65. Remembering Dipo Shodipo, OG of One Man Bands

On Pope's folk songs, blues, soul, highlife, juju & gospel

When I wrote this article four years ago, it was out of a necessity to fill a lacuna. Dipo Shodipo, a talented musician whose fusion of folk songs, native blues, highlife, juju and a smidgen of gospel was celebrated in the 90s, did not have a decent online profile. I rectified that to the best of my ability. What happened next was shocking. That single piece of writing has been serially plagiarised. Like clockwork twice yearly, I am drawn to a Facebook debate regarding the article’s author. Publishing it here is partly asserting my moral rights as the author, but also, it is an act of generosity to share this fine musician with a new, hopefully receptive audience.

His baritone was like no other. Deep, obviously. Rumbling and tightly controlled so that he could thin it out into a lacquered tenor or hollow it out for a deeper booming texture.

His name was Dipo Sodipo. His sobriquets were numerous, but the Pope stuck harder. Also, you can call him the Czar of the One-Man Band, a popular fixture of the Yoruba music scene in the late 80s and 90s. You could take the One-Man Band’s origin story further down memory lane. Past minstrels and griots. Past Kokoro, Julius Domingo, Irewole Denge.

In the 1980s, the shrinking of bands could have been an economic response to austerity that did not exclude the music scene, but one-man bands demanded an ambidexterity the likes of Pope handled effortlessly. To hold a note on a microphone and hoist a piano chord simultaneously is the stuff of genius.

Usually, a pre-programmed rhythm runs amok on his keyboard. Then he gives chase with his vocals, punctuating with piano keys. He allows a flourish of complicated piano chords every so often—but this technical verbiage hardly accounts for how well-rendered his music is.

Before Wizkid and Lax rendered the femme fatale Caro, Dipo Shodipo had updated the fair-skinned lady who may (or may not) have been the subject of Rex Lawson’s soulful Yellow Sisi.

Everyone remembers the first time they heard Dipo Shodipo. Mine was circa 2004. Travelling at top speed in my cousin’s car on Road 1, OAU Campus, Ile-Ife. Windows down, the wind rush competed with his booming baritone because Seun Elemo drove like a daredevil. The song was ‘Mowo Kuro Leran’, a slightly up-tempo ditty about living in the moment.

The music felt unmistakably atmospheric and claustrophobic at the same time. The programmed rhythm running amok as always. At this time, the Pope had died. The circumstances of his passing are questionable, as it is customary for early deaths. Was it a kidney ailment? Did he live on the edge? Did he give himself to alcohol and other potent poisons?

As with unsung legends, Dipo Sodipo still draws blanks on the internet. There is hardly a biography extending beyond a paragraph. The gist of his public life is that he was a keyboardist and vocalist. He was known to be a renegade highlife musician. I wonder if you can call his music highlife. It feels like a fusion of folk songs, blues, soul, highlife, juju music and a recourse to gospel every so often.

The philosophy imbued in his practice is that of the Yoruba everyman whose worldview is to attempt to be good whilst not harming others. Throw in a good time—and you will understand why Dipo Shodipo was a keggite, that youthful group invested in mirth-making and palmwine drinking.

He was said to have formed another group called Basillica which, unlike Keggites, made a cocktail of beer and palmwine. Perhaps his nickname Pope is a consequence of the Basilica. Dipo Sodipo seemed to have been physically present in Ibadan in the 80s, where he studied music and became the Head of Department at The Polytechnic, Ibadan. He was also the lead singer of K12 Voices before he broke out alone as a one-man act.

He belted out memorable medleys like the soulful ‘Iya ni wura’, the livelier ‘Jekowo Wole Mi’, and the cautionary ‘Bola Bade’. Running through all his songs, besides his light sermonising, is a social commentary that aligns both with the Yoruba worldview and urgent contemporary realities.

Might I add that Dipo Shodipo’s cult fame was smack in the middle of one of Nigeria’s most devastating streaks of military rule? At a time when even the vivacious party-loving essence of the Yoruba was threatened by widespread insecurity and a struggling economy—Pope was a fixture of Abeokuta parties. Being an Egba man, he was loved at home and abroad. By abroad, I am referring to the sleepy university town of Ado-Ekiti, where a certain medical doctor, wading through a painful marital separation, found succour in the soulful songs of Dipo Shodipo some thirty years ago. By abroad, I am referring to the busy city of London, from where I write, a YouTube playlist of his songs playing in the background.

Decades after his passing, Dipo Shodipo’s music remains relevant to his growing fan base. Listen here.