Preserving Soulful Grooves:

Maestro arranger Dawit Yifru on the lost magic of New Year releases, the golden era nostalgia, and artists’ modern battles

Dawit Yifru stands as one of the most pivotal figures in modern Ethiopian music history—a master keyboardist, composer, and arranger whose work across six decades has profoundly shaped the nation’s sonic identity. Born in 1952 in the culturally rich Dejach Wube neighborhood of Addis Ababa, his musical odyssey began in 1962 (1954 EC) at the Haile Selassie I Theatre under the direct mentorship of Armenian maestro Muse Nerses Nalbandian. That initial summer training transformed a curious youth into a foundational architect of modern Ethio-groove.

As a co-founder of seminal ensembles including the Venus Band, Dahlak Band, and the legendary Roha Band, Dawit provided the creative and harmonic spine for more than 250 defining albums during the industry’s golden age. Working alongside titans such as Tilahun Gessesse, Mahmoud Ahmed, Muluken Melesse, Alemayehu Eshete, and Neway Debebe, he mastered the delicate art of anchoring authentic Ethiopian pentatonic modal scales within modern arrangement structures. His inaugural arrangement—Melkamu Tebeje’s timeless ‘Bemba Teleyechgn’—codified a collaborative standard that redefined recorded music production across the nation.

Beyond his creative body of work, Dawit has been a relentless defender of artists’ rights in his long-standing role as President of the Ethiopian Musicians Association. For over two decades, he has spearheaded the frontline fight for robust copyright enforcement, equitable royalty collection mechanisms, and structural support for aging musicians. In recognition of his monumental lifetime contributions to the nation’s creative heritage and his steadfast leadership of the artistic community, the legendary artist was recently awarded an honorary diploma by the Addis Ababa City Government Culture, Arts, and Tourism Bureau.

In an exclusive conversation with The Reporter’s Surafel Ashebir, Dawit Yifru spoke about his journey, the evolving dynamics of Ethiopian music production, the rise of digital streaming and artificial intelligence, and his enduring vision for the nation’s cultural future.

From six-month band rehearsals to the excitement of Pagume 5 radio debuts, the legendary pianist and President of the Ethiopian Musicians Association reflects on how music once anchored the nation’s holiday spirit. EXCERPTS:

The Reporter: You’ve sat at the piano for decades, accompanying and shaping the defining sounds of Ethiopian modern music. Looking back, what was the exact moment or piece of music that made you realize music was your life’s calling?

Dawit Yifru: Back in our day, about 55 years ago, pursuing music was considered deeply taboo. Someone who followed music was viewed as lacking family support or as someone who had missed out on formal education. Back then, entering music required genuine natural talent; not just anyone could simply decide to become a musician.

At the time, I didn’t even know whether I had any natural talent. During the summer of 1954 EC (1962), I heard news that music lessons were being offered at the Haile Selassie I Theatre. Thinking, “Why not spend this summer learning music?”, I went and registered. The training was only scheduled for two months, and I joined merely to pass the time. Before that, I didn’t know a single person who had studied music, nor did I know what was required to get into the field. As it happened, when that chance presented itself, I stepped into music education.

In truth, it was the right choice. Had I not taken advantage of that two-month training opportunity, there is no way I could have ever become a musician. In particular, meeting my Armenian teacher, Muse Nerses Nalbandian, who gave me my very first audition to take music lessons, was the defining moment that deeply shaped my entire life as a musician.

You worked alongside giants from Tilahun Gessesse and Mahmoud Ahmed to Muluken Melesse. What made that Golden Era’s creative synergy so special? And what is one personal encounter with a legend that still stays with you?

Many people perceive music as merely a single craft, but what we call music actually encompasses five distinct professions: lyricist, composer, vocalist, instrumentalist, and arranger. Beyond these, the producer plays a pivotal role in bringing the music to life. Unless all six elements harmonize, music cannot truly achieve its full form. Back then, a dedicated professional was sought out and hired for each specific role.

If you look at the works of vocalists like Tilahun Gessesse, Mahmoud Ahmed, Alemayehu Eshete, Menelik Wosnnachew, and others, their songs were created through distinct collaboration—the lyricist was one person, the composer another, and the arranger another. The singers brought only their vocal talent. What established Tilahun as Tilahun and built Mahmoud’s iconic name and widespread public recognition was this combined synergy of experts. It wasn’t like today, where a single individual acts as composer, lyricist, arranger, and accompanist all at once. Back then, what reached the audience was the collective creative output of five people, which is precisely why those works became timeless.

Another unforgettable milestone in my career was arranging my very first song: Bemba Teleyechgn (She Left Me in Tears) by Melkamu Tebeje. My teacher at the time, Monsieur Nerses Nalbandian, frequently created opportunities for his students, and this piece was assigned to me as my inaugural arrangement. Because I delivered strong results on that project, the word spread to ‘let Dawit arrange it.’ From then on, my path shifted toward arrangement, to the point where visiting singers specifically sought out the band I was in. Had my teacher not granted me that chance, I would never have become a renowned arranger.

Another memorable moment was working with the vocalist Muluken Melesse. Muluken was an extraordinary singer. Even though he lacked formal music education, his innate ability surpassed that of many trained musicians, and he held deep reverence for the art of music. Meeting and collaborating with him remains unforgettable. I have worked with various vocalists, each blessed with a unique talent. Take Tilahun Gessesse, for instance—he would take any melody given to him and refine it into something far superior. Lyricists and composers often brought their work to Tilahun knowing he would elevate it beyond expectations. I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to have worked alongside artists of such incredible caliber.

The era of iconic record labels and producers like Electra, Kaifa, and Amha Records fundamentally built the recorded music industry in Ethiopia. How did their decline alter the trajectory of Ethiopian music production?

In the past, music publishers were essentially businessmen. Their primary aim was not to foster art, but to generate profit. Driven by this bottom line, they would seek out the vocalists, lyricists, and composers they believed could yield returns and bring them together to produce outstanding music. Back then, releasing a successful album brought a joy equivalent to winning the lottery, and publishers stood to make hundreds of thousands. Consequently, most publishers entered the field purely for profit, built their wealth, and then established other businesses, leaving the music industry behind.

However, their vital contribution must not be forgotten. From the very beginning, they went to immense lengths—even traveling to remote provinces to scout vocalists and bring them to the capital. Once here, they invested heavily in the singer: providing housing, meals, and the time needed to study and rehearse music. They brought lyricists and composers together and supported them fully for up to six months while producing the music. That was their toil. Although there were certainly musicians back then who felt exploited, looking back today, it was precisely their effort that created songs cherished with deep love for 40 to 50 years.

Their legacy must never be overlooked; especially the immense debt owed to publisher Amha Eshete. In his era, he formed bands, rented villas for them, purchased instruments, and provided rehearsal space to elevate the music profession. Other labels such as Elektra, Ambasel, Sol-tonics, and others made monumental contributions to the growth of Ethiopian music. Even though the publishers grew wealthy while the artists often struggled financially, we must still acknowledge and thank them for what they gave to the art.

In stark contrast to today, music has become a field where almost any passerby steps in, thinking it will pay off. I have also seen genuine talent go to waste simply because no publisher was found. Few today enter music with thoughtful reflection and respect for the craft. Most join not out of true artistic devotion, but purely for financial gain, moving on to other endeavors once they acquire money. Only a select few used their success to grow as artists while elevating the music profession itself—as demonstrated by figures like Mahmoud Ahmed and Ayalew Mesfin, who went on to open their own music establishments.

As Chairman of the Ethiopian Musicians Association, you have been on the frontline for artists’ rights. What is the true status of royalty collection and copyright enforcement in Ethiopia today compared to what was envisioned?

In the past, copyright law was virtually non-existent in our country. If someone copied and performed or sold another person’s creative work, even if they were taken to court, the maximum penalty was a trivial fine of just 1,000 Birr. As technology advanced, duplication became effortlessly simple. Once a master recording was produced, multi-deck duplicating machines capable of copying five or ten tapes at once entered the market. With the arrival of computers, anyone could easily spend the entire night churning out pirated copies. Consequently, the day after artists released works into which they had poured their souls, people routinely duplicated, distributed, and sold them from their homes for profit. This was devastating for us in the artistic community. Countless artists who had spent a lifetime exhausting their creative talent saw their life’s work stolen overnight, plunging them into financial ruin.

It was this crisis that drove us to gather, establish the Ethiopian Musicians Association, and publicly demand our rights through peaceful protests. As a direct result of our collective advocacy, the government enacted Ethiopia’s first Copyright and Neighboring Rights Proclamation in 1996 E.C. [2004]. We initially believed this proclamation would offer immediate relief, but due to structural legal loopholes, it remained largely unenforced for nearly ten years. In 2007 E.C. [2014], an amendment was finally passed, introducing severe penalties: anyone who misappropriates creative work without authorization or payment now faces fines of up to 100,000 Birr or imprisonment for up to ten years.

Furthermore, the revised law explicitly mandated royalty payments for any commercial use of creative works. Entities such as radio and television stations, hotels, and transport companies play music all day long to attract customers and drive business revenue. Because they profit from using music, the law requires them to pay royalties from those earnings—even though the mandated rate is minimal, amounting to mere cents per play. Once again, artists celebrated, believing our demands had finally been satisfied. However, I firmly believe the Intellectual Property Office must strictly enforce this law, something they have failed to do to this day.

Alternatively, a functional copyright collecting society must handle the distribution. A copyright society was formed in the past, but because it was not properly aligned with legal regulations, it could not operate effectively. Were such an institution fully operational, it would hold power of attorney for copyright holders, collecting royalties from broadcasters, hotels, and enterprises to distribute directly to the artists. Although a collective rights organization has now been formed, it has yet to begin royalty collection. For 22 years, the Ethiopian Musicians Association has fought tirelessly to defend artists’ rights, yet creators have still not reaped the financial rewards of their labor. Nevertheless, we remain hopeful that artists will eventually secure the full copyright protections and royalty earnings they have spent decades fighting to achieve.

We have shifted from vinyl and cassette culture to digital streaming and social media algorithms. Has this shift democratized Ethiopian music, or has it diluted its artistic depth and craftsmanship?

The arrival of digital streaming is undeniably beneficial, as it allows music to reach a vast audience effortlessly. However, we must critically examine who these digital platforms and distributors actually are and whether they maintain any legitimate relationship with the creators. Crucially, we must ask: are they securing proper authorization from the artists before releasing their work into the world?

Unfortunately, many of these operators function in the shadows. A significant majority are based outside of Ethiopia, placing them beyond the reach of our domestic legal system and making it extraordinarily difficult to hold them accountable. Most of those uploading music onto these digital platforms do so covertly, capitalizing on artists’ hard work without their consent or knowledge.

While this unauthorized exploitation represents a severe downside, digital streaming can offer immense value to artists if distributors operate ethically and work hand-in-hand with music professionals. Although monitoring and curbing illicit distribution in the digital realm remains a daunting challenge today, I remain optimistic that new technological tools will eventually emerge to help us regulate the digital landscape and safeguard our creative rights.

Ethiopian music scales are globally distinct. Why has it been challenging for modern Ethiopian music to cross over into mainstream global markets at scale, and what structural changes are needed to achieve that?

There is a widespread belief that for our music to gain global recognition, we must adopt Western styles and conventions. For instance, traditional Ethiopian music is structured around a pentatonic or five-note scale system, whereas Western music typically relies on seven-note diatonic or twelve-note chromatic scales. While many argue that imitating foreign musical approaches is the key to international appeal, I strongly disagree.

I firmly believe that if we preserve our distinct musical identity and focus relentlessly on production quality, our music will naturally capture global audiences. A prime example of this is Dr. Mulatu Astatke, the pioneer of Ethio-Jazz. The vast majority of his work remains deeply rooted in authentic Ethiopian qenet (modal scales). By overlaying our traditional pentatonic melodies onto modern Western chord progressions, Mulatu created a sound that resonated internationally. Today, he is a global icon who performs before tens of thousands of enthusiastic fans worldwide.

In Europe alone, there were once around seventeen all-foreign bands dedicated to backing Ethiopian icons like Mahmoud Ahmed and Alemayehu Eshete. These foreign musicians played our music with extraordinary passion and enthusiasm. They are drawn to Ethiopian music because it remains unique, rich, and untapped—it has never been worn out or overdone. Sadly, while we tend to underrate our own art, musicians abroad are working tirelessly to study and replicate the subtle nuances of our sound.

As the saying goes, ‘gold in hand is treated like copper.’ We struggle to achieve true international reach precisely because we undervalue our own heritage, imitate Western trends, and fail to deeply cultivate our authentic sound. If our musicians dedicate themselves to refining their craft while staying true to our roots, Ethiopian music will inevitably flourish globally. This would bring immense benefits to our country—generating valuable foreign exchange, securing international royalties as rights are enforced, and elevating Ethiopian culture on the world stage. To achieve this, we as musicians must work relentlessly, while the government must also step forward to actively support and champion our music on the global platform.

What is your philosophy on balancing traditional Ethiopian musical identities with Western arrangement techniques without losing the soul of the composition?

My musical philosophy is deeply rooted in the foundation established by Dr. Mulatu Astatke through the Ethio-Jazz movement. The essence of this approach lies in keeping our traditional Ethiopian modal scales (qenet) at the forefront as the main melody, while utilizing Western chord progressions in the background to build a rich harmonic backdrop.

To preserve the soul of a composition, the melody must always retain its cultural purity. By placing the distinct pentatonic scale at the absolute center, the emotional weight, heritage, and unique character of Ethiopian music remain fully intact. Western arrangement techniques serve as a complementary foundation—providing structure, color, and dynamic depth without drowning out the lead line. This balance allows us to expand the sonic possibilities of our music and make it globally accessible while ensuring that its authentic Ethiopian heart remains unmistakable.

Music creation is now facing artificial intelligence tools that can synthesize arrangement, voice, and instrumentation instantly. Do you view AI as a threat to human-driven musicianship or as a tool for the next generation?

As we all know, artificial intelligence is currently producing remarkably sophisticated audio that sounds crisp, polished, and finely tailored to the ear. Yet, while we might listen to an AI-generated song once or twice out of sheer curiosity, it lacks the depth required for true longevity—we simply cannot listen to it repeatedly over time. AI music is undeniably impressive in its technical sound quality, but when it comes to actual composition, AI merely recycles and imitates melodies, rhythms, and lyrics that we already know. I firmly believe we will never receive a genuinely original creative work from AI.

Music crafted through authentic human spirit can never be replaced by artificial intelligence. AI can simulate, mirror, and imitate human capability, but it can never replace the innate depth of natural human talent. That said, I believe the emergence of AI will serve as a healthy catalyst; it will push real musicians to compete harder, refine their craft, and strive to create even better music.

When classic compositions are re-rendered today using AI, the technical clarity and audio quality are often amazing. However, because the music is synthesized, the subtle melodic phrasing, cadence, and vocal dynamics lack true flavor—it fundamentally lacks a soul, causing the listener to grow weary of it almost immediately. Ultimately, as this novelty wears off, I believe we will set AI-generated creations aside and return to the irreplaceable authenticity of organic, human-made music.

What major challenges do you observe, and what support is the government providing for the music industry and art in general?

What I see as a primary crisis in Ethiopian music today is a fundamental devaluation of the art—a problem that begins with the creators themselves. Fewer musicians seem willing to dedicate the necessary time, patience, and rigorous discipline required to properly hone and produce high-quality work. Furthermore, there is a pervasive assumption that anyone can become a musician, which demonstrates a deep lack of respect for the craft. Many rely heavily on technological crutches to mask their lack of genuine skill, feigning artistic competence where true talent does not exist.

We also face structural issues, such as an undeveloped market and a lack of healthy competition. On televised vocal competitions, for example, we frequently see undeserving contestants declared winners, judged by individuals who themselves lack the artistic credentials to evaluate talent. This failure of standards requires urgent reflection and accountability.

To elevate the sector, the government must first enforce professional intellectual property rights. Protecting artists’ legal rights ensures that creators can thrive economically, which in turn fosters professional growth and yields substantial revenue for the country. Additionally, the government should establish dedicated music schools and make instruments accessible to practitioners. Currently, acquiring instruments is prohibitively expensive because imports are heavily taxed under the “luxury goods” category—classified alongside items like cigarettes and perfume. Treating the tools of artistic trade as luxury commodities severely restricts our musicians’ ability to elevate Ethiopian music onto the world stage. To solve this, we must either build local instrument manufacturing facilities or apply reasonable, reduced import tariffs on musical equipment.

Finally, we must address live performance opportunities within entertainment venues—an issue we have advocated for over many years. While five-star hotels are technically required to feature music venues, most fulfill this obligation merely by placing a single piano in their lobby for solo background music. This practice shuts the door on full bands and educated musicians seeking meaningful employment. Where are professionally trained artists supposed to perform if our premier venues fail to engage them? Rectifying this practice across the hospitality sector is essential for the survival and growth of our musical culture.

What advice do you give to young, emerging Ethiopian instrumentalists and arrangers who rely heavily on digital software over organic ensemble playing?

Musical arrangement and performance styles naturally evolve alongside time and technological advancement. In our era, when recording technology was virtually non-existent, up to six musicians had to record simultaneously onto a single audio channel. If even one person made a mistake, the entire take was ruined, forcing us to stop and start the process over from scratch. Today, technology has advanced remarkably, allowing artists to work in comfort and correct errors effortlessly—sparing them the intense physical toil and relentless pressure we used to face.

While this technological convenience is certainly beneficial on the surface, I believe it presents a significant drawback to artistic creation. When a single mind dictates every phase of production, music begins to sound monotonous and uniform, making it increasingly difficult to distinguish one song from another. Because so many modern arrangers rely on identical software, digital plugins, and preset templates, the resulting compositions often follow the exact same sonic patterns.

When one individual handles the songwriting, melodic composition, arrangement, and mastering all by themselves, we rarely hear fresh, groundbreaking soundscapes. True creative magic thrives on collective synergy. I am convinced that music produced through genuine collaboration among diverse specialists yields vastly superior art, because expecting a single person to bear the entire creative burden alone simply cannot produce genuine depth or lasting impact.

How were the annual New Year music showcases prepared and staged by institutional bands during your time, and how does the public’s intense anticipation for holiday releases back then contrast with today’s music culture?

Back in the day, with the arrival of the New Year, legendary institutional bands such as those of the Armed Forces (Tor Serawit), the National Theatre, Hager Fikir, the Ground Forces (Yemdir Tor), and the Imperial Bodyguard (Kibur Zebegna) would stage grand annual New Year performances. This event served as an informal competitive arena, with bands rehearsing meticulously for at least six months to prepare. Brand-new, original compositions were selected, and vocalists—both emerging talents and seasoned veterans—competed rigorously to earn a spot on stage. When performing, they wore distinguished stage attire, maintained pristine presentation, and delivered their music with artistic excellence.

Remarkably, during the holiday season, people eagerly anticipated the release of new music even more than the festivities themselves. Usually, on Pagume 5—the final day of the Ethiopian calendar year—new albums or singles were premiered over the radio, bringing immense joy and excitement to the public. The following day, on New Year’s Day, these fresh compositions resonated throughout local tea houses and hotels, with crowds scrambling to hear the latest releases.

As that era gave way to the cassette boom, music publishing houses continued this tradition, releasing new cassette tapes for the New Year, as well as for Christmas (Genna) and Easter (Fasika). People purchased these tapes with the same enthusiasm they reserved for buying holiday livestock. Teachers and military personnel stationed in distant provinces would even send intermediaries to the capital just to procure the latest releases. A single tape could sell up to 20,000 copies at once, generating a surge in economic activity alongside the festive spirit.

In stark contrast, new music today drops continuously every day, traditional publishers have largely faded, and holiday releases have lost their special magic, becoming mundane. Today, holiday celebrations center more on drinking and partying, rather than the deep, collective passion for savoring new music that once defined our culture.

Beyond the maestro on stage and the union leader, who is Dawit Yifru in his quietest moments at home? What brings you peace outside of music?

Beyond my career in music, helping others is something that brings me profound personal joy, and educating those who were denied access to schooling gives me deep fulfillment. Having dedicated my entire life to the craft, it cuts deeply whenever I see a musician—whether active or retired—struggling in poverty, reduced to begging, or relying on public fundraisers just to survive. Artists pour their souls into uplifting society, yet so many are left without a safety net when hardship strikes.

That is why I actively commit myself to empowering individuals within our artistic community. My goal is to help them achieve financial independence, preserve their dignity, and sustainably support their families. Outside of creating music, lifting up my fellow human beings and helping artists stand on their own two feet is the most deeply satisfying work of my life.

As Ethiopians welcome this New Year, what message or musical harmony do you wish to offer the nation during these changing times?

My New Year wish for our country, Ethiopia, as we enter the year 2019 EC, is that it be a bright and hopeful one—a year where, unlike in times past, we hear no news of death or suffering, and where we can all live together in peace, love, mutual tolerance, and genuine affection.