoumata Diawara, singers from Mali who are very successful at “world music” festivals in Europe. “I am just starting,” Raoul says. “There’s still a lot to do.”

Of course, Raoul is also a DJ, travelling from Amsterdam to Paris, from Berlin to Greece, a vinyl purist. Though Raoul regularly shows up at these gigs in traditional Ivorian dresses, he also to play straightforward Berghain techno, a visual and sonic combination that might shatter some audience prejudice. To further his DJ career Raoul even gave up his nationality in 1997. “I became a German as soon as I knew that my career would cross international borders,” he says. A Schengen passport is beneficial, even though he would have loved to keep his Ivorian one. But the German national citizen law demands unambiguousness – which in reality, of course, does not exist.

“In my heart I am still Ivorian,” Raoul emphasizes, “But at the same time I have become quite German, so by now I’m keeping an eye on the clock when I have an appointment.” It's no big surprise considering he has spent more than half of his life in Germany. Similarly, his music is caught between two countries. A European might think it sounds “African,” but to his relatives in Abidjan it sounds too machine-like, too “Western.” “But what am I supposed to do then?” Raoul asks with a grin on his face: “My education is that of a house musician.”

Raoul’s twin brother Modeste had been trained as a bricklayer in Germany but returned to Africa to build his own house in Abidjan. For the first time in their lives the twin brothers are separated. Modeste wanted to take care of relatives in Abidjan, ever since their father lost his life during the last civil war. Heavy conflicts had arisen between the sitting president Laurent Gbagbo, currently being charged by the International Criminal Court in the Netherlands, and the opposition represented by Alassane Ouattara. Rebels had accused their father of hiding weapons. The old man was sick, and he was unable to get the medicine he needed. The fighters beat him heavily, and he died of the consequences.

Since the death of his father, Raoul has not returned to Côte d’Ivoire. Sometimes he misses it. When he wants to have a break in the studio on a Saturday night, in the mood for a beer, he often does not know where to go in Lübeck. “In Africa everyone is always outside,” he says. Missing this African togetherness, he sees himself living back in Africa again together with his current girlfriend one day. Mali, maybe, or Mozambique? Living there is less expensive, the vibes are more relaxed and soul is a common good among everyone. Cliché, but true.

On the other hand, Raoul might not be able to leave Germany as easily as he thinks. He has planted roots after all these years. He raves over how beautiful the Baltic Sea beaches are in summer, and talks about his son being courted by the professional German soccer club HSV. Also, Raoul is working as a youth-trainer at the long established local soccer club. It was another training day. So house producer Raoul quickly put on his training jacket with the soccer club’s name embroidered in traditional Gothic print. Waving the dreadlocks out of his face and giving a last warm hug, he disappeared in the heavy North German mist towards the old Lübecker Lohmühle stadium.

This article first appeared in Spex Magazine #361, May/June 2015; Translation: Rik Jacobs + Florian Sievers; Photos by Katja Ruge