West Africa's biggest musical export may be Afropop, but there is a movement to revive big band music with a political spirit

Once upon a time, Lagos was the city where Afrobeat stars such as Fela Kuti and Fatai Rolling Dollar cast musical spells under tropical skies. Backed by dozen-strong live bands, their words incited live crowds into, musically speaking, launching Molotov cocktails at the palace doors.

Nowadays, a flood of sugary Auto-Tuned anthems threatens to drown that rich musical heritage, but a small but growing group of musicians is fighting against the tide. West Africa's biggest musical export may now be politically vacuous afropop, but some among the upcoming generation want to return to socially conscious music.

Often singing in pidgin and taking their cue from traditional religions, music and instruments, they meet each month in the grounds of a former colonial prison where the British tortured and hanged those who agitated for freedom.

"Afrobeat is more than just music, it's a movement. It's about politics, economics – all of that, in musical form," said Seun Kuti, who grew up playing alongside his father, Fela, at his famous nightclub, the Shrine. Authorities razed the original site as Fela's popularity grew on the back of songs that wove trance-inducing beats with a searing take on local realities. And though Seun continues to play at a renovated Shrine, Afrobeat music today draws its biggest crowds in Europe and America rather than at home.

The monthly Afropolitan Vibes night aims to revive a spirit of rebellion.

"Until recently, we artists would all have to meet in Europe – we'd go to Paris, London, Berlin, to record," said the event's dreadlocked creator, Ade Bantu. "The whole idea of Afropolitan Vibes is to bring it back to ourselves. We want to take all the complexity and coolness of being African, and to connect it to the realities on the ground."

On a recent Saturday night, several-hundred sweating, foot-stomping, cheering fans watched Bantu open a show. "As a Nigerian, it's almost your birthright and responsibility to know and study Fela's musical genius. This is one of the few places trying to keep the tradition of the Shrine alive," said audience member Tara Hecksher , as the crowd was wreathed in pungent smoke and palm wine flowed.

"I've been bringing my little one here since before she was even born," said Abiola, 34, balancing an infant on her hip. "The bands that play here, the meaning can come from the drumming style or instruments they use, and I want her to drink all this in."

Her daughter gave a toothy grin and clapped as the crowd burst into a call-and-response typical of Fela's shows.

Live, big band music that was once the fabric of traditional celebrations and events across West Africa began dying out during the late 1970s as imported sounds drowned the local market, and churches became the mainstay for musicians to earn their keep. In Nigeria, many also struggled to accept Afrobeat's rejection of Christianity and Islam in favour of traditional religion; the subject still raises eyebrows.

"People like to talk a lot about going to your roots, but then they don't want to talk about religion," said Emmanuel Owusu- Bonsu, one half of Ghanaian duo Wanlov and Mensa, at another recent Afropolitan Nights show. The pair's musical, rapped and sung entirely in pidgin, drew a shocked silence – and a few appreciative chuckles – when it depicted Buddha laughing as he played war games, while Jesus enjoyed a turnip-sized spliff with two flirtatious nuns. In another scene, Count Dracula and Ghana's trickster spider God, Kwaku Ananse, had an open mic battle.

Elsewhere, others are also giving heritage a modern spin.

"We're like the town crier," said Grammy award winner Lekan Babalola, whose Eko Brass Band refers to the traditional Yoruba name for the city and whose members are deeply conscious of their city.

The 12 band members are from the city's gritty Campos area, a home for returning slaves from Brazil, and their brass style walks the line between pre-slavery music and the sound missionaries' brass bands absorbed when they reached Lagos's shores in the 18th century.

"Our message is to talk to our people first – that's 180 million Nigerians. We have [Yoruba divinities] Ifa and Orisha to inspire us, and that's what makes us different. Lagos has the stock exchange, the area boys, the culture, the history, the grit. It's easy to celebrate it through music," Babalola said.