The Influence of African Music on Global Genres
If music were a tree, its roots would stretch deep into the soil of Africa. From these roots, branches have grown in every direction, reaching across continents and cultures, shaping the soundscape of the world. African music is not just a genre; it is a heartbeat, a rhythm that pulses through the veins of nearly every musical tradition we know today. It is the mother tongue of melody, the ancestral drum that calls us to dance, to feel, to remember.
To talk about the influence of African music is to talk about the very essence of sound itself. It is to trace the journey of a rhythm from a West African djembe to a Brazilian samba, from a Senegalese griot’s tale to a Mississippi bluesman’s lament. It is to hear the echoes of the past in the music of the present, to recognise that every note we play, every song we sing, is part of a conversation that began centuries ago.
Tupac Shakur photographed in 1994 (Source: Ron Galella/WireImage)
The Rhythms That Built the World
African music, at its heart, is a living, breathing conversation between sound and soul, a testament to the power of rhythm as the pulse of life itself. It’s a soundscape not just to be heard, but to be felt — deep in the bones, vibrating through the very marrow. The polyrhythmic beats, layered and intertwined like the threads of a rich tapestry, are a celebration of complexity and beauty, where every drumbeat is a heartbeat, every cymbal crash a breath. These rhythms do not stand alone; they interact, they speak, they respond. This intricate dance of sound has travelled through time and across continents, influencing and shaping genres that we now take for granted. Jazz, reggae, hip-hop, electronic dance music — each of these owes its existence to the vast, ever-evolving musical traditions of Africa.
Consider jazz, for instance. Often called America’s classical music, it is in many ways the embodiment of African musical heritage in the New World. Born out of the melting pot of New Orleans in the early 20th century, jazz is an amalgamation of African rhythms, European harmonies, and the raw, unfiltered energy of a people who had learned to make beauty from hardship. At its core, jazz is about freedom, the freedom to improvise, to create in the moment, to let the music flow like a river carving its own path. The syncopated rhythms, the call-and-response patterns, the spontaneous bursts of improvisation, are all direct descendants of African traditions. They were brought to the Americas by enslaved Africans, who carried their music, their stories, their pain, and their joy with them across the Atlantic. And out of this fusion came jazz — a genre that doesn’t just speak to the history of a people, but speaks to the human experience itself, universally resonant in its complexity and its beauty.
Reggae, the heart and soul of Jamaica, carries that same spirit of resistance, unity, and freedom. Its offbeat rhythm — the unmistakable “skank" — is the very heartbeat of the Caribbean, and its origins trace back to the African drums that once echoed in the heart of the continent. In reggae, the rhythm speaks of struggle and triumph, of defiance and hope, of a people who have never stopped dreaming of liberation. Artists like Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and Burning Spear were more than musicians, they were messengers, delivering songs of resistance and unity that transcended borders. With each strum of the guitar, each beat of the drum, they reminded us that music is not merely entertainment; it is a weapon, a tool for change, a vehicle for speaking truth to power. Reggae became the soundtrack to the fight for justice, the anthem for those who had been silenced by history.
These musical traditions didn’t just make waves in their home countries — they reverberated around the world. From the crowded streets of New Orleans to the sun-soaked hills of Jamaica, African rhythms have moved, reshaped, and redefined global music. They speak to a fundamental truth: music is not just a reflection of the world — it is a force that shapes the world, that demands to be heard, that rises up against oppression and injustice. It is a language that transcends barriers, a universal call to freedom, unity, and love.
In every beat, every rhythm, African music tells a story: a story of survival, of resilience, of hope. It is a reminder that the pulse of the earth, the rhythm that connects us all, is eternal. Whether it’s the improvisational freedom of jazz, the defiant rhythms of reggae, or the heavy bass-lines of hip-hop and electronic dance music, these genres are not just sounds—they are movements, they are revolutions, they are legacies. They are the soundtrack of the world, a world built upon the rhythms that never stopped, never faltered, and never ceased to speak the truth.
The Blues: A Cry Across the Ocean
The blues is the sound of a soul laid bare, the echo of a heart breaking yet refusing to surrender. It is the thread that ties the pain of the past to the present, a cry across the ocean that carries with it centuries of struggle, survival, and defiance. Born in the fields and the shadows of the Mississippi Delta, the blues emerged from the sweat-soaked earth, a song that rose from the back-breaking labour of enslaved Africans and the raw beauty of their resilience. The rhythms of the cotton fields, the mournful wail of the work songs, the harmonies of the spirituals — these are the ancestors of the blues. It is music that was born in the soil, in the blood and sweat of a people whose lives were defined by their bondage, yet whose spirits remained unbroken.
At first glance, the blues might seem simple — a 12-bar progression, a few chords, some repetitive lyrics. Yet beneath that simplicity lies a world of emotion so vast, so infinite, that it can drown you in its depths. The blues is a paradox: its structure may be straightforward, but its soul is boundless. It is the sound of longing, of heartbreak, of love lost and hope found in the same breath. It is the cry of a man whose lover has left him, but also the defiant shout of a woman who refuses to be silenced. It is the melody of pain transformed into art, a healing balm for wounds that never truly close.
It is impossible to listen to the blues and not feel its weight, its history. From the haunting, sorrowful notes of Robert Johnson’s Cross Road Blues to the commanding presence of B.B. King’s The Thrill Is Gone, the blues carries with it the stories of a people who have lived through unimaginable hardships. Johnson, with his guitar singing a mournful song of betrayal and longing, created a legend that still resonates today. Muddy Waters, with his earthy, gravelly voice and blistering guitar, brought the Delta blues from the rural South to the urban streets of Chicago, where it would ignite a new sound, electric blues, that would fuel the rise of rock and roll. And B.B. King, with his iconic guitar Lucille, turned the blues into an expression of both sorrow and triumph, a man who had lived through the fire and come out the other side with a sound that was as smooth as it was mournful.
But the blues isn’t just a relic of the past — it is the foundation upon which modern music is built. Every riff in rock, every loop in hip-hop, every soulful melody in R&B can be traced back to the blues. It is the bridge between the African rhythms of the past and the music of the present. The blues is where the struggle meets the stage, where pain turns to poetry, and where every note sung is a defiance against the forces that sought to break the spirit. Its influence can be heard in the music of artists like Jimi Hendrix, who infused the blues with a cosmic energy, or in the rebellious streak of punk rock, where the blues’ raw energy found a new home.
Robert Johnson, circa 1930 (Source: © 1986 Delta Haze Corporation)
When I listen to the blues, I am not just hearing a song; I am hearing the entire journey of a people. It is a map of survival, a testament to the human spirit’s ability to endure, to fight, and to transcend. The blues is the music of the people who never gave up, who kept singing even when the world seemed determined to silence them. It is the sound of a wound that never fully heals, but continues to bleed with beauty, to echo with truth. It is a reminder that our history is not something we can escape — it is something we must carry, for it is woven into every chord, every note, every word. The blues is both a mourning and a celebration: a celebration of the resilience of the human spirit and a mourning of the pain that has shaped it. And as long as we keep singing it, we keep telling the story.
Hip-Hop: The Beat Goes On
If the blues is the cry, then hip-hop is the response — the defiant echo that refuses to fade. Born from the concrete and chaos of the Bronx in the 1970s, hip-hop was never just about the music; it was about survival. It was the sound of those who had been pushed to the margins, those whose stories had been ignored, those who refused to be silenced. It wasn’t polished, and it wasn’t pretty. It was raw, improvised, built from whatever was available — broken records, stolen electricity, turntables spinning on the floors of abandoned buildings. But from that rubble, something revolutionary emerged: a sound, a movement, a culture.
At its core, hip-hop is rhythm — rhythm that pulses through the streets like a heartbeat, rhythm that carries the weight of history, of struggle, of triumph. It is built on samples, stitched together from the funk grooves of James Brown, the jazz loops of Miles Davis, the soul of Aretha Franklin. And yet, it is unmistakably its own creation, an alchemy of past and present that transforms what came before into something new, something urgent. Like the griots of West Africa, whose voices carried the history of their people through generations, hip-hop’s MCs became the modern-day storytellers, weaving poetry from the language of the streets, turning pain into power, injustice into anthems.
Grandmaster Flash didn’t just spin records — he redefined sound. With The Message, he turned hip-hop into a vehicle for truth, laying bare the realities of urban struggle with lines that cut like broken glass. Tupac Shakur wasn’t just a rapper — he was a prophet, a poet, a soldier of the people. His verses were inked in blood, chronicling the cycles of violence, the weight of systemic oppression, the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change. And Kendrick Lamar? He is the griot reborn, his words tumbling out like fire, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, a bridge between past and future. To Pimp a Butterfly wasn’t just an album; it was a reckoning, a manifesto, a mirror held up to America’s fractured soul.
But hip-hop isn’t just about hardship — it is about joy, too. It is the art of turning struggle into celebration, of finding rhythm in the chaos. It is block parties spilling into the streets, breakdancers spinning like planets in orbit, graffiti artists turning grey walls into explosions of colour. It is defiance dressed as style, gold chains gleaming like battle medals, sneakers laced up for the long road ahead.
And what makes hip-hop truly unstoppable is its ability to evolve. It shapeshifts, reinvents, moves faster than the culture that tries to contain it. It has travelled far from its birthplace in the Bronx, slipping through borders, mutating into grime in London, Afrobeat-infused rap in Lagos, drill in Chicago, K-hip-hop in Seoul. It refuses to stay still because it was never meant to. It was born from movement — from migration, from the turning of records, from the spinning of stories passed down through beats and breath.
Hip-hop is not just a genre; it is a testament to resilience, to reinvention, to resistance. It is proof that you can take a people’s land, take their wealth, take their opportunities — but you cannot take their voice. The beat goes on, because it has to. It is the pulse of history, the sound of a generation refusing to be erased. Hip-hop doesn’t ask for permission; it kicks the door down and takes its place. And as long as there is injustice, as long as there are stories to be told, as long as there is a beat to move to, hip-hop will continue to rise.
Rap and Trap: The Poetry and the Pulse
Rap is the voice, trap is the heartbeat. One speaks, the other thunders. Together, they are the sound of a generation that grew up with the weight of the world on their shoulders and bass rattling in their chests. Rap began as poetry on the pavement, words strung together like lifelines, sharp as switchblades, smooth as silk. But trap? Trap is something different. It’s the adrenaline, the urgency, the relentless hi-hats skittering like restless feet on the pavement. It is rap’s younger, rowdier cousin — the sound of ambition and survival wrapped in 808s and autotune, coated in gold but born from the gutter.
At its core, rap has always been storytelling. From the block parties of the Bronx to the smoky studios of Atlanta, rap has been a vessel — an unfiltered, uncompromising mirror of life as it is, not as it’s imagined. The MCs of the ‘80s and ‘90s, from Rakim to Nas to Jay-Z, didn’t just rhyme; they painted murals of cityscapes in chaos, of dreams built on crack vials and corner hustles, of hope slipping through fingers like loose change. Rap was reportage, a street sermon, a way of making sense of a world that never played fair.
Then, the South spoke up. The boom-bap beats of the East Coast and the G-funk grooves of the West gave way to something darker, something heavier. Trap was born not in the skyscrapers of New York or the palm-lined streets of LA, but in the trap houses of Atlanta — the abandoned buildings-turned-hustles, where drugs were cooked, sold, and survived on. This was music built for bass-heavy speakers, beats so thick they swallowed you whole, drums that hit like gut punches. Where rap had once been about sharp lyricism, trap became about atmosphere, about mood, about feeling. It wasn’t just about what was being said, but how it made your chest vibrate when it hit.
T.I. named it, Gucci Mane perfected it, and then Future, Migos, and Young Thug took it to the stars. Future’s voice became a digital war cry, drowning in autotune, soaked in codeine, the sound of a man numbing his past while chasing his future. Migos turned syllables into machine-gun fire, their triplet flows reshaping the very DNA of rap. Young Thug warped his voice into something beyond human — yelps, croons, slurs, turning words into pure emotion. Trap was no longer just music — it was an aesthetic, a lifestyle, a sound that transcended its origins.
But what makes trap so powerful is its duality. On one hand, it is the sound of opulence: iced-out watches, foreign cars, designer everything. The fantasy of excess, of making it out and never looking back. But beneath the bravado, there is always the undertone of struggle, the echo of where it all began. For every song about money and power, there is one about the paranoia of losing it all. The loneliness of success. The ghosts of the past knocking at the door. The pain masked by the flex.
Now, trap has outgrown its Southern roots, seeping into every corner of the world. It has fused with UK drill, mutated into Latin trap in Puerto Rico, been reimagined in Africa, Korea, and beyond. It has broken language barriers, proving that you don’t need to understand every word to feel it. And yet, no matter how far it spreads, it never loses its essence — its defiance, its urgency, its refusal to be ignored.
Future for GQ (Source: Gregory Harris)
Rap and trap are two sides of the same coin: one tells the story, the other sets the scene. One spits wisdom, the other drips with attitude. And together, they are unstoppable. Because as long as there are stories to be told, and beats that make the ground shake, rap and trap will continue to rise, louder than ever.
Electronic Dance Music: The Future of Rhythm
If music is a heartbeat, then electronic dance music (EDM) is the sound of the world’s pulse accelerating. It is the drumbeat of the digital age, a genre built on machines but driven by something primal, something ancient. Beneath the synths, beneath the drops, beneath the neon lights and festival stages, there is a rhythm that predates technology, a rhythm that comes from the earth itself. That rhythm? Africa.
Every kick drum, every syncopated groove, every hypnotic loop traces its lineage back to the motherland. You can hear it in the rolling percussion of house music, in the relentless drive of techno, in the polyrhythmic swing of UK garage, in the bass-heavy pulse of amapiano. The entire ecosystem of electronic music is, at its core, an evolution of African rhythm. The DJs and producers spinning records today are carrying on a tradition as old as time itself, except now the talking drums have been swapped for drum machines, the village gatherings for global festivals.
Fela Kuti saw this future before it arrived. The father of Afrobeat, he fused traditional African grooves with jazz, funk, and raw political energy, creating a sound that was as danceable as it was revolutionary. His music didn’t just move bodies — it moved minds. And even though EDM emerged in the West, it has always carried echoes of his legacy.
House music was born in the underground clubs of Chicago in the 1980s, a sanctuary for Black and queer communities, a place where bodies could move freely, where rhythm was liberation. The four-on-the-floor beat became a mantra, a ritual, a heartbeat that stretched across continents. From there, Detroit techno took things deeper, darker, stripping music down to its mechanical essence, creating soundscapes that felt like the future.
And now, EDM has evolved into something vast, shapeshifting, and borderless. Afro-house, gqom, and amapiano are bringing electronic music full circle, reconnecting the genre with its African roots in new and thrilling ways. In South Africa, producers like Black Coffee and Kabza De Small are crafting soundscapes that feel both ancient and futuristic, beats that make you move before you even realise it. Nigerian artists like Burna Boy and Wizkid are weaving Afrobeat rhythms into global pop hits, reminding the world that Africa has always been the centre of rhythm.
But what fascinates me most about EDM is its universality. This is music that doesn’t need words. It doesn’t need translation. It is pure energy, pure motion, pure connection. It is the sound of thousands of strangers in a field, their hands in the air, their hearts beating in sync with the bass. It is the sound of a dimly lit club at 3 AM, where the only thing that matters is the rhythm coursing through your veins. It is music without walls, without borders, without barriers. It is proof that rhythm is a language we all understand.
EDM is not just the music of the future — it is the music of the past, reborn in the present, evolving with every beat. And as long as there are bodies that need to move, as long as there are souls that need to be freed, the rhythm will continue. Because rhythm? Rhythm is eternal.
The Global Conversation
The influence of African music on global genres is not just a historical fact; it is an ongoing conversation. It is a dialogue between the past and the present, between tradition and innovation, between the local and the global. It is a reminder that music is not just sound; it is connection, communication, community.
As I write this, I can’t help but think about the power of music to bring people together. It is a power that transcends time and space, that bridges divides and builds bridges. It is a power that began in Africa and has spread to every corner of the globe.
So the next time you hear a song, whether it’s a jazz standard, a blues ballad, a hip-hop anthem, or an EDM banger, take a moment to listen. Listen for the rhythms, the melodies, the stories. And remember that what you’re hearing is not just music: it is history, it is culture, it is life.
S xoxo
Written in London, England
26th February 2025