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Starting his career as a sportsman in the colonial motherland of Lisbon, Bonga left Portugal for exile in Holland in 1972 -- following his criticism of the colonial regime in Angola and clandestine support for its revolutionaries. Portuguese sport's loss was music's gain, and a dÈbut album Angola 72 was immediately banned in Angola for its overt political content.

The years have not dimmed Bonga's fire. The spirit which animates his music ranges from smouldering melancholy (represented on Bonga Live by "Kambomborinho", "Mona ki ngi xica") via impassioned outrage ("Mulemba Xangola") to wild abandon ("Kamacove", "Sambila"). The live recording format of this album suits him -- this is a man who knows how to work a crowd, and the infectious enthusiasm recalls such classics of the format as Mercedes Sosa's 1982 Buenos Aires welcome-home concert or Cesaria Evora live at the Olympia.

Cesaria Evora springs to mind for other reasons too. The two share a musical and linguistic heritage from Portugal. Bonga may have dropped his colonial birth name of Jose de Lin Barcelo de Carvalho, but he hasn't shaken the saudade from his voice. Though the resemblance to rhythms of merengue, samba and other Latin rhythms is unmistakable, we shouldn't be too quick to talk about Latin influence. The fact is, as with jazz, the traffic goes both ways between America and Africa; many believe that samba is based on the older semba rhythm, carried across the ocean to Brazil by slaves from their homelands in modern-day Angola.

Whatever the history, what emerges is a rich and compelling blend of Latin spirit, echoes of fado and home-grown rhythms reminiscent of both Congolese and South African traditions. Bonga's voice is a strange, powerful combination of expressiveness (he has a warm, throaty vibrato in the lyrical numbers) and guttural, chesty energy. He also plays percussion and dikanza, and is ably accompanied on this album by the group Semba Master, who are a standard line-up plus accordion and organ, with everyone singing backing vocals, often in unison.

The concert starts in intimate vein, but by the time Bonga reaches encore number six, his Parisian crowd, his band and the man himself are at fever-pitch. If you're not as well, you haven't been listening hard enough.

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