Many purists reason that Roland –born in Cameroon’s lartgest city Douala- is just as contrary by calling himself a bluesman when Douala is so far away from the Mississippi Delta. From a geographical standpoint, it’s hard to prove them wrong. And if no one would dare question the African roots of the blues, it is clear that the blue note, a pure piece of Americana, was born out of the tragic collision of three worlds brought about by the vicious triangle of the slave trade.

Yet the blues is endowed with a strong wanderlust, and it has spent its first century of existence outgrowing its Southern cradle, slowly invading the Midwest and the Pacific Coast before taking the rest of the planet by storm. For obvious reasons related to the First Continent’s status as an underdog, the spirit of the blues found a strong echo in Africa where destiny too often rhymes with tragedy. “My songs tell basically the same stories once told by blues pioneers,” Roland confirms. “Writing songs and singing them is my way of coping with life.”

His latest album, Blues Menessen, does precisely that. By exorcizing his own frustrations in song, Tchakounté follows in the footsteps of the original bluesmen who cured their spleen by expressing themselves through music, knowing that it takes a shot of the blues to kill the blues.