The Cool Season

Bamako is finally cooling down.  I've bene sleeping without A.C. for the last few weeks, and the last two days I've even managed without a fan.  I'm savoring the respite before the hot season starts in February and it never gets below 90, even in the middle of the night.

It's been over 2 months since I arrived in Mali.  Things are going well; both faster and slower than I imagined, in typical Malian fashion.  I've been playing more kora than n'goni lately, but that looks like it should change next week, as my primary n'goni teacher will be returning to Bamako from his home village, Kita, where he's been for the traditional 40-day mourning period for his older brother.

I've been going to see music at least once a week at the clubs since I've gotten here.  The results have been decidedly mixed.  I've seen a couple of great shows (Vieux Farka Touré at the Centre Culturel Français, Boubacar "Kar Kar" Traoré at Blonbla 2) and a whole lot of mediocre ones.  Partially this has to do with Malian sound systems (often bad) and club audio aesthetics, which tend to favor volume above everything else, like a mix that permits each instrument to be heard, or minimizing feedback.  However, I've also seen a fair amount of bands which probably won't ever make it past the club circuit here in Bamako.  Mali is blessed with an abundance of musical styles and traditions, not to mention musicians.  However, most of Mali's A-list musicians are aging; Salif Keita and Boubacar Traoré are both in their late sixties at least, as is guitar superstar Djelimady Tounkara.  Oumou Sangaré and Habib Koité are now in their forties, as is Bassekou Kouyaté.  There have also been significant losses in the last five years, including Ali Farka Touré (a multiple Grammy-award winner and mainstay of the Malian musical community), the Bambara rocker Lobi Traoré (on the eve of an international tour), and Mamadou "Mangala" Camara.

There are plenty of young Malian musicians coming on, getting their songs played on ORTM here in Bamako and bringing in the crowds in the Hippodrome club neighborhood, but the vast majority of them are rappers.  Rap is hugely popular among young people in Mali, to the exclusion of other, traditional musics.  Two of the most popular artists here are Iba One (backed by the lightning-quick kora loops of Toumani Diabaté's son, Sidiki)  and Master Soumi, whose thoughtful, pun-laden tracks often deal with social issues.  I'm not a huge fan of rap, even in a language I can understand, but I can see why it's so popular here in Mali.  It's a way of articulating social problems and constructing an identity musically that hasn't been available in Mali prior to this.  There have been plenty of griot or Wassulu songs about social issues (polygamy, public health, infant mortality), but none of them has had the immediacy of Master Soumi's "Sonsoribougou," about a young farmer coming to Bamako and becoming a Malian hustler.  Everyone, even my teachers (who are definitely NOT in their twenties!) knows this song.  In many ways, rap is a natural evolution for Mali, where everyone sings along with the radio, and listens carefully to lyrics so as to understand their deeper and multiple meanings.  Instead of the ancient Bambara proverbs of Bazoumana Sissoko, the legendary blind bard whose occasional broadcasts on ORTM could bring the city to a halt, Malian rap deals in the plain truths and aspirations of youth.  It's a different form for different times.

I just hope that rap doesn't take a fatal bite out of traditional Malian music.  What with the spread of radio and non-Malian music, as well as the tremendous influx of Malians to the capital, Bamako, traditional music is already being put to the test.  Griot music has managed to find a new niche in the weddings, baptisms, and street-parties (sumu, pl. sumuw) that take place every weekend in Bamako, but there have to be other, less dynamic traditions that are being swept away.  For every griot, or hunter, or Wasulu musician who adapts, there is a water-ceremony, or full-moon song which is forgotten...

Or not.  I was chatting with the father of my host-family the other day, and he said that he had come full circle to liking the music of his childhood again.  As a young man, he listened to the great Cuban-influenced Malian orchestras of the 1970's, like Mopti's Kanaga Orchestra and Ségou's Super Biton.  While a student in the U.S.S.R., he switched to Western music, classical guitar and jazz.  However, he told me that he had recently begun listening to his old favorites again, as their lyrics were more meaningful to him.  Besides, "traditional" music has always adapted with the times, and nowhere more so than in Mali.  Bands from Orchestra Baobab to Les Ambassadeurs du Motel, from Habib Koite to Amadou and Mariam have played the classic ballad "Diarabi," a song that has been around for at least decades, and quite possibly centuries.  I'm sure that the Malian musical aesthetic will survive in some form or another, though hopefully not solely as backing loops for rappers...

Some Music from the Heart of Bamako

Greetings once more from sunny Bamako.  This last week has been a complete musical immersion for me; I've been playing/learning at least 6 hours a day during the week.  It's lots of fun, but leaves me without a lot of energy to update the blog.  By way of an apology, and as promised, here's a field recording of my kora teacher, Toumani Kouyaté, playing "Salimu," a traditional Malian song about the dangers of alcohol.

Toumani Kouyate Salimu by waraden

(I think I've figured out how to get this audio player to work; if you're having trouble, please drop me a line @ waraden.diabate [at] gmail.com.)

One of my primary n'goni teachers, Kélémonson Diabaté, has been in Guinea for the last week for a recording session with one of Mali's more famous divas, Amy Koita.  Luckily, his half-brother, Simbo, is around to pick up the slack!  I'll post a picture of him next week.  The brothers' father is a famous musician in his own right; his name is Cemogo (pronounced "Chay-mo-go") Diabaté, and he's been a musical hub in Kita for decades, having reached the ripe old age of 96 or 97, depending on who's telling the story.  I had the chance to meet him in 2006 when I was in Kita when I learned, to my surprise, that he was the one who had made my n'goni!  He is also usually credited by Kita n'goni players as the man who first added extra strings to the traditional 4-stringed n'goni.  It is now common to see 7- or 8-stringed n'gonis among professional griots.  Interestingly, I've learned that both Simbo and my first n'goni teacher, Cheick Hamala Diabaté, tune their 8-stringed n'gonis identically: I strongly suspect that this is because both trace their n'goni "lineage" back to Cemogo.

One of the best parts about being in the midst of the professional griot/musician class is seeing the ways in which "traditional" music is adapting itself.  The n'goni, for example, is an instrument normally classified as "traditional" which has, in fact, undergone a radical physical alteration within living memory.  The kora has undergone a shift of its own through the playing of Toumani Diabaté.  His unique style, which burst onto both the Malian and world stage with his debut album, Kaira, instantly became the benchmark by which all other Malian kora players were judged.  Many of his interpretations of traditional tunes ("Alla L'A Ke," for example) have in turn become standards, and been incorporated into the tradition.  My kora teacher, Toumani Kouyaté, laughingly explained today that most young kora players "don't know the original Lamban; they can only play Toumani Diabaté's version!"  It's fast becoming evident to me that Malian musical "tradition" is not only flexible but even welcomes innovation.  No doubt this is less than revelatory for anyone who has studied other cultures or traditional musics, but I was still surprised.

In final news, I stopped by the Centre Culturel Français today to attend a talk at an "International Colloquium on the Sources of African Music" that's taking place there this week.  I heard a fascinating report on the music of Burkina Faso by Florent Mazzoleni.  As he pointed out, Burkinabé music is basically unknown outside of the country, so it was a treat to hear some.  I'll write something about the conference next week.

The highlight of this week, aside from the hours of music, was definitely watching a man remove not one, not two, but four sheep in gunny sacks from the trunk of a taxi.  And on that note, see you next week!