An Appreciation Charismatic Fela put his passionate politics in the groove The 58-year-old Nigerian had elements of James Brown, Prince, Marley and Seeger. His ``Afro-beat'' had worldwide influence. By Tom Moon INQUIRER MUSIC CRITIC It's impossible to find another recording artist with the precise combination of skills possessed by Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, the Nigerian singer and activist who died on Saturday of heart failure caused by AIDS. The 58-year-old Fela, as he was known by fans worldwide, had the groove sense of James Brown, Prince's poised skills as an arranger, the articulate indignation of Pete Seeger, the galvanizing charisma of Bob Marley, and -- for a time -- the inescapable popularity of Bruce Springsteen at his peak. He was a lover. At a ceremony in 1978, the performer -- whose favorite stage attire was a pair of bikini briefs -- married 27 women. He later divorced them, but retained a throng of female admirers. He was also a fighter, who ran into trouble with a string of Nigerian regimes. In 1984, he was sentenced to five years in prison on what Amnesty International later called ``spurious'' charges of currency violations; he served two years, and was released when a new government came to power. Most of all, the man who called himself ``the chief priest'' was one of the music world's most skilled agitators: His songs, which could stretch over an hour, were filled with passionate chants about military corruption and social inequality. Singing and shouting in pidgin English, a marijuana cigarette ever-present between his teeth, he conveyed both indignation and political awareness within a genre many outside of Africa had dismissed as mere dance music. Among his most famous rants: ``Teacher, Don't Teach Me No Nonsense,'' ``Black President'' and ``Coffin for Head of State.'' Accompanying Fela's antigovernment rhetoric was fierce, carefully polyrhythmic music unlike anything else from Africa. He called his blend of funk vamping, jazz improvisation and Nigerian high-life ``Afro-beat,'' and it was perfect for live performance. A brief sermon -- about, say, Nigeria's need for modernization -- would be followed by a forlorn blast from a horn section, or a high-intensity call-and-response between Fela and his battalion of backing singers. When he finished singing, he turned his attention to the keyboard or the tenor saxophone, and crafted patient solos that took his large, interactive band down unlikely avenues. The results were hypnotic. A typical Fela show was a marathon that could be appreciated on several levels: as incessantly funky party music, as a mix of overt and subversive political messages, and as a sophisticated improvisatory excursion.