St. Janet: Tribute to the Singer Whose Music I Loathe, By Bamidele Johnson

The first person I heard mention the recently deceased St. Janet was Senator Ojudu Babafemi (nee Mr. Ojudu), with whom I share a fondness for off-the-wall people. I had heard her songs before but never knew who sang them until he told me.

To describe her lyrics as adult-themed would be a faint attempt at destigmatisation. They were coarse and X-rated, which mean much the same thing but without the polite euphemism. I found the songs crass. That is saying something because I am a million miles from being a prude, as anyone familiar with my affection for the gloriously deranged lyrics of Obesere’s first two albums and the numerous live recordings featuring “Mr. Machine” would attest. I also loved Jackie Collins, who practically put the “R” in raunchy.

In person, I found St. Janet equally unimpressive. Perhaps a priori prejudice was already clouding my judgement. We met at LTV 8, where she had come with her husband and manager. She heard someone address me as editor and immediately warmed to me. She was eager to strike up a conversation. I, on the other hand, was frigid, if not glacial. Nothing flowed. We simply were not on the same bandwidth. I doubt she noticed. Then again, I doubt I would have frozen had it been Tiwa Savage, Hilda Baci or one of those sirens who was singing St. Janet’s songs.

She insisted on taking photos with me. I did not want to, but I always try to be polite, even if I do not always succeed. On that occasion, I did. She draped an arm around my neck while Farinto Akinkunmi  took the picture. He later posted it on Facebook in those early days of the platform and without my consent.

I was apoplectic, especially after the comments started pouring in. I made him take it down. But I hope he still has the photograph because I would gladly post it today. Akin, find it! Quick. During our brief conversation, I asked whether her children listened to her music at home. She said they did. I side-eyed her. Had I not been such a cool dude, I might have done something vicious with my hands. Children and explicit lyrics? That was too much for me. Too too much.

I never became a fan of her music, but my disgust gradually evaporated. Perhaps I viewed it through the lens of reggae dancehall’s “slack” lyrics.  In reality, they are the same. Besides, her music seemed perfectly suited to beer ‘n’ pepper soup at those Third World drinking dens, where flies hovered with the discipline of a German Panzer division.

One boozy evening at Tarmac, the iconic drinking spot off Wempco Road in Ogba, I was with my friend Ebenezer Obadare, the US-based professor of anthropology. Ebenezer came for the pepper soup. I was combining booze and soup.

A CD hawker approached us. Ebenezer asked whether he had any Ayinla Omowura CDs. He did not.

“What do you have?” Ebenezer asked.

“St. Janet,” came the instant reply.

“Bring them.”

The hawker produced four or five CDs. Ebenezer bought them all. I was horrified. Why would someone of his profile buy music that crass? His answer was simple. He was an anthropologist. What St. Janet was doing was precisely the sort of cultural phenomenon that deserved attention.

I accused him of chasing ribaldry. It was banter, of course. I knew he had worked on Sewenle, the Kwara musical tradition. He had also told me he grew up in a house with a record store and could recite virtually every Ayinla Omowura lyric from memory and sang Sandoka’s Yoboro Yobosin with go-for-it street gusto.

Years later, I began to realise that there is a stubborn misapprehension about taste. We often mistake the cultivation of taste for the cultivation of contempt, as though sophistication consists chiefly in acquiring ever more reasons to look down on what other people enjoy.

The truth is almost the reverse. It takes very little knowledge to dismiss a musician, a novel or a sport with a clever putdown. Genuine enthusiasm, on the other hand, usually reflects serious engagement. To love football, for instance, is almost a full-time occupation, requiring endless attention to players, tactics, history and statistics.

Looked at that way, St. Janet deserved more credit than I was once prepared to give her. She understood her audience well. She found a formula that resonated with them and pursued it unapologetically. She did not stumble into popularity. She earned it by giving her listeners exactly what they wanted and had her own niche.

One may dislike the content, as I largely did, without denying the craftsmanship behind the success. My aversion to her music remains. But I have become much less certain that my dislike says anything especially flattering about me. It may simply reveal that I was never her audience.

There is no shame in admitting that someone can master a craft, delight millions and leave an imprint on popular culture without ever earning a place on one’s playlist. May St. Janet’s soul rest in peace.