From discovering Bob Marley's revolutionary message as a teenager to learning the art of composition from Quincy Jones, the Fugees founder reflects on the songs that taught him to blend genres, speak truth to power, and remain "forever a student" of music.
"The conscious person never says that they're conscious," Wyclef Jean reflects, his voice carrying the weight of three decades in music. "There's something in the music that makes you want to check yourself.”
Thirty years before the music industry embraced "genre-bending" as a buzzword, Wyclef Jean was already defying categorisation. The Haitian-American artist, producer, and composer has spent his career moving seamlessly between hip-hop and country, reggae and rock, classical orchestration and trap beats — not as a tourist sampling sounds, but as a student deeply studying each tradition.
"I could have never been put in a box," Jean says, speaking from his home ahead of his first London show in 15 years. "I was doing records with Kenny Rogers and Pharoahe Monch, and people thought I had three heads. I was with Bono on YouTube before people figured it out. I produced Tom Jones’ whole album, worked with Mick Jagger, Sinéad O'Connor, Gloria Estefan, Michael Jackson, Young Thug and Lil Wayne. It goes on and on.”
Jean’s eclecticism was born from circumstance and curiosity. Leaving Haiti at seven and landing in Brooklyn's Marlboro Projects, he found himself absorbing the sounds around him while maintaining a militant-activist position that ultimately defined his approach to music. Under the mentorship of Quincy Jones, he learned that "records have to be bigger than you," a philosophy that would drive him to create some of the most sampled music in the world.
"Quincy taught me the institution," Jean explains. "He was conducting Frank Sinatra's orchestra with sheet music, so in my early days, when a music teacher discovered me, I learned how to read sheet music. One of my early shows was literally being the first rapper to play Carnegie Hall with a full harmonic orchestra, writing the sheet music myself.”
That foundation has allowed Jean to engage with a variety of genres not as an outsider looking in, but as someone who could speak the language fluently. Whether it was dabbling in country music by partaking in a tribute to Johnny Cash, or composing orchestral arrangements, Jean's work consistently crossed generational and cultural boundaries because, as he puts it, "when we hear something, we can just feel it.”
Jean’s Nine Songs selections span decades and genres, but they're united by a common thread: they're timeless pieces that speak to universal human experiences while maintaining their specific cultural contexts. From Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" to Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. Two”, each song has taught him something about using music to transcend boundaries and speak truth to power.
"I don't really know what ‘favourite genre’ means," Jean reflects. "Once you do that, you're separating music. Whether it's Bach, Prince or Stormzy, the commonality is that when we hear something, we can just feel it. You might take an opera song and flip it with hip-hop. Creativity is endless.”
On 24th August, coinciding with Notting Hill Carnival weekend, Jean will bring this philosophy to London's KOKO for a one-night-only show he's calling "Karnivalé: One night only” - a celebration of 30 years of music that promises to be both "revival and discovery.” The performance will showcase Jean's journey from the tiny room in Coney Island where "Ready or Not" was born, to his current status as "one of the greatest composers of all time.”
"I'm a curator of talent and discovery," Jean tells me. "That's what excites me the most. To be able to take an entire generation - past, present, and future - and take them on that journey, I just hope it inspires everybody in the room for whatever their next journey is about to be.”
At 54, Jean remains "forever a student”, absorbing new influences while maintaining the same core message he's carried since his early days of listening to protest songs in high school. "I give credit to a good book, a good song or a lyric. When you hear it, it changes your thinking.”
“Redemption Song” by Bob Marley
WYCLEF JEAN: I was a senior in high school, and I remember this era very well. It was the end of ’88, about to be ’89, and I was a militant, you know? Like, an activist. I always have been since I was a kid.
One thing that we were obsessed with was the freedom of Nelson Mandela. As a kid in Jersey and Brooklyn, we were following that very deeply. Then one of my friends came and said, ‘Yo, have you heard this joint?’ I said, ‘Nah’. We always had these crazy vinyl’s. I’m a vinyl dude. So he put it on, and I think I played it like fifty times.
Sometimes it takes longer to learn a song by heart, but when you love it, you learn it. That night, I had the whole song memorised in my brain like a verse from The Good Book. It sounded like it had the same message as what we were talking about with the Mandela thing, and what we were going through. Two years after that, Mandela was free in 1990.
When I released my first song in 1990, it was a house music song. Lyrically, ‘Redemption Song’ taught me how to pen. You can’t be saying anything, so it’s a house beat, but somehow I still found a way to talk about what happened, and the freedom of Mandela, because of the importance of “Redemption Song”. When I heard that song, it clicked in my head that at times, you can’t compromise what you say. You’ve got to say the truth.
BEST FIT: Do you identify truth as a source of consistency throughout your music?
Definitely. People have been like, ‘Yo man, it doesn’t matter whether it’s 1990 or 2025, you can go to every country and at least one kid knows you. What is it?’ And I tell them that if a kid were to Google me - even if they don’t know me - whether they go back to 1990 or now, the consistency of what I’m talking about is the same. I never really switch what I’m going to talk about.
Over the years, you’ve cited Bob Marley as a major source of inspiration. Being a young man from Haiti when you discovered ‘Redemption Song’, what did Bob Marley’s visibility as an artist from the Caribbean mean to you at the time?
At the time, I was too young. I didn’t grasp it that deeply. Because I was so young, and I didn’t fully understand what that connection with Bob Marley was, I was more attracted to the messaging. It was what he was saying and how he was saying it. I wasn’t thinking that I’m a Caribbean man, I’m just a man, but what this human is saying is attracting me. As I’ve gotten older, I started stepping back and looking at who this person was.
So, early on, it was more the immediate message of his lyrics that grabbed you rather than the deeper relatability?
It was the immediate vibe at first. But when I’d listen to “Trenchtown Rock” and all of that for example, I can relate to that. I knew what Port-Au-Prince was like. I knew that my uncles had left early. Baby Doc was trying to kill them at the time, and they got out of the country. Even when he’s talking about the tenement yards, it takes me back to humble beginnings. It’d take me back to my village, the hut. Here’s someone who’s seeing, and everything he’s seeing, I can picture it.
“What's Going On” by Marvin Gaye
Alongside ‘Redemption Song’, both of these songs stand out for their commentary on social injustice and the need for change. Do you feel that music rooted in protest is significant for you?
I’m naturally into current events; it feels like it’s part of my DNA. If something is going on, I feel like I have to look into it, especially if it impacts the human race as a whole. Just like with Bob Marley, the attraction to “What’s Going On” comes from what he’s saying. You can take that song and apply it to any crisis around the world. It’s written in a way that makes it timeless.
When I first heard “What’s Going On”, I was a jazz major in the early days of high school. I was listening to Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew. And my man said, ‘Yo, check this Marvin joint out, man, it’s called “What’s Going On”.’ But I was heavily into jazz at the time, so my ear didn’t want to hear anything that had any form of commercial appeal. I didn’t want to hear anything happy. It had to be dark, moody, so I was like, ‘Marvin? Come on, man, I’m good.’
So he puts this thing on, and this mood comes through. The minute Marvin sings ‘Brother, brother’, it was over. It gives you chills. Am I being sanctioned or séanced by the gods? What’s going on?
Coming up, leaving Haiti at seven and ending up in Marlboro Projects in Coney Island as a kid, one of the most dangerous projects, that song is like looking out the window in the projects and seeing all kinds of shit going down. So it was like, you’d see the pimp pimping the little girl, but then you’d see that her mama’s there too. But she doesn’t care. Or you’d see the dude selling the crack, but he’ll sell the crack to his own auntie. And it keeps going and going. So, “What’s Going On” painted a picture for me. We need to check ourselves.
But then it gave me hope too. The song still made it feel like the possibility of hope was there. Like, okay. I'm gonna get my mama up out of these situations. We’re gonna be good, you know? It was a call to action to make something of yourself and not be a statistic of the system.
In 2001, you contributed to a cover of “What’s Going On” in support of Artists Against AIDS. What was it like being involved with that? Has it impacted your connection with the song?
As a composer, anything that I cover is one of those joints that I wish I wrote. I’ve never covered something that I hadn’t wished I had written. So that means that I’ll put a twist on it that doesn’t exist, and “What’s Going On” was one of those songs for me. I’ll forever be connected to it.
“Ready or Not” by The Fugees
This is the only song that you’ve selected from your catalogue with The Fugees. What makes it stand out in comparison to the other Fugees songs?
“Ready or Not” started with a beat that I did in the hood in this tiny little room, with a basketball court in the back with one chain hanging down. Two pit bulls outside, and behind that, a crack house. I’m in my uncle’s crib, I’m sitting there, and I start to program this vibe. I was very eclectic when it came down to going to the record store. Somehow, I got my hands on Enya, and I love that one part of the record because it felt like that community.
What drew you to Enya at that time?
I’m one of those kids who used to dig in the crates. When you’d go to the record store, with the flick of your finger, you could figure out what’s hot in any country. It’s different now, but for me, I had to go and sit in a record store all day. What I loved about it was that it was a physical journey. You get a chance to take a vinyl and play a few seconds of it just to hear. At the time, I didn’t know who Enya was. What attracted me to that was the Gregorian chant, the humming. I thought that if I sped it up, I could rap over it.
Enya isn’t thinking about the hood, that’s not in the cards. So I loop this thing, then I start doing this beat. Within the beat’s simplicity, it took me back to all of these places and the timeless, universal songs we’ve been talking about, without a vocal even on it yet. I was doing the beat and thinking, ‘What if anyone in the world had something to say, what would they say?’
Then, I remember Miss Hill coming in, AKA Lauryn Hill, AKA L Boogie. In a split second, she sings: ‘Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide, I’m gonna find you.’ That hook says it all, no matter what you think, we're still coming. We're still gonna rise to the top. You can do whatever you want. We’re going to break these borders and make it happen for us. I wasn't conscious of it, but I thought if I create a mood, then a mood will talk to your soul.
The same way the Marvin Gaye song talked to my soul, and Marley talked to my soul. And The Fugees is the truth. Whenever someone feels like they really want to say some shit, they can take that beat and go crazy online.
And how do you feel that your relationship with “Ready or Not” has changed from the point of being written up to now?
I pinch myself when I think of where I was at when I created the beat. The other day, I was thinking, ‘Musicians, we’re constantly recording music.’ But once in a while, you feel ready to give the public some of the music. So, this new project, Quantum Leap, what makes it different? What’s going to make it crazy? “Ready or Not” is a reset button for me. I told people I hadn’t really rapped in fifteen years, and people were like, ‘Yo, what do you mean?’. On Quantum Leap, on the first single ‘Back From Abu Dhabi’ with Dave Chapelle, I’m rapping. In order to do so, there has to be a reset. I can come back to “Ready or Not” when I’m ready to go, and I want to reset and talk to any generation at any time.
“Ready or Not” allowed me to have the biggest institution of musicality in the world. It’s allowed me to call anyone, and they call you back in two seconds because they never know what you’re going to do. It’s a reset for me personally, to always remember the power of words and where I come from.
“Roxanne” by The Police
This stands apart from the previous songs, particularly in terms of genre.
I’ve had different phases of music in my life. This is how I’ve learned music. One day, my brother bought a cassette. We were in the hood. The cassette said Police, Synchronicity. At first, I said, ‘I don’t have love for the police like that. I’m not listening to no police.’ And he said, ‘No, it’s not what you think. It’s a band.’
I fell in love with The Police first. The song ‘Roxanne’ I can relate to again, because it goes back to that neighbourhood for me. Sting didn’t know where I was at; he didn’t know I was in the projects. I knew a Roxanne, one who went to the prom. Then next thing you know, a year later, when the crack epidemic hits the streets, she completely becomes a nightwalker.
Here’s a big thing, I couldn’t write “Perfect Gentleman” without “Roxanne”. “Roxanne” was penned in a certain way, and it made the nightwalker look a certain way. I did the same thing on “Perfect Gentleman” when I spoke of the stripper, ‘Just ‘cause she dances go-go / It doesn’t make her a ho, no’. “Roxanne” was like, ‘He without sin casts the first stone’. And that’s what attracted me to it. We’re so busy throwing stones at people, but you don’t know what the hustle is.
It was also the sound. As a producer and a composer, I was listening to The Police and Pink Floyd in one era, trying to figure out what that was.
It’s like you mentioned earlier when we were talking about “What’s Going On”, and you described it as the experience of looking out the window at the projects. “Roxanne” is another version of looking out the window and observing what’s happening in people’s lives?
Yes! And here’s a fun fact. The Fugees “Vocab”, on the remixed version, you’ll hear me go, ‘Roxanne, you don't got to work for the money no more!’. I said it, I remember Eddie Murphy saying it in a movie, everyone was saying it. It’s the truth, right there!
“Zombie” by Fela Kuti
Earlier you mentioned being an activist, and this song was an impactful military critique that triggered a violent response. Given your interest in songs that speak out about oppression, how does the political message of “Zombie” resonate with you?
It’s relatable to me. I’m from Papa Doc, then Baby Doc, then the coup. I don’t think it was only Nigeria experiencing those things. In the same way I can relate to it, I’m sure someone in the Congo at the time could have related to it. Fela Kuti was speaking and critiquing an area that everyone in a part of the world had going down with them.
Even in America, we had our own version of the Gestapo, and we still do. That’s what interested me in that song.
Then I did a deep dive on Fela, and thought ‘Oh, shit!’. Like me, he studied jazz. Then he went to his country, he created some shit, he mixed jazz with the sound of his country. That was another wake-up call for me.
There’s a song on your album Carnival III: The Fall and Rise of a Refugee called Fela Kuti. Where did that come from?
It was like the way that Young Thug had a song called “Wyclef Jean”. It had nothing to do with Wyclef Jean, but he felt like he needed to pay homage. That felt like “Fela Kuti” for me. It has nothing to do with him, but it has that energy. I used to watch Fela Kuti on stage with the big band, and I wanted to capture that sound.
“I Get Around” by Tupac
There’s quite a bit of complicated history between Tupac and The Fugees, but you’ve previously acknowledged the importance of Tupac’s work and influence on hip-hop. Can you tell me about what it was actually like, being contemporaries in that scene?
You could look online and see pictures of me and Pac from that time. We were all kids, and again, we all had a militant stance on what we felt at the time. I actually had one conversation with Tupac. This was in a green room; we were in Europe. The conversation was a Toussaint Louverture, Black Panther-type conversation.
The reason that “I Get Around” was dope is because it was like, ‘Dude, sometimes you don’t have to think that heavy, man. You can take a second out, Clef, let your back down, and really have fun with your generation. You don’t always have to be a vibe-killer in the room. We just want to go out and have a few dates, and you’re talking about World War Three coming. We don’t need to hear that shit right now!’.
So Pac was like, ‘Okay man, gotta have those cool, fun records, make people happy, and give them hope.’
That took me to a place of understanding not to be so one-sided with the culture. Sometimes you take yourself too seriously. So if I’d never heard “I Get Around”, I wouldn’t have done so many fun records.
There’s a very fun side of Wyclef - the Carnival side that people do really enjoy - and to me, “I Get Around” falls into that category.
“My Love Is Your Love” by Whitney Houston
So, you produced this song with Jerry Duplessis. Working with Whitney Houston is a pretty major collaboration. What was that like for you?
Well, the thing is, I had to write the song first. And then Whitney had to like the song. So, you can imagine, I was freaking out. But she gets on the phone and says, ‘I don’t like it, I love it!’ I always say that song is very special for me, because I got a chance to see Whitney in a way that nobody in the universe did.
When we were recording the song, Whitney’s daughter was actually in the studio while her mama was in the booth. And Bobby Brown was outside. When Whitney started singing the song, her daughter said, ‘Sing, Mommy.’ I was like, ‘What did you just say?’ And I recorded it, but her mom never heard it.
Then, I recorded Whitney. I brought Bobby Brown into the room and had him do some of the background vocals as well, because I needed a male voice in the back. So for me, that song reminds me that the idea of family is still possible. I got Whitney, her daughter and Bobby for a couple of hours in the studio to have the best time of their life.
When I hear ‘My Love Is Your Love’, it’s a reminder that the gift is possible.
"Juicy" by The Notorious B.I.G.
As a fellow East Coast rapper, Notorious B.I.G. is a compeer that was a little bit closer to home. How did that inspire you within a growing East Coast hip-hop scene?
I remember opening for Biggie and Puff with The Fugees. I remember Biggie coming in the dressing room talking about ‘Y’all cheating, going up there hitting the thimble and drum and shit. I don’t play none of that shit’, like a big teddy bear.
In that song, the lyric ‘It was all a dream’, it’s what we all aspired to be. Biggie was telling me, ‘This is where y’all are going to go. Believe in your dream, and all is possible’. If I doubt anything, I put on that song.
It falls in line with a sense of unity that comes with some of the previous songs. Do you feel that unity symbolises something for you, and was it a point of motivation in the face of struggle? Across Biggie’s catalogue, what made “Juicy” most representative of that?
“Juicy” feels closest to the story of the hut, to the projects, to the mansion. It talks to me like that.
“Another Brick in the Wall, Pt 2” by Pink Floyd
We’re diving a bit deeper into your rock era of The Police and Pink Floyd. What was it about ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ that appealed to you?
First of all, the production was nuts. I've never heard a sound like that in my life. Also, the haunting sound of the kids singing. And that energy. This is a song that was playing in the hood.
The lyrics felt mad revolutionary, it was like listening to some revolution rock type shit. The words were penned like a rapper to me. ‘We don’t need no education, teachers leave these kids alone’. Damn, that’s how I feel right now - teachers need to leave me the fuck alone!”
The energy of the whole record was also super cool. And once I heard that, I also created the most terrible version of the cockney accent. But it was relatable. Again, that song, I put it with the Marvin Gaye track as far in as how what it was saying spoke to me. It comes back to that world politics thing, where you're saying one thing, but it doesn't stay within a four-block radius. Each neighbourhood has their own version of “Another Brick in the Wall.”
You’ve also covered Pink Floyd’s ‘Wish You Were Here’ as part of your album The Ecleftic: 2 Sides II a Book. What made you choose ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ as one of your favourites as opposed to that one?
It’s a song that I wish that I wrote. Well, sometimes I’m more attracted to the more obscure material. “Another Brick in the Wall” will take me to a place at any time, but ‘Wish You Were Here’ ticks me differently. Because even though it's commercial, it’s one of those songs that strikes you. You hear it and think, ‘Oh, let me learn this guitar riff.’
As a guitar player, you literally just want to learn the solo. Then you’re listening to it as an engineer, and it's sonic. The song starts off from this tiny little radio, then the guitar comes in, and its nuts. The nuttiest sonic arrangement ever.
Wyclef Jean plays KOKO on Sunday 24 August. New single, ‘Back from Abu Dhabi’ is released 19 September.
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