VIEUX ANEW: FARKA ME 2

“Hendrix of the Desert:” don’t you just love that name they try to hang on Vieux Farka Toure’, son of Ali, son of Ishmael and Mariam?  Yeah, about as much as I love PR rap in general, and ad copy in particular.  About as much as I love the attempt to fit Alex Cuba with the title “Hendrix of the North” or “Hendrix of Kootenay” or whatever it was, a few years ago.  The problem, in both cases, is that it’s just not accurate.  Alex Cuba’s pop guitar stylings are wonderful, but closer to Eddie Van Halen than those of His Majesty Hendrix.  And I dig Vieux, too, but he ain’t Hendrix; hey, he’s not even from the desert!  Hometown Niafunke is still the Sahel, not Sahara, last time I checked, and he obviously has sub-Saharan—not Semitic or Berber—physical characteristics, as the neighboring Tuareg do. 

MALI’S JIHAD #4, and Counting: The Day the Music Stopped

It’s horrible, of course, the war currently going on in Mali, the desecration of Sufi shrines in Timbuktu, and the disruption of lives in a place where life doesn’t allow much margin for error.  Maybe the most ironic aspect of it all is that Mali has been able to cast itself so successfully in the last twenty years as the capital of world music, starting with Ali Farka Toure’ and including dozens of regional stars in its roll-call before making Ali’s son Vieux its latest luminary.  The griot and djeli traditions go back much farther than that, of course, which is about all that can be reliably said on the history of the subject.  Urban legends of Tuareg revolutionaries turning in their guns for guitars may be more or less accurate, if generously embellished for marketing purposes, but the claim of being able to trace American blues or jazz back to a single village in Mali is probably an over-simplification, if not necessarily false, given only anecdotal evidence and no clear genetic links.

ON CD- MALI: TALE OF TWO TRAORE’S; IN FESTIVAL(S): CANADA & LA

What Ali Farka Toure’ accomplished with his Talking Timbuktu album with Ry Cooder, has been consolidated and spread like wildfire through the otherwise harsh reality that is the African country of Mali.  The fact that it is really two countries- one Saharan and Semitic, one sub-Saharan and negroid- is the creative conjunction where sparks fly and old battles die, IF (i.e. big if), you can hold it all together.  Bottom line, Mali has some of the best music in the world, bar none.  In fact, on a per capita basis, given its population of less than fifteen million, it’s arguably THE best music in the world.  Too bad it’s so hard to travel there independently, and so expensive once you get there, no small irony in a country with per capita income of less than $700 per year.  You could easily spend that on a hotel for a week.

So, have fun if you can find those legendary dimly-lit (lighted?) clubs where people with surnames like Toure’, Diabete’, and Keita show up to play.  There’s more than a few of those names, and they may not all be related- not closely anyway- though they probably all know each other, by this time at least.  Don’t be shocked when you see street signs with those same names, IF you see any street signs at all.  There isn’t much there btw.  If you want to go to that night club, you’ll probably need a guide.  Bring lots of cash.  There aren’t a lot of ATM’s.  You’ve been warned.

It’s probably easier to just buy the CD’s, since Mali is now firmly on the world music market, one of the five pillars in fact.  Within the country itself you’ve got maybe four or five distinct genres again.  Though I haven’t seen any scholarly studies on it (that’s what I’m here for, right?), it seems as though there are genres of traditional/classical/'griot'- e.g. Diabate’, Sahel folk- e.g. Ali Farka Toure’, Tuareg folk rock- e.g. Tinariwen, urban folk blues- e.g. Ali Farka’s son Vieux, and… I’m still thinking, so give me a minute, please…

Meanwhile check out two of the newest releases from a couple of Traore’s (not to be confused with Toure’), Lobi and Boubacar, not related, so far as I know, but… it’s a small country.  Lobi Traore’ may have died prematurely last year year at the age of forty-nine, but his music will live on in this group of live recordings from those same dingy night clubs that you’re wandering around the streets of Bamako looking for.  If the album starts off a bit slowly but distinctly with the folksy percussive ‘Makono’ and ‘Banan Ni’, by the time we get to songs four and five ‘Jama’ and ‘Mali Ba’ Lobi and band are kicking ass.  ‘Bi Donga Fa Ko’ shows some surprising pop hooks and may indeed be the best song on the album, despite its seventh place in the batting order.  The album is called ‘Bwati Kono’.  Check it out.

Boubacar Traore’ is something else altogether.  Firmly within the ‘Sahel Folk’ genre, this is the only person in the Mali music scene that is perhaps even as important as Ali Farka Toure’, and in fact even pre-dates him.  If Ali Farka’s music was the revelation, then this is the confirmation.  If there was any further proof needed of the close relation between US blues and Mali folk music, then look no further.  Regardless of the details in a history largely unwritten, it’s obvious that these two genres have a common source.  One branch got shipped off to Clarkdale, MS, up in Coahoma County, while the rest stayed behind in the savannahs and woodlands of Africa, eking out a living there.  Only now are they being reunited, through music.

Traore’s newest album ‘Mali Denhou’ is a wonder.  If ‘M'Badehou’ and ‘Dundobesse M'Bedouniato’ are pleasant-enough ballads to lead off with, the latter featuring a nice acoustic-guitar lead solo, ‘Mondeou’ turns up the tempo significantly, and by this time you may have a hard time sitting still.  I should probably mention the killer harmonica work by French harpster Vincent Bucher, who literally kills on this album, in effect making it a cross-cultural collaboration, some of the best blues harp I’ve ever heard, in fact, albeit of the acoustic sort.

Title song ‘Mali Denhou’ starts off with some really nice atmospheric percussion before settling into a solid blues groove, and then ‘Minuit’ takes a French-style ballad and turns it into a talking blues.  ‘Farafina Lolo Lora’ and ‘Djougouya Niagnini’ slow things down a bit, but ‘N'Dianamogo’ puts a pulse back into the beat and ‘Mali Tchebaou’ is an especially nice closer.  All in all this ranks up there with the best of Ali Farka and highly recommended.  I don’t know if he’s touring the US or Canada this summer, but I’ll be looking.

Ah, summer, it’s that time again, festival season, time to listen to music outdoors, where God intended.  Here in LA, best bets for that are the two Levitt Pavilions in MacArthur Park and Pasadena and Grand Performances downtown, featuring such acts as Sambada, Bombino, Seun Kuti, Khaira Arby and Rupa and the April Fishes.  Further afield, the Canadian Folk Festivals deserve special mention, in places like Calgary, Edmonton, Vancouver, and even Dawson City, featuring some of the best world music around, amongst other compatible genres.  If the gods are willing, I myself will be in Calgary, which is featuring too many great acts to mention.  C U there.

BASSEKOU KOUYATE & NGONI BA- ‘I Speak Fula’: Is it African Bluegrass or Blues… or Jazz?

World music can be like a genome project sometimes, except here the DNA involved is an aspect of culture, not biology, and in this case music, descended through history along many crooked lines of mutation and permutation. Ali Farke Toure’, the great African singer and guitarist, was one of the first to stir the pot with his proclamations as to the African origin of blues, and its cross-fertilization both ways, easily attested to in his own music. Of course it’s not just the music but the instruments themselves that have African origins. While it’s long been known that the American banjo had such African origins, it’s only been recently that that point has really been driven home and African ngoni players have actually sat down and played with their American banjo-picking counterparts. Of course the American banjo has come a long way since its introduction into the larger culture as a familiar part of minstrel shows, to its position at the forefront of American bluegrass music. The African ngoni has had a similar ride from the background into the forefront of African music.

Bassekou Kouyate is to the Malian ngoni much the same as Earl Scruggs is to the American banjo, revolutionizing its style and status, including the introduction of new picking styles that serve to make the ngoni a lead instrument and not just background harmonic filler. To this end he has accomplished another innovation- a band composed entirely of ngoni’s, albeit of different sizes and pitch, hence the appellation ngoni ba. Imagine a band composed entirely of American banjos! But the Malian ngoni as played by Bassekou Kouyate serves a much broeader function than the American banjo, more similar to the role of guitar in American popular music. Perhaps only an innovator such as Bela Fleck has been as inventive with the banjo, and it’s no coincidence that he will be sharing the stage for many of Ngoni Ba’s upcoming tour of the US early next year.

While others have similar notions of crossing over into the American mainstream, notably Issa Bagayogo with his ‘techno’ style of ngoni music and Cheick Hamala Diabate’ with solid English lyrics and superb mastery of the American musical idiom, Ngoni Ba perhaps stays closest to the historical tradition. On ‘I Speak Fula’ the emphasis is on the picking, though he gets splendid support from wife Amy Sacko on vocals and guest stars such as Toumani Diabate’ and Ali Farka’s rising son Vieux. The album starts off briskly with the title song ‘I Speak Fula’, a fast percussive number with a pleasant mix of male and female vocals, then slows down a bit with ‘Jamana be Diya’, a deep moody ballad. ‘Musow - For our Women’ raises the tempo- and anxiety- level again, with some superb wailing female vocals by Sacko laid over a nervous jittery percussive track and some stylish finger-picking by Kouyate. This is one of the album’s best songs.

‘Torin Torin’ is something completely different, and sounds almost Celtic in its use of female vocals and choruses. ‘Bambugu Blues’ then gets down and dirty with some slow earthy blues that almost sounds like it’s being played back slow motion. From that point on the pattern is established and it’s just a matter of the featured players taking their turns and their bows. ‘Amy’ features Zoumana Tereta on zoku fiddle and ‘Saro’ features Vieux Farka Toure’ on jangly guitar. ‘Ladon’ is a piece of mostly instrumental virtuosity and ‘Tineni’, featuring Toumani Diabate, is a long slow ballad with kora that serves to accentuate the harmonic potential of the ngoni. ‘Falani’ and ‘Moustapha’ wind things up by winding them down, s-l-o-w-l-y and with feeling, till there’s but a single instrument serving a solitary singer, with another voice or two in the background chanting affirmations. It’s all in Fula of course, the language of Fulani people and Ali Farka himself, so I can only imagine what they’re saying, but sometimes it’s better that way. Perhaps the most amazing thing about this album is the reception it’s received already. Only just released in Europe, it’s riding high in the WMCE. This is Ngoni Ba’s only second album, but it surely won’t be their last. That’s ‘I Speak Fula’- available online now and early next year in US record stores. Check it out.

'IMIDIWAN: COMPANIONS' by TINARIWEN- the Desert Bears Fruit

Mali’s Tinariwen is one of only a handful of artists in the history of modern alternative popular music- The Beatles, Stones, Bowie and Elvis in the UK; Dylan, the Dead, Springsteen and Patti Smith in the US, Marley in Jamaica, Manu Chao in Europe, Carabao in Thailand, Mana’ in Mexico, and maybe… maybe… Cheb Khaled in Algeria- that is/was truly larger than life, whose reputation precedes them, that the term ‘classic’ becomes affixed to without hesitation. Of course first they must make it past the bewitching age of twenty-seven without self-destructing or fading away into uselessness, but most of all these are all bands or artists that mean something. There is something more important than album sales going on in each of these cases- politically, socially, and artistically- though the musicianship is never in question for any of them.

Of course as a band already well into middle age Tinariwen hardly has the oeuvre that the other artists had at a much earlier age, but then much of their best work probably still lies ahead. How many of the others can say the same? I bet they’ve got some of the best stories. And if life growing up in the desert seems like a curse, consider that they’ve also been very lucky coming from one of only a handful of places- besides Mali, maybe only Cuba, New Orleans, and where else?- that is truly musically magical. Thus when the Festival du Desert in Timbuktu was first getting off the ground less than a short ten years ago, you had the likes of Ali Farka Toure’, Oumou Sangare’, Justin Adams, and Robert Plant… yes that Robert Plant, there as participants and witnesses to something extraordinary about to take place, the unification of Mali by music, something still only tentative politically.

When I first became aware of Tinariwen only three short years ago, they were my big discovery of the year. Out of some 100+ CD’s that I gathered as part of my birthright as a first-time paying member of the World Music trade conference WOMEX, a short 3-song sampler by Tinariwen was my favorite. I turned other non-industry people on to it. Little did I know then of their preceding legend, guns and guitars and revolutions and revelations and all that, even less that they were about to break BIG, or big by world music standards anyway. Within a year they were opening for the Stones and touring small clubs in the US non-stop. Then I found out that not only had they already played the Festival International in Lafayette, LA, but they’d played for coffee at NAU in my own adopted home town of Flagstaff, AZ, courtesy of Blackfire’s Benally family, they themselves also veterans of two Festivals du Desert. I still have black-and-blue marks from my self-inflicted back kicks over that one.

Fast forward to the present and Tinariwen is past the heady days of their triumphant international debut and ready to prove their staying power. To take twenty years to produce an album or two is one thing. Can they do it every year or two? If their new album is any indication, I suspect they can. Imidiwan (‘Companions’) shows no signs of the slowing down, toning down, self-conscious caution, or the- God forbid- cover album that frequently afflicts a red-hot band’s senior thesis. Too often a real ‘thriller’ gets followed by something ‘bad.’ And they now have to contend with many imitators and band-wagoneers, too. Anybody can do their version of ‘desert blues,’ but there’s more to it than that. Many bands play ‘Afro-Beat’ also, but how many can sound like Fela? It’s the same with Tinariwen. If they were a one-trick pony, they’d have washed up on the sand long ago. Imidiwan shows the full range of their repertoire.

In my lifetime, most of the albums I’ve listened to I’ve only heard once, and maybe half that many again only twice. Though I listen more than that to any album I review, I probably listened to Imidiwan five times… in rapid succession. That’s the highest compliment I can pay any album. They’ve still got the magic. The opening song ‘Imidiwan Afrik Temdam’ is classic Tinariwen, meditative and reflective as the desert wind, and the second song ‘Lulla’ follows in the same vein, adding those soothing female background vocals that balance the sometimes-raw Tinariwen sound so nicely. ‘Tenhert’ is a rap-and-boogie-woogie number and ‘Enseqi Ehad Didagh’ a slow earthy blues. ‘Tahult In’ follows in the boogie vein, which is a pleasant evolution to the Tinariwen repertoire, an enhanced down-to-earth melodical feel. In general, the album maybe veers a bit toward Ali Farka’s earthiness, and away from raw desert edginess. Chabiba sounds so much like an American folk lament that I halfway expected to hear Townes Van Zandt join in on a verse. Maybe success is mellowing Tinariwen out… or maybe not. Maybe it’s rounding them out. The closing song ‘Desert Wind’ is a five minute instrumental that needs no DJ remix version to define its sense of space. The space is infinite. That’s Imidiwan by Tinariwen. The desert just got less lonely. Check it out.

AMADOU & MARIAM: ‘THE MAGIC COUPLE’

It’s always been urban legend that handicapped people compensate for it in other ways, sharpening their other capabilities even to the point of developing a ‘sixth sense’ to replace the one they lost. There’s no hard evidence to support that hunch, of course, but you could almost believe it sometimes, especially if there were such a thing as a ‘musical sense.’ Amadou & Mariam position themselves in that great tradition, along with Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder and Jose’ Feliciano, of blind musicians who’ve achieved great things in the field of popular music, not bad considering they’re from one of the poorest countries in the world. If it were just one of them it would be incredible enough, but the two of them together, partners in art and life, is a wonder to behold. They must be doing something right, since they’re currently opening for Coldplay in major venues around the US. First they take Bamako… then they take LA.

Amadou & Mariam’s current tour with Coldplay is the biggest thing to happen in world music since Tinariwen opened for the Rolling Stones a couple years ago in the UK. This is a big deal and worth noting. Little by little world music is evolving beyond its curio status as something merely ‘other.’ Folk festivals especially are getting hip that there’s nothing ‘folksier’, nor cooler, than these representatives of the world’s great musical traditions. Not coincidentally I suspect, Wrasse Records has released a new album, Magic Couple, featuring the best songs from Amadou & Mariam’s first three albums. Their current dates with Coldplay are not their first brush with fame of course. A previous album Dimanche en Bamako was essentially a collaboration with legendary European pop-rocker Manu Chao, featuring the hit ditty ‘Senegal Fast Food’ in which Amadou & Mariam served as little more than backup singers for ‘producer’ Manuel. Hey, work’s work. Anyway there’s no such silliness here. This is the real stuff, made in Africa, before they found success in Europe, and now America.

At least half of these songs are sung in local Mali dialect. And if some of the French language songs on Magic Couple seem a bit clichéd (“Thinking of You,” “That’s the Way it Is,” “Everybody Has Their Own Problems,” “Such is Life,” etc.), that’s because they refer to the universal experiences common to us all. What do you sing about anyway, or even think about, when your main source of sensory input has been taken away from you? As adept as Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder are and were at evoking the visual concepts of redness and loveliness or whatever, the mind’s eye can only reproduce so much from memory, though that process of simulation and emulation is certainly interesting and notable. But Amadou and Mariam stick to the basics, the broad themes, more or less equally divided between rockers and ballads. “A Chacun Son Problemes” continues “a chacun son affaires… a chacun sa vie” (“Everybody has their own problems… their own business… their own life”), and that’s one of the heavier themes.

More typically the songs are self-referential, celebrating the act of song itself, particularly in the lively rocker “C’est la Vie” singing “chantez ensemble, chantez ensemble” (“sing it all together”) or “Chantez-chantez”… “jouez-jouez… dansez-dansez” (“Sing… play… dance”) only occasionally invoking higher political ideals- “Liberte’ pour toute le monde!” (“Freedom for everyone!”). Amadou handles the lion’s share of the vocal chores on these rockers, his being the stronger voice, Mariam carrying a larger load on the ballads and love songs. Particularly charming are her vocals on “Toubala Kono” and “Djagneba.” If ‘stickiness,’ the inability to get a song out of one’s head, is the criterion of judgement, then maybe the best song overall is a ballad that Amadou sings, “Je Pense a Toi” (“I’m Thinking of You”), self-explanatory. That’s the one that got them on the map of Africa years ago. They also celebrate the ethnic diversity of their country Mali, as in “Poulu/Les Peuls” (Fulanis), though their song “Bozos” didn’t make this edition. I think I know some people in that tribe.

The album’s title says it all. Amadou & Mariam truly are a Magic Couple. They have overcome a curse and made it a blessing, and that shows through in every song, the joy and fragility of it all. You can still catch them with Coldplay this week in San Diego or LA or next week in Dallas or Houston or… you can catch them on their own tour later this year (Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in SF? Yeah…), or… you can buy the album, or… you can buy all their albums, or… all of the above. ‘None of the above’ is not an option.

The Accidental American… Somewhere in Africa

I wouldn’t say anything as clichéd as “this is the life” or anything like that, both because it’s not that great here, and clichés are to be avoided like the, uh, peste, by any writer worth his, uh, paper (dodging clichés can be difficult). Of course I hear people refer to Thailand as ‘paradise’ and I don’t know what they mean. I guess it can be an ego booster for someone with low self-esteem, though perhaps the opposite for someone truly talented. There’s certainly an element of village communism present there and in most small communities, jealousy and resentment, the great equalizer. I usually relegate such platitudes to the ‘superficial impressions’ folder. Nevertheless, it’s always nice to find a place worth hanging, time to wash the clothes, buy some bread, and make some tea, especially after a week or two of rough travel. This is the way I like to travel, like serial monogamy, never exactly settled down, though hardly extreme adventure. I guess it’s a backpacker style, or maybe an American one, but probably my own. That’s the way I do everything, never totally committed to any one thing, but unwilling to ever totally dump anything or anyone, almost. In addition I’m a terrible tourist, often preferring to riffle through postcards rather than actually get up at dawn to get the best light for that sublime view of some God-forsaken ruin. Where I differ from the typical backpacker is that they tend to congregate with ‘their own kind’ whereas I tend to eschew such. A modern-day backpacker can travel throughout Southeast Asia from one safe haven to another and never really see anything else. While not wishing to be judgmental, the disservice seems to be that he might think that what he’s seeing is the totality of the landscape. This plays into frightening ‘artificial reality’ scenarios, a la ‘Matrix’, ‘Vanilla Sky’, ‘Truman Show’, ‘Pleasantville’, or many others (most of which I like), in which the Berkeleyan dictum esse est percipi (to be is to be perceived) gets carried to absurd, if plausible, extremes. After all, if we just followed common sense perception, we’d still be worshipping the Sun god on his daily rounds, and far from even considering multi-flavored quarks for Mr. Mark that sit and spin to a regularity that somehow underlies the very fabric of our physical reality.

I was in Mexico so many times when somebody saw an image of the Virgen de Guadalupe in his tortilla soup that I swore they were running that tape for me every time I crossed the border. Twice I was there during the worst pollution ever recorded, the second being worse than the first. They found a mutated rat about a meter long. I hope there’s nothing like that here. By some quirk of fate, or some butterfly that happened to flutter by, I find myself in Dakar, Senegal. This is how most of life works really, isn’t it? Is natural evolution really anything other than a series of brilliant mistakes? Is cultural evolution any different? Conscious decision-making and pompous philosophy usually come only after a big meal. Hunger can speak any language. So here I am, the accidental American on a busman’s holiday. But for a few quirks of fate I would be thinking about Quiche’ Indians right now instead of the price of quiche downtown. But for another quirk or two I would’ve lived the last ten years in Bolivia freezing my buns and learning Aymara’ instead of steaming them and learning Indo-Aryan. This is more than just ‘funny how life plays out’; no, this is indeed at the very core of our being. It’s almost as if the Lord said, “Go forth and divide,” and the rest is history.

In my research of mail-order brides, I learned a very interesting statistic. Do you know how most couples meet? Chance encounter, pure dumb luck and fortuitous circumstance. That makes Internet encounters seem relatively inspired and calculating now, doesn’t it? Downright rational, I might add. Should we re-think planned marriages? Maybe Mom does indeed know best. Now there’s a scary thought. Enter the dumb tourist into this lively mix, whether in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts, or backpack and dreadlocks, or me. We’re here to test the tourist uncertainty principle by accident or design; it makes no difference. That means that our experience is not only limited to our perceptions of that experience, not the thing itself, but that nevertheless the thing itself will be altered in the very act of being perceived. This is a lively ground for interaction, in direct proportion to the distance from the original source. Like lightning drawing a spark up from the ground to meet it in mid-air, travelers draw out the most susceptible locals from the teeming masses, those just dying to meet us. Hard things on both sides will be seeking out soft spots in the other simply to test their resilience and because they are there. Beware three-body problems. They’re unsolvable.

So the signs all say ‘Dakar’ and so it must be. If they all said ‘Abidjan’, I wouldn’t know the difference. What there is here is a street scene that has to be seen to be believed. Think something between Khaosan Road and a Dead show. Apply pigment. It seems like everybody is selling something, especially cell phone SIM and top-up cards. You Americans have been spared most of this hysteria, with your two-year plans and two-page contracts. One guy’s got shirts draped over his arms, the next guy’s got pants, then there’s shoes displayed on the pavement every block or so, so I guess you could outfit yourself on the way to a party without having to go home and change. The problem is that it can be hard to walk down the street having to dodge vendors. Fortunately my cell phone’s got a radio, so not only can I listen to the local tunes, but I’ve also got plausible deniability, in case someone is offended at his entreaties being ignored. “Hey! Chill, dude! I didn’t hear you!” I’ve taken to using earphones even with the radio off. They’re too much hassle, the constant sales pitches and general hangings on and followings along. I guess it’s part of African culture or at least big-city African culture. It wasn’t like that on the train or in Mali, and to be honest, it’s no worse than Kuta Beach in Bali. I’ve caught at least one guy secretly following me for an hour or two, pacing his steps to match mine, always managing to be right there every time I changed my mind and turn around. The important thing is that I haven’t felt physically threatened once, only annoyed, and that’s good, ‘cause these are some big brothers. My wife asks, “Aren’t you scared?” Yes I am, and frequently, but not from aggression, not yet, at least. I’m scared to eat the gumbo, and I really want to, ‘cause it looks pretty good, but the last thing I need here is to get the runs or stomach distress. This is a calculated fear, logically inferred from premises, not merely fear itself. Fear itself is transcendent. Unlike Mali, at least there are options for eating here, though I’m not likely to get restaurant fatigue any time soon. I’m considering a boredom diet. It works.

I’m not the first who’s washed up here in the path of least resistance. If Americans wash up on the beach in Mexico and Brits tend to wash up in Thailand, then this is where more than a few Frenchies find themselves when the euros run low. I suppose they’ve got a few stories to tell. The Europeans used to always rag on us Americans back on the Gringo Trail. “You Americans only want to work,” they’d accuse. Hey, we got no gap year or continental grand tour or month-long paid vacation every year before we go back to our predictable life in the same town where our great-great-great-grandfather was born. We’re immigrants by nature, always on the look for something better. My g-g-grandaddy got on a boat, in steerage I presume, because it couldn’t be any worse than ‘back home’. Much of northern Europe did the same, looking for liebensraum. We need it. We’re not the romantic type; we’re the Germanic type. We’re not looking for each other; we’re looking for the other. We’re not looking for style; we’re looking for substance. Civilization is not limited to cities, and we’ll invent computers and cell phones and rocket ships to prove it, if that’s what it takes. It just takes space, and time, and lots of edible purple berries until the first crops come to harvest. This is our mission, mission impossible. It’s a way of life. Still the French implant their patisseries and boulangeries on the cuisine and their breathy ‘je t’aime’s and syrupy love songs on the airwaves without the slightest trace of self-consciousness or irony at the juxtaposition of such fluff in deepest darkest in-yo-face Africa. It takes all kinds. I wish they’d implant some of it in Mali.

4th and 10… and Surrounded by Mali’s Middlemen

Fortunately for me, Timbuktu is just a metaphor, right? It represents the ends of the Earth, right? We all knew that somehow somewhere deep down in our subconscious, right? I mean, if I ever actually got there, then what would I call the blog then? So the moral of the story, of course, is “be careful what you ask for; you might just get it.” Now that’s appropriately vague enough to fit most circumstances, and I’m not sure exactly what I expected, but certainly Mali gets raves as ‘the real thing’ so I guess that’s what I wanted, I being a strict aficionado of authenticity in all its multifarious manifestations. Oh, it’s real all right. We hear much of ‘developing countries’ and ‘under-developed countries’ and ‘least-developed countries.’ That last category must be Mali’s. There’s nothing there; okay, there’s hardly anything, hotels, stores, restaurants, anything, and what there is, is hard to find. Well, nyaa nyaa, bitch bitch, precious little American fell down and can’t find his beer; what a pity! No, I’m serious; there’s nothing, and that’s not the worst of it! To find what there is, you almost have to resort to the free-lance guides that prey on you while you pray to them. This is anathema to independent travel, to resort to the hybrid multi-cultis that comprise the interface between tourist and foreign country. Feeling sorry for me yet? No, it gets even worse. It’s expensive, even exorbitant! This is definitely anathema to independent (read ‘budget’) travel. When the cheapest backpacker hovel is $25 a night, then we got a problem. They never heard of credit cards of course, and ATM’s are not ubiquitous.

Travel writers are not doing their job here. Maybe when they specialize in a country they become accustomed to it and lose their objectivity. I’ve been to over fifty countries and researched this trip extensively and no one ever mentioned the high prices, only that Timbuktu seemed high. If that means Bamako is comparatively low, then maybe I’ll pass on Timbuktu. They also said there isn’t much in Timbuktu! That’s what I’d say about Bamako. Let me clarify this. A fifty dollar hotel in the US is better than a fifty dollar hotel in Mali, by far. That the fifty bucks is easier to come by in the US should go without saying. Lonely Planet is in on the collusion, too. They don’t tell you actual prices, unless you’re actually booking through them, only rating them $, $$, or $$$. Well, that doesn’t mean much when a $ in Mali is $25 and a $ in Chiang Mai is $5. I’m thinking of filing a lawsuit. Lives are at stake here, not just psyches. Sure, we love that roller-coaster empty feeling in the pit of our stomach, but the epiphany is in transcending it. Much has been written of the ‘instant illiteracy’ you feel upon first arriving in China. Mali’s worse, and it’s not about the letters. Though I haven’t mastered French, I can certainly get by, especially if reading. The first Phoenicians arrived close to where I’m sitting right now more than two thousand years ago and conducted trade by mute barter. Many mixed couples in Thailand do this as a way of life. It works. That’s not the problem. The problem is the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness you get when confronted with untenable situations. There’s next to nothing there, and what little there is, is expensive and poorly organized. So what do you do? I did the unthinkable. I played parasite-host with a free-lance guide, even staying in his hovel apartment with his so-called ‘family’, while buying myself some time to re-think my plans. That was an eye-opener to be sure, the Mali equivalent of a slum project, full of color, to say the least. Well, Mohamed and I parted company a bit not so amicably after a couple days, he scamming up my rent steadily, but still I bought a little time and some vivid images for the mind’s eye, so basically a successful maneuver. Never say never.

How can a place so poverty-stricken and undeveloped be so expensive? What’s wrong with Mali is what’s wrong with Africa, just more so. We Americans chastise ‘developers’ with our choicest curses, preferring to save a solitary tree than stoop to WalMart’s central dogma. In Bamako I dreamed of Whataburgers and greasy chicken legs when confronted with the choice of very expensive restaurant food or street food of an uncertain sanitary nature. That’s the problem in Africa, that huge gap between rich and poor, no entrepreneurial middle class. They could use some Chinese businessmen here, and I suspect they’re on the way, given China’s infrastructure investments on the continent. The Lebanese only go so far, doing what those same ancestor Phoenicians were doing two thousand years ago. They’re in Thailand, too. But Chinese represent a modern production capacity and global distribution capability unlike anything the world has seen since Britain’s head-start on the Industrial Revolution and America’s mop-up of WWII. Chinese study their history and learn their lessons well while just doing what comes naturally in monopolizing trade and working within extensive family-based networks. What Zheng He could never accomplish six hundred years ago with his ‘treasure fleets’ of Chinese sailing junks, modern Chinese conquer every day with their container loads of inexpensive Chinese junk. Of course, while a ‘conspiracy person’ might see a pattern to all of this, in actuality it’s mostly just a situation of individual Chinese trying to feed their families and willing to give up citizenship in order to do so. After all overseas Chinese still count and are counted by a country that worships its blood line.

So why is Africa so far behind in the first place? Certainly business acumen is not the same as rocket science, basically just common sense- buy low and sell high, but old habits and fears are hard to break, and complex organization can be difficult to establish. Is it simply a trait of ‘negritude’, or of Africa, or maybe of French cultural overlay? I suspect ‘all of the above.’ After all, the closest out-of-Africa analogy in my experience would be to Haiti, similarly impoverished, over-priced, and very interesting, ultimately. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say “there is no there there.” That’s Oakland. There’s plenty there in Mali; it’s just not economic development. It’s music, and tradition. Street names are replete with names like Diabate, Keita, and Toure’. You can watch Amadou and Mariam on the evening news and hear Salif Keita coming from cassettes (yes, cassettes). Malian musicians are a regular feature at music festivals world-wide and no less respected back home. I stopped to rest from a long walk at the same time and place as an itinerant cassette vendor, and a magic hour transpired, just listening to Malian pop music blaring from a car battery-powered ghetto blaster. I watched the top 15 music video Friday countdown, and I’d never heard of any of the musicians, but it was all good. Comparisons could be made to ‘60’s Cambodia, where an entire era of music was bigger and better than any of its individual stars, and widespread poverty was not an overriding obstacle to cultural excellence. The comparison is interesting, because modern Cambodia is a beehive of industry and development, quickly moving out of the ranks of ‘least-developed countries’ with the help of its neighbors and cultural cousins Japan, China, and Thailand, etc. They’ll expect a return on their investment of course. This is old news, as most of Southeast Asia would be developmentally retarded without their Chinese immigrant merchant class well established. Who’s going to help Mali, and some thirty other sub-Saharan African countries? Do they really need it? Do they even want it?

Timbuktu or Bust

The Festival au Desert at Essakane, Mali, outside Timbuktu, is over now. I imagine it was good, but probably nothing like its early years. There’s no Tinariwen, no Ali Farka Toure’, and no Robert Plant. Robert’s gone on to other things, like a hit album with Alison Krauss and a reunion with the Zeppelin boys that got good reviews. I was never that much of a LedZep fan, but I can certainly appreciate what he’s doing these days. Tinariwen’s hotter than the Sahara in July, so hot that they’re spawning imitators like junkies on grunge. The movement is even crossing borders with impunity, as Tuaregs do, Niger now getting in on the act. Ali Farka’s gone on to that jam session in the sky, of course, but his son’s carrying on the tradition at Essakane, looking a little bit more Tuareg a la mode every day. I wanted to make it but just couldn’t justify the high expense, especially since there’s no way to avoid traveling during the holiday season. Flights fill up on Air Mali (Air Maybe) and the overland route takes time. So I had to content myself with GlobalFest in New York last Sunday, a single evening of twelve acts playing on three stages, giving new meaning to the term ‘cluster-f**k. This is the way showcases work, of course, but for some reason world music promoters like it special, as if the confusion adds currency to the cause. While that may be fine for a bunch of unknowns looking to be listened to, I’m not sure if that’s the best use of resources for established acts. Obviously you can’t listen to them all at once, so magic moments get missed. Not only that, but what might seem quirkily fun, running around the plaza in Albuquerque catching snatches of locals mixing and matching licks with foreigners from all over the world, becomes downright burdensome running up and down stairs in Manhattan’s Webster Hall, causing some tired legs and a general cluster-flock. GlobalFest has to compete with itself also, trying to live up to last year’s line-up which consisted of such luminaries as Andy Palacio, Lila Downs, and Dengue Fever, hard acts to follow.

The show started slowly with the typical European acts one must suffer through, violin, accordion, tuba, etc., to get to the good stuff. I mean it’s all GOOD, of course; it’s just that some is better than others, but the Europeans invest heavily, so they get equal treatment. I saw four or five acts before I heard anyone sing, so you get the picture. Of course it doesn’t help that no one has ever really defined what ‘world music’ really is, so acts having a slow go of it in their traditional genre might try to market themselves as ‘world music’ for better results. This might be the case with Crooked Still, an American bluegrass band at the show. Bluegrass is a pretty solid genre on its own, so I suspect a conscious marketing maneuver and/or a conscious effort to include North Americans in the mix. That’s fair, I guess, though the lines get fuzzy with all the ‘slash’ bands that occupy the turf, that is, US/Mexico/India/Morocco/whereverstan. There are many ex-pat foreigners in the world-music field, i.e. Africans in Paris, Mexicans in the US, Indians in the UK, etc. This not only gives them an English-speaking connection to their audience, but also an adaptation in taste, whether conscious or not. World music is like world food, derived from its country of origin(s), yet somehow different, often better. I’ve certainly had South American food and Asian food in the original and its hybrid forms. They’re both legitimate, as long as it doesn’t come out of a can. You can’t claim that Chinese food in the US is unauthentic when they use broccoli, if the cooks and the customers are both Chinese in the vast majority. To adhere to rigid rules would be the unauthentic path. Of course the ‘tsunami special’ and the ‘Rambo favorite’ on a Thai food menu is another question.

So a mostly-female group called ‘Pistolera’ finally got the show rockin’ with some Mexican-style rock-and-polka that kicked some surprisingly real ass, especially considering the matronly appearance of the chief protagonists in their vintage clothes and scarce make-up. If they had a looker like Lila Downs out front, they’d have real potential as some novelty rancheras. Mexican corridas are usually sung by men, leaving women the slow stuff and booty-twitching. It’s a shame, but sex, and its illusions and false promises, sells. It wasn’t a big deal back when you’d listen to a faceless radio, but these days you got to look and sound, not just good, but USDA prime rib good. It’s disgusting. I’d like to think music is better than that, but much of it really isn’t. Problem was, you could barely get in to see the little rancheritas because of the cluster-flock at the downstairs stage, so I almost missed some rockin’ good stuff. A Senegalese band got things hopping upstairs, good enough to maybe make me do a detour on my upcoming West African trip. The leader himself was about seven feet tall and it seems they could all do little flip-up tricks with their crotches. I looked for signs of drooping wood with no luck, so the effect may have been genuine. They were followed by the obligatory Saharan blues group Toumast, which was playing a bit crippled without their female signer, so I’ll fudge my faint praise. Suffice it to say that Grunge has got its Cobain and reggae its Marley; you can’t expect equal brilliance from every corner. It’s still good, and got the Senegalese hopping on the floor, so that speaks well. Bands usually play their set then head for their bottles and pipes first thing, not the dance floor. I can’t blame ‘em. Other than that the venerable 84-year-old Dominican Puerto Plata, after the city of the same name, played some nice Caribbean rhythms, again enough for me to revisit there at some point.

For better or worse I don’t have any songs stuck in my head the morning after GlobalFest, for what that’s worth. Like love, the best music sticks in your head the next day. I hate to reduce music to that, but that’s what ‘hooks’ are, the words and music still playing in your head, begging you to buy them. A lot of ‘world music’ doesn’t have that, but some does. It’s not about language. It’s about a minor key making you sad, and a major key picking you back up, all done with style and grace, and a catchy rhythm getting you up on your feet whether you like it or not. The first revelation with my forays into world music was that the lyrics really don’t matter that much, not always, certainly. When they’re stellar, then so much the better. They’re usually not. That’s writing. So ‘world music’ limps on, a million musicians in search of a genre. Its promoters don’t help much, with their quirkiness and laughable invocations of authenticity and ‘indigenous.’ Everybody’s got their little marketing schtick, whether it’s Putumayo, Real Guide, or Sublime Frequencies, and certainly there are good musicologists doing good work, but I can’t help but think people are making something overly complex out of something really very simple, i.e. the boogie factor.

So it wasn’t Timbuktu, but it wasn’t bad. I’m still holding out hope for some other ‘festival in the desert’. Essouk is still possible. I’ll head straight to Gao and see what’s shaking. If the homies say “let’s go,” then I just might. I WILL make it to Segou, but that’s different, jungle and urban music, whatever, but not desert. This is the most complicated trip I’ve ever planned. It not only requires a visa, but a yellow fever shot, and a hotel reservation, and countless festival searches. At least I got a family to stay with in Segou. That’ll be good, and cheap. Cheap country doesn’t mean cheap hotels, after all. I’ll just hope for the best, and try to groove on the music. At least I called off the week in Norway (a week of cold and darkness, great idea!). One night in Reykjavik was plenty. At least my feet won’t be cold in Mali. I’ve got fifty countries down and a hundred fifty to go. Planes crisscross the runways at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle international airport like they don’t know where they’re going, but I do. Timbuktu or bust! And as the plane touches down in Bamako, I knew, just as I expected, that ‘this is not Kansas anymore’. For better or worse, this is the real thing, warts and all.

Stuck Inside of Flagstaff with the Sahara (or is it Mississippi?) Blues Again

It’s almost like some Dylan song, except that Mobile probably ain’t that bad, nor Memphis that great, probably not that much difference really, except that Mobile’s got a little piece of the gulf, which is really nice to break up the monotony of the Deep South until it washes up into your yard. I doubt that Dylan’s ever been east of Highway 61 and south of I-40 anyway, except for the Rolling Thunder Revue back in ’75, doin’ some tunes for us homies, he and McGuinn and Kinky and T-Bone and Allen G. and Joan, like some kind of East Coast Kool-Aid pH test for the rest of us, better late than never. Dylan’s one of my all-time pop heroes, he and Costello and Carabao and Cobain, the best R&R of each of the preceding four decades. The best pop music of this decade has yet to be determined. Einstein, Jesus, and Plato occupy another plateau. Dylan and I share the same birthday, if not exactly the same religion. He said things that may never have been said otherwise. Saharan blues? Yeah, that’s good, too. That’s why I’m going to Mali. There’s probably more good music there per capita than any country in the world, not just the traditional griot style of the sub-Saharan heart of darkness, but a new northern style fostered by the Tuaregs, the ‘blue people’ of the desert. Think deep blue indigo. Think guitars instead of guns. Think music instead of jihad. Talking Timbuktu? Talk Tinariwen.

Tinariwen is the best example of the new ‘Desert Blues’. I first heard them on a sample CD from the WOMEX festival last year in Sevilla, though they’ve played a few WOMAD’s in the last few years, and have been instrumental, pun intended, in making the Festival au Desert outside Timbuktu famous. I knew none of this, though, when I got focused on that 3-song sample CD only a little over a year ago. It immediately became my favorite, best of the ten or so I culled from the stack, as I lightened my load in Rabat. Three months ago they opened for the Rolling Stones in Dublin. It’s nice to be right. A blitzkrieg tour of small venues in the US ensued, maybe the last time you’ll be able to see them like that. I tried to see if we could get them here in Flagstaff, but too little too late. Hard to believe they actually played here for a handful of passersby at NAU a year or two ago. Yup, really. Turns out they’re best friends with the local Navajo band Black Fire, even counting them among their influences on their official website. Berta Benally says they met back at the Festival at Essakane outside Timbuktu, and have been fast friends ever since. That’s a great album from the 2004 festival, including such luminaries as Ali Farka Toure’ and Robert Plant, also. The festival is on the verge of getting too big for its limited infrastructure now, and others have imitated its success. Tinariwen themselves sponsor one at Essouk near Kidal, though their manager tells me it’s not being publicized this year due to violence in the region, and will likely be a very “low-key affair.” There’s an off-chance I might even make it there in time, though hedging my bets. It’s too expensive to make Essakane with the early January holiday rush still in effect. I WILL make it to the Festival at Segou, down south near Bamako. It’ll be more the traditional griot style of Malian music, as opposed to the more free-range Tuareg style.

Ali Farka Toure’ lies somewhere between the two, resting in peace, while his presumably oldest son ‘Vieux’ carries on the musical tradition with his half-Western band. They say that “the blues” can be traced to a single village in Mali, but I doubt it. They say lots of things. If it could, though, Ali Farka’s hometown of Niafunke’ would certainly seem appropriate. Since his electrifying success, much speculation has arisen about whether the blues was imported from Mali to the US or vice-versa, and the argument quickly becomes circular, with turn-of-last-century early blues musicians obviously retaining some African influence only a few generations removed and turn-of-this-century Mali musicians obviously influenced by an avalanche of American music that has swept the globe for a hundred years, not just from the US, mind you, but also the Caribbean exerting strong influence. The question quickly becomes one of definition. “Blues” by definition is an American medium, and consists of several different styles, both rural and urban, and that doesn’t even include jazz, gospel, and soul. Malian music is similarly diverse. To try to find the “blues gene” or get self-righteous about who discovered what in an essentially collaborative medium is a bit feudal and futile, especially considering the dispersive methods of the slave trade and the lack of proper record-keeping. Black people of the African diaspora have much in common to be explored and shared, notwithstanding the significant differences between cultures within the African continent itself. Let the scientists and doctors quibble over the details.

The origins of the new ‘Sahara Blues’ seem a little less mysterious, despite Robert Plant’s description of it as “a drop in a very old bucket.” For one thing, Tuaregs aren’t even black. They didn’t invent the blues, nor do they share much culturally or historically with black Malians, with whom they have frequently struggled. Music is better than all that, and obviously ‘Saharan Blues’ has borrowed much from Ali Farka in addition to Arabic styles from the north. When Ali Farka first heard of the Festival au Desert, he immediately asked to play. The rest is history. Music has been a powerful unifying factor between North and South in Mali, bridging the vast cultural gap between the Saharan north and the sub-Saharan south. Uprisings are frequent in the region and indeed, Tinariwen themselves met and coalesced in one of Muammar Gaddafi’s training camps in the 80’s. Now they carry guitars. Music can heal, both internally and externally. One of Tinariwen’s most competent competitors these days, Etran Finatawa, from the same region but across the border in Niger, is composed not only of Tuaregs but their traditional enemies, the Wodaabe, a picturesque group of non-Muslim Fulani. The Tuareg roots lie with the Semitic north. The Fulani roots lie with the Niger-Congo South. They meet where the Sahel meets the Sahara, where camels and goats meet horses and cattle. Though far from the Islamic heartland in Arabia, this is where the world’s most prominent jihads have occurred, mostly by the Fulani, mediating culture and religion between the Islamic/Semitic north and the tribal/animist south. The fact that their traditional herding lands were being heavily encroached upon was probably a contributing cause. Music is better than all that. It may not be the universal language nor the universal religion, but then again, maybe it is.