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Here is the link: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83341548574

The mini-tour I'm gearing up for is going to be a first on many accounts, which I'll be delighted to discuss with you during the Livestream Q&A I'm inviting you to join over here, February 27th at 7pm CET. Please don't hesitate to send questions in advance. Looking forward to it.

I'm gearing up for a mini-tour in the UK, May 2026.

Decision has been long in the making, as I never longed to become a seasoned stage performer. My art remains in the studio always. Yet I can see the value of letting the audience hear and see, for its own ears and eyes, the person responsible for the emotional impact his music has generated, on multiple generations sometimes. I'm looking forward to these live encounters.

Tickets may be purchased online:

May 14: "The Yard" Manchester - https://ra.co/events/2312921

May 15: "Strange Brew" Bristol - https://www.headfirstbristol.co.uk/whats-on/strange-brew/fri-15-may-wally-badarou-special-guests-148078#e148078

May 16: "Jazz Cafe" London - https://dice.fm/event/3owoml-test-pressing-wally-badarou-ddwy-live-16th-may-the-jazz-cafe-london-tickets

It is finally out today in all good record shops across the globe!

My friends,
It’s called "Simple Things". My forthcoming vinyl EP is a remastered collection of the six songs I've finally completed from the backing tracks in "Colors of Silence", and which I've already released online earlier this year, one by one.
For those of you following me here on Sleeve, I have a few surprises in mind around this release.

Consider this your heads-up: stay tuned.

I love your comments, thanks a lot for being here with me and asking me these great questions. Recently, someone asked how I know when a piece of music is “good.”

The truth? I don’t — not right away.

When I’m deep in the work, I can’t trust my first reaction. In the moment, an idea can feel brilliant, intoxicating even. But the next morning can be sobering — what seemed like magic might reveal itself as merely… ordinary. That’s why I need distance. Time to step away. To return with fresh ears.

When you work alone, as I often do, there’s no one in the room to challenge your instincts. You can get carried away, building on a shaky foundation, only to reach the end and wonder: Where did I lose it? Sometimes the answer is simple — I was chasing the wrong idea entirely.

That’s why I’ve always valued having a listener. Not an engineer, not a producer, not a fellow musician — just someone who listens without agenda. My wife was like that. She wasn’t a musician, which made her feedback even more precious. She’d simply say, “I like it” or “play it again.” No explanations, no technical notes. Just a pure, unfiltered response. You can’t buy that.

Sitting in the dark, rather.Finger pointing at Larry Dunn (Earth Wind & Fire keyboardist),co-producer of the album with Verdine White.

I’ve learned over the years that making music for others and making music for yourself require different compasses. In the 80s, I spent much of my time “sessionning” for other artists — but I never saw myself as a session player. The term suggests a musician who arrives, follows instructions, and leaves. That was never me. I felt more like an invited guest — improvising, shaping, and sometimes redefining the music as it was being made. My parts were mine, as much as they were the artist’s.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never thought of my own albums as “solo” records. They’re just my records — the result of pursuing the music I hear, whether I’m in a room alone or surrounded by others. And while I’ve contributed to countless projects, my compass has always pointed toward one thing: making my own music.

Doing some vocal trims with the help of Doctor Spike Drake.

Even now, melodies circle in my head no matter what else life brings. Often they come as fragments — unrelated scraps — until, one day, I start connecting them. Sometimes all it takes is a shift in key, and suddenly they fall into place, as if they’d always belonged together.

Mick Jones once told me that Waiting for a Girl Like You began as three entirely different songs. Combined almost by accident, it became a hit. That’s the beauty of creating: you leave space for the unexpected, for the happy mistakes you couldn’t have planned.

Creation isn’t easy. And that’s exactly why it’s worth it.

Now I’m curious — what would you like to see here next?

An unreleased track from the archives?

A moment from the road?

Or a glimpse into what I’m working on right now?

Several of you have asked about my album "Echoes", saying it holds a special place in you, so I wanted to unfold a bit of the story behind and my thoughts around it.

When I recorded Echoes, I never thought it would become the record people would remember me by. To me, it was meant as a collection of teasers, backward “echoes” of music still to come. Yet, for many listeners, it became the defining work. Sometimes music decides its own destiny.

Late nights composing "Echoes"

Things were clear in my head: it would feature any kind of pieces, some African, some jazzy, and some more romantic ones — a way to display the visual potential of my palettes. Chris Blackwell insisted it should be instrumental, quite a departure from where I thought I was headed with Barclay Records. Looking back, he was right.

More than a set of songs, I imagined Echoes as a soundtrack — the imaginary journey of a little boy traveling the world. That’s why the tracks crossfade into one another, something I had admired so much in Stevie Wonder’s Talking Book and Innervisions. On a trip back to Nassau, Chris made me listen to Trevor Horn’s production of Malcolm McLaren’s Duck Rock. Its dynamic and variety convinced me I was on the right path. All I had to do was pick the right fragments from my demos.

Most of my demos back then (and still today) were not complete songs. They were sketches — “pierres d’attente,” little fragments waiting to be developed, sometimes just a drum machine and a synth-bass, sometimes only a chord progression. The more melodic, harmony-driven ones (the more “Western-sounding” pieces) were the only ones fully fleshed out before entering the studio.

Andy is working something on those Linn-Drum percussions,while the Prophet V is momentarily put to rest.

And so Echoes came to life. It was never conceived as an “African” album, nor as “new-age,” nor as an “experiment.” It simply was what pre-MIDI technology allowed me to create at the time, a way to express the multicultural roots I felt inside: an African-born Parisian who had grown up with Brahms, James Brown, João Gilberto, The Beatles, Myriam Makeba, Jacques Brel, and Celia Cruz all at once. I was no exception — many with open minds could embrace this eclecticism.

But the industry always needs categories. With Hi-Life, I became an “African artist” overnight — meaning, to some, that I was bound to make only African music. In the US and UK, Chief Inspector pushed me into the hip-hop lane, thanks to the explosion of the remix phenomenon.

All this at a time when an album like Echoes — today more easily defendable — was nearly impossible to promote. It crossed too many genres. But that was the whole point: it was meant to be like a dream, where a fierce jungle scene (Jungle) could fade into a melancholic one (Rain). A score for an unshot movie.

Remember the phone 'clang'in between Endless Race and Chief Inspector ?

At first, Echoes went mostly unnoticed in own country France, except within Black communities. In the UK, immigration officers at Heathrow would greet me with “Hey! Mr Chief Inspector is back!” In Africa and the Antilles, Hi-Life became an anthem. The album resonated in unexpected ways, across borders I hadn’t drawn myself.

That may be why Echoes still travels today. It wasn’t built for one genre or one place. It was built to wander. Would love for you to leave a comment, if you have anything you wanna ask?

This is Wally.

I’ve decided to step a little closer to you. I’ve always believed music is about connection, not just consumption. So this is a space where I’ll begin sharing more directly, more personally, with those of you who care to listen.

Old recordings. New sketches. Stories from the studio. Maybe even some reflections on where we’ve been—and where music might be heading next.

Me in Hyde Park, London, February 1982. Photograph: David Corio/Redferns

I’m also doing this to support this new project called Sleeve. It’s a platform made by artists, for artists—a quiet rebellion against the noise and algorithms. A way to bring more value and care back to music, and to the people who make it.

It’s early days. But if you’re here, you’re early too. Isn't that marvellous?

Thanks for being part of this, please leave a comment, tell a friend. I look forward to what we’ll build together.

—Wally

Me today - Photo of me by me