JEMBERU ON REINVENTING WHAT IT MEANS TO BE AN ETHIOPIAN ARTIST

If you’ve been paying attention to the undeniable rise of Ethiopia’s music scene, the name Jemberu or JD to those who know him is likely on your radar. His energetic breakout track Tef Tef introduced an artist who felt at once grounded and restless, rooted in tradition but unwilling to be confined by it. For Jemberu, music isn’t about crafting a genre or chasing a trend; it’s a ritual. A spiritual and cultural one at that.

“My real name is Jedidiah but Jemberu is like a character I can express myself with,” he says during our conversation. “It’s not permanent. I might change it completely for the next album if that’s what feels right or if I've evolved enough.” He laughs. “Names carry power. Weight. You have to earn them.”

This philosophy of impermanence, of evolution over definition, sits at the core of everything Jemberu does. Even his self-coined term Tonic Fusion isn’t a genre but a process. “I call it that because it’s literally about fusing tones; Ethiopian scales, blues, rap, electronic. But it’s not forced. It’s natural. Like blending language, history, and feeling into something alive.”

His last album, Esatu Se, made that vision plain. Built around the Amharic alphabet letters Negus Se and Esatu Se as both symbol and structure, he created alter egos to explore misreading, mislabeling, and misunderstanding. “People assume Esatu Se is because of how it looks. But really, it’s Negus Se, he explains, leaning forward. “It’s like Sasha Fierce for Beyoncé or Slim Shady for Eminem. Sometimes you need another version of yourself to unlock what’s already there but hidden. It’s not faking or trying to be something you’re not, but a way to reveal something real that’s being held back for some reason.”

For Jemberu, that process is sacred. Before his debut album had even begun getting finalized, he was quietly reaching out to Ethiopian legends like Mulatu Astatke and Emahoy TseguéMaryam Guèbrou, asking their permission to sample their work a gesture rarely seen in today’s fast, digital-first scene. “We didn’t have to ask, technically, but we wanted to. Out of respect.” That respect paid off. Initially declining at first, Emahoy’s family reconsidered after hearing the track Balehageru, considering it worthy of standing alongside her legacy. As for Mulatu, not only did he approve the track for I Faram Gamay, I Faram, but he also appeared in the music video, surprising everyone by joining Jemberu on stage at his debut show to play keys himself. “He moved faster than we did,” Jemberu laughs. “It felt like a gift— one that came way earlier in my career than I expected,” Jemberu reflects. “It showed me real legends never get stuck in their time. They stay curious.”

And now, curiosity is pulling him somewhere new. His next album promises a harder edge. A sharper voice. Less the fun and easy going Esatu Se storyteller, more the fighter and provocateur. “I didn’t get to fully world-build last time,” he says. “So this one is different. The songs break systems. Break rules. It won’t be what people expect from an ‘Ethiopian rapper.’ I want to change what that even means.”s he nervous about the shift? He pauses, grins. “I’m more curious than afraid. Curious about the boundaries I can push. Curious how people will react when you

Even his creative process is unpredictable. Sometimes it starts with a beat. Sometimes a phrase. Sometimes a feeling he can’t shake. But it’s always personal. “I want it to feel like I’m sitting next to the listener. Like we’re just

As for legacy? He shrugs. “I don’t think about that. Legacy is for later. I care about music now. While I’m alive to enjoy it. The rest will sort itself out.”What does matter to Jemberu though, is the discipline. The spark. The discomfort that keeps him moving. “The worst thing is thinking you know enough. I got burned by that once. I thought I had it figured out.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Never again. Now, I stay uncomfortable on purpose. There’s always more to learn. More to try.” It’s this refusal to settle that makes Jemberu’s next chapter feel thrillingly uncertain. No script. No mold. Not even a promise that “Jemberu” will remain the same as who we once knew.

“Honestly, I want to bring more truth into Ethiopian music,” he says. “We keep telling the same stories. The same type of love. The same type of sadness. The safe, accepted messages. But what about the confusion? The chaos of now? Our generation’s fear, anger, mistakes? I want that to be heard in our music, too.”

As we wrap up, I ask him if there’s anything he’s searching for. Anything he wishes his audience knew about him. “I’m a total nerd,” He says bashfully. “If I wasn’t doing music I would probably be doing something with computers. I play video games a lot, anything that has a plot or storyline to follow. I think it’s because i’m always looking for new forms of expression, new feelings, new thoughts. I try to squeeze the ‘why’ out of everything I do, from my work to other people.”

Humble, honest and forever curious, if you think you know Jemberu Demeke, you probably don’t. Not yet. Maybe never. And that’s exactly how he wants it.