From Haiti to Brixton by way of France, meet the explosive musical melting pot of ZONBI
- 4 hours ago
- 6 min read
Words by Chiara Strazulla
Blurring the lines between musical genres and cultural influences alike, ZONBI are one of the most intriguing new things to have emerged on the grassroots scene in recent years, refusing to let themselves be pinpointed to any one definition or, indeed, any one place. Built around a backbone drawn from Haitian racine musique, their music incorporates jazz, punk, and post-punk elements, ripples of saxophone weaving a spell that brings every track to life with powerful energy. Their first EP, out for Swish Swash Records, features cover artwork tapping into the same blend of the traditional and the contemporary, and is a perfect calling card for a sound that is powerful and dissonant, immersive and disquieting.
Earlier this month they have made their first UK appearance, bringing the raw energy of their set to the stage of Brixton’s Windmill, a venue well known for championing the fierce and the unusual - set within a multicultural area of a city which would lose its identity without the people from the world over that built it together. In a time of increasing pressures and hostility towards difference, there is something both cathartic and reassuring in music like this coming in and bringing down walls, making its voice heard loud, almost like a reminder of a refusal to be silenced. There is a red thread that links Haiti to France to London to the rest of the world, and that thread stands out and comes alive in the music of bands like ZONBI, and similar projects the world over.
We spoke to the band about their roots and their inspirations, the way in which they blend different influences into their unique musical voice, their relationship to the vodou traditions from which their band name has been drawn, and their projects from the future.
Give us a quick introduction to yourselves and your music.
Zonbi was born in 2023, from me [Dimitri] and Shion meeting on the streets of Paris, soon joined by Achille on bass, then Simon on guitar and Tom on drums. I sing mainly in Haitian Creole.
The music we make is free. Noise, jazz, punk, Haitian music, everything flows.
We don't make music ‘about Haiti’, we make it from there. It is our anchor point. It’s the inner landscape of our music, found in the language of the lyrics, in the rhythms, in certain imagery. It's not a restriction, it’s an energy and a remembrance from where we speak of the world, the present, of exile, of love & of political violence. It's not folkloric, it’s alive.
We like to say that we are a mini djaz of today. The mini djaz of Haiti already mixed imported rock and local music. We are part of this continuity: taking what is circulating and transforming it.
What influences and inspirations have you had while working on your first EP?
The first EP was made with urgency. Shion was set to return to Japan a few months later, so we wanted to record something before he left. It was important to keep a trace of that moment.
The energy comes largely from Shion's very instinctive playing and Dimitri's lyrics. We listened to Les Loups Noirs and Les Gypsies de Pétion-Ville a lot.
When it comes to building up tension, we were inspired by James Chance; Arto Lindsay for his creative approach, and Romeo Void for his emotional intensity. Les Zounds, The Beat... And of course Fela Kuti, Coltrane, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Funkadelic : artists who don't ask for permission.
Your band name draws from a figure, the zombi, which has gone through many incarnations as it was brought into pop culture. Why this name choice, and what does this figure mean to you?
Originally, the “zonbi” is not a monster from a franchise, it is a figure linked to Haitian Vodou. It’s a person stripped of its free will, after its soul had been captured by a bokor (Vodou priest). In this sense, it’s a body moving against its own volition to obey its master. The concept of the “zonbi” in Haiti was forged in the extremely brutal context of colonial slavery, where slaves were literally stripped of their freedom and forced into labour.
The figure of the zonbi reflects this fear of being totally stripped of oneself (soul, will).
Today, the zombie is everywhere, recycled, consumed, often emptied of its history. It says something about the way symbols are absorbed and neutralised.
We chose ‘Zonbi’ to bring the word back to its origins. To remind us that behind it lies a heavy memory of historical violence, but also resistance.
Moreover, this fear of being emptied of oneself and dominated by economic or political logic is very relevant today. That's what we're talking about.
You come from a Franco-Haitian background that is inherently multiethnic and multicultural. How is this reflected in your music?
Haiti is a country born of forced displacement & uprooting, so the question of cultural mixing is already there at its core.
We prefer to embrace this reality rather than suffer it. We are not looking for a clear cut identity, we are looking for dialogue between heritages & backgrounds.
This cultural mix is not a slogan for us, it is a historical fact. However we reject this form of globalisation that standardises everything. It must be done respectfully and without erasing history. We want lively & conscious exchange.
What was your experience of bringing Haitian racine musique in conversation with other genres like punk and jazz?
For me [Dimitri], this mix was never a calculated decision. It's just how I think about music. I grew up in Haitian culture, then I started exploring lots of other music (punk, jazz, funk, Afrobeat, etc.) – anything that vibrated, anything that shouted something. And every time I discovered an artist, in my mind I would put them in a dialogue with what I already knew from where I came from.
When I listen to stuff like Talking Heads or Tricky, what I like isn't just the sound, it's the energy, the way they mix everything up, the way they go through everything without any hang-ups. That speaks to me because Haitian music, whether it's mizik rasin or mini-jazz, has always been like that too: taking deep rhythms, often from ceremonies or traditions, and rubbing them against other forms of music and stories, without forgoing anything.
When we play, it feels natural to me. There's no ‘first Haitian, then punk, then jazz’ stage: it's all at the same time. That's what allows us to throw out rough, aggressive, free stuff, but with a foundation that comes from something very ancient, yet very alive.
Your songs reference Haitian vodou, a tradition in which music has a deeply spiritual meaning. What impact does this have on your songwriting?
In a Vodou ceremony, we begin by calling on Papa Legba, the one who opens doors. This idea speaks to us deeply.
When we play, we think about that. Music must open something up. The rhythms set a framework, but within it things can overflow. And it is in this overflow that we find a form of healing.
Vodou is a spirituality of resistance. It survived the slave ships and fuelled the Haitian revolution. It is an energy of survival and liberation.
On stage, I never feel alone. There's the band, of course. But there's also a memory, an invisible force. It allows me to be totally in the moment, without seeking perfection.
The lyrics are written with that intensity. Raw, radical and uncompromising writing, like the one of authors like Burroughs, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Magloire Saint-Aude, is what inspires the writing of our lyrics.
What are your plans for the future and where do you see yourselves going next?
We want to go further. Tell stronger stories. Take more risks. Surprise ourselves.
And play. Play a lot.
If our music can transform anger into something alive, that's already huge. We seek Beautiful Violence by denouncing hatred and domination in order to open up a more humane space.
The rest, we'll see.
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