I reunited with my Asian-turned-African brother, Jamir Adiong, and the moment was nothing short of magical. It brought back a flood of memories—over 14 years of live Afrobeat music in Hanoi, countless late-night jam sessions, and the unforgettable energy of performing together. Seeing Jamir again after his time in Kenya, where he fully immersed himself in Afrobeat and reggae, felt like picking up right where we left off. Though years had passed, the rhythm that connected us never faded.


Later that day, we headed straight to a rehearsal studio, where we met up with the rest of the band. The energy was electric. It had been years, but the moment Jamir picked up his instrument, everything clicked into place. We ran through the set, tweaking arrangements, catching up on new compositions, and letting the groove take over. Jamir adapted instantly, as if he had never left. The music felt bigger than all of us—it was spiritual. The reunion was no longer just an idea—it was alive, breathing, and ready to take the stage.


With a three-month heads-up, our main guitarist, Dave Payne, and I took on the exciting challenge of organizing a reunion gig to properly welcome Jamir back. We wanted it to be special—not just any show, but a full-circle moment, a night where the past and present would collide in the most electrifying way. Finding the right venue was crucial, and after scouting several spots, we locked in a perfect setting—one that had both the intimacy for real musical connection and the space for an explosive night of dancing. The anticipation kept building, and we knew we were in for something legendary.
The week kicked off the right way: with a hot bowl of Pho Bo on Xuan Dieu Street in Tay Ho—(we sat on those tiny “Iconic Hanoian Blue Plastic Chairs”, they are now green though) a classic Hanoi welcome. The moment Jamir landed, we wasted no time diving into the city’s flavors, reminiscing about our early days in Hanoi’s Afrobeat scene. We laughed over stories of sweaty, packed-out gigs, endless jam sessions, and the sheer magic of those first few years when we were building something fresh. It felt surreal—like stepping into a time machine.
“Man, the streets have changed,” Jamir said as he looked around. “Everything looks different now.” And he was right. Hanoi had evolved, the skyline stretched higher, the traffic seemed even wilder, and the venues we once played had either disappeared or transformed. But the spirit of the city? That was still there, pulsing in the rhythm of the streets, the late-night motorbike hum, and the people who carried the music forward.
