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Uncle Barnie in Burkina Faso Pt. 2
Uncle Barnie Burkina Faso Pt. 2
This is a continuation of posts by Uncle Barnie on his travels around Africa, earlier editions can be viewed below:
1. Uncle Barnie has a wander…
2. Uncle Barnie Wanders Further…
3. Uncle Barnie @ Gnaoua & World Music Festival
4. Uncle Barnie In Mali
5. Uncle Barnie In Burkina Faso Part 1
The bus from Bobo to ‘Ouaga’ as the capital is affectionately known took 6 hours and this time the doors stayed closed. The nunnery I was hoping to stay at was booked out, but a delightfully spindly patron of the lord pointed around the corner and told me the name of a cheap hotel. This place was nothing like where I stayed in Bobo, and was more expensive, but I was getting the sweats on bad and couldn’t really think of many other options but to just book in and crash. The whole place seemed to be permanently in shadow, which may sound relieving but was actually somewhat depressing. As soon as I walked out of the hotel onto the earth road to find a ciggie vendor a young man wanting to be my guide approached me. I had been fending off similar requests all morning, feeling a bit grumpy ‘bout the whole deal of having to pay dudes for help. But this guy seemed like a cool enough guy, and I had calmed down a bit after having a shower and an unload. Paying dudes for help is just pretty much how it goes, and the sooner you can get over the idea that you are paying them, and that they therefore are indebted to you, the better. You can make friends, and get taken into their homes, and find out anything you want to know. And you are infinitely wealthier than them… no matter how long it might have taken you to save up for your trip. So this guy, Herman was his name, seemed like a pretty sweet as type of lad. I told him I was in Ouaga for one reason only – to find a musician called Georges Ouédraogo who used to play in an afro-funk band from the 70’s called Bozambo.
Herman instantly said he could help me out, so we went wandering. Not long after however, he suggested we stop for a “café Burkinabe†which he said with a sly grin. I said sure, thinking ‘well its 11am, haven’t had a coffee, jolly thoughtful of you my young friend’. We ended up however going into his enormous sister’s dolo bar and having about 4 cups each. Herman, I was to discover, was a bit of a piss-head. After our ‘coffees’ we tottered up to one of the main roads of Ouaga – Avenue De La Liberté. Here on a corner Herman met a friend and asked him how to find Georges. This guy got on his mobile phone, which he then passed to Herman, and within a minute we had an appointment for 10am the following day. Job bloody done. We went and had some more coffees in celebration, and then I went back to my abode for a chill.
That I night I wandered back up to Avenue De La Liberté to have a look for some live music. I was hassled fairly constantly by guys wanting me to pay for their eye operations or daughter’s educations, and after meagre donations to their bluffs I ducked into the first bar I could find. I bought a beer and sat outside, and was immediately joined by 3 heavily made up yet gorgeous local women. I knew the drill, so declined to buy them drinks, but did ask them where they went to dance. They said they would only tell me if I took them with me. Much as a night out on the town with 3 prostitutes in Burkina Faso sounded rather Bukowskian in a Kapuściński kind of way, I declined, pleading economic impotence. I set off back for my hotel and played splash on the way with some kids in a puddle.
The next morning I met Herman and we set off to find a cab. On the way we stopped by his sisters again for another coffee. Her ‘café’ was about 4m x 3m and half filled with her and a large bucket of dolo she was funneling into various plastic containers, and half filled with 3 bench seats on which myself and Herman, and three other guys sat around drinking our morning beers. The three other guys were interested in chatting, so we talked about New Zealand, music, and milk products. After a fair amount of information was exchanged Herman and I continued on our way. The cab took us to Georges’ club. It is common practice in West Africa for a musician to own a club. Well common for older musicians… musicians from previous decades who have been lucky enough to make a career out of it. It is an interesting and smart enterprise, as it serves to give status to the name of the musician, it provides a venue for his or her band to keep playing, and in the long run is an investment. Georges’ band Bozambo has long since broken up. He does still play out occasionally, but his club is now used as a discothèque, which is a healthy revenue generator for him in his retirement. His club is good-looking, and follows the model of being open-air and circular, with a stage slash dance floor in the middle. Around the walls are delicious paintings of the man himself in his heyday, complete with mesh shirt.
Georges is an incredibly nice man. He has the tranquil air of a seasoned musician, and was most patient with my ridiculous French (PS: the contents of all these interviews will be included in the documentary I am making for Radio New Zealand in the near future). I was anxious to know if he had any recordings left of Bozambo so he invited me next door to his house. He couldn’t find any, but asked if I would like to watch a DVD of him receiving an award from the President for 40 years contribution to the arts. We settled down on his couch and watched the alarmingly edited footage of Georges getting showered with gifts and money. Half way through the DVD (it was about 2 and a half hours long) I said I needed to go the toilet. I was directed outside by his wife, but then Georges told me to stop, and showed me his inside toilet. Half way through going for a piss Georges came into the bathroom himself and said “two at a time†and pissed in the sink beside me. I was almost done, but pretended to keep going and shaking off a lot until he was done. He ran the tap a bit then walked out. I went up to the sink, but the bar of soap was lying over the plughole and I didn’t know if it had arrived there before or after Georges’ piss… so I washed my hands on my jeans instead and rejoined him on the couch. I felt very honored to have been invited into his home, to watch the award ceremony, and to be in the presence of such a musical legend. Throughout Africa I was constantly amazed at the open-door policy of these musical greats. I found virtually no evidence of the cult of celebrity amongst them, just the respect they had rightfully earned from their community.
The following day was my last in Ouaga, and to be honest I was happy to be leaving. Herman’s dolo habit was monumental, and the constant and aggressive cash pleading was getting on my tits. Herman had invited me to his relatives wedding that night however, and I was excited by the prospect of going to a traditional wedding and possibly being able to record some music. I went to Herman’s house first, and took along a paua ring to give to the bride as present. When I arrived Herman was bleary eyed but happy, and introduced me to his extended family. We took photos and I ate delicious snacks of beans and rice, coleslaw and yam. We then went around the corner to the dolo bar for about an hour, where one guy refused to wake up, and then on to the wedding house. We said lots of hellos at the gate then positioned ourselves on two spare seats in the garden next to two stately ladies. The stately ladies soon complained to Herman about his smoking however, and we were pretty much asked to leave after he started the classic drunk-pacify act. I did manage however to pass my ring to one of the ladies, explaining it was a gift of good will from the nation of New Zealand. I had to be at the station at 5am to catch my bus to Ghana, so bade Herman a rather long and difficult goodbye. I paid him for his help, and he swore and declared that he would be at my hotel at 4:30am to walk with me to the station. I pretty much didn’t believe he was capable of that, but said whatever was necessary to make him shut up and go home. I packed, and pretended to sleep for a few hours until 4:30. I couldn’t remember the way to the bus station by foot, so decided to go to a main road and try and hail a cab. This proved to be difficult, and I had my only slightly uneasy feeling of the trip as I wandered semi-lost through the streets with all my possessions trying not to appear too obvious to the packs of drunken dudes heading home after a big Friday night. I finally found a roundabout and caught a cab to the station, where dear old Herman was sitting waiting for me looking like he had spent the last 3 hours wrestling giant fermented grains. He chastised me a bit for not trusting him, which I took ashamedly, and then he entrusted my safe boarding to a friend of his who worked at the station. We hugged goodbye, and he ambled off home, probably in search of a coffee to perk him up a bit. I made it on to the bus sweet, and fell asleep instantly thus sidestepping the slightly annoying African custom of only leaving a bus station until two hours have passed since the intended time of departure.
Uncle Barnie In Burkina Faso Part 1
Earlier posts from Uncle Barnie:
1. Uncle Barnie has a wander…
2. Uncle Barnie Wanders Further…
3. Uncle Barnie @ Gnaoua & World Music Festival
4. Uncle Barnie In Mali
Uncle Barnie In Burkina
While I was in Essaouria a German man named Gunther told me if I was going through Burkina Faso, and was interested in music, I had to stop a place called Bobo Dioulasso. Gunther had the air of a man who knew his shit so I followed his advice and caught a bus from Bamako to Bobo. The ride took a total of 26 hours, and I pretty much needed to go for a piss as soon as I sat in my seat. I therefore rationed out my bottle of water carefully, which became torture the dustier and hotter it became. In fact it became crazy dusty. There was no air conditioning so the two doors were kept open the entire journey. This meant that the entire contents of the bus gradually got covered in dust, but also provided a welcome constant cool breeze. It was so hot and I sweated so much that when we finally stopped somewhere for a feed I no longer needed to go for that piss.
Urinary adventures aside we ended up pulling into a town called Sikasso at three in the morning and everybody got off the bus. I noticed when the driver turned the interior light on that everyone and everything in the bus had turned red. The last part of the journey was over earth roads, and I guess it must have been of a red tinge. We had to hang around at what I thought was a station until seven when the next bus taking those who were heading to Bobo would theoretically arrive. I sat on a bench and read my book for a while but soon someone who worked there told me I should probably try and get some sleep. He motioned to a room behind me and I went in. There was a TV blaring out some American reality cop show dubbed into French, and on the floor were about 20 African men asleep. No one was watching the television, and as I found a small area of mat to lie on I did have to wonder why it was on at all. I watched it for a while, and became glad everyone around me was asleep. These images of white cops beating on scores of African-American bad boys were not ones I particularly wanted to share with my new room mates, being possibly the only white (albeit red) guy in their town at that moment. It was definitely fuckin’ surreal. A few hours later it became light, almost instantly, and I saw that I wasn’t in a station at all but actually a large market. The bus arrived about eight. Poor thing, it was so old and battered and tiny it felt like I was climbing into a badly malnourished goat. We drove around the corner and waited for another hour and a half until it was full, then set off for the border.
Crossing over into Burkina Faso involved 5 different types of customs, police and military checks, and took about an hour all up. I felt proud for sorting my VISA out back in NZ, and took a photo of myself when the last check was complete to capture how brilliant I felt.
My metal goat deposited me at the Bobo Dioulasso bus stop and I caught a cab to my hotel. This place was actually a hotel, and cheaper than the restaurant I was sleeping at in Mali. I showered every part of my body for about thirty minutes, rolled a spliff, and ate a mango.
The balafon is probably the best known instrument from Burkina Faso.  It is the ancestor of the xylophone and is constructed from specially cooked wooden slats fixed above a series of calabash. I was told about an area in Bobo called Balomakoté which is known as the musical sector, so it was around there that I wandered on my first night trying to find remnants of a band called Farafina. Farafina was formed in the 60’s by a maestro of the balafon called Mahama Konaté. Their mix of complex polyrhythmic percussion and intertwining balafon parts with spectacular dancers made them very popular on the world music circuit during the 80’s, and they enjoyed considerable success all over Africa as well as touring Europe and the Untied States. I decided the best place to find out about music was in bars so I went into numerous canteen type establishments, having beers at each one and chatting with the bartenders and older customers in my ridiculous French. I gathered a few leads, and feeling content with my first nights efforts I began my walk home before I got too lost and bewildered. I had made it half way there when a young man scooting past on a moped asked if I wanted a ride. I said sure, and he asked where to. Now that I had transport and a buddy I didn’t feel like going home so I suggested we go to Bambou – a bar I had heard about that had live music. Bambou was a lot like Le Diplomat in Bamako, complete with foxy waitresses… a concept that drinking establishments have found to be successful the world over I suppose. Alas, there were no tunes at Bambou that night, but the young dude (whose name was Aziz) and I were having a fairly good chat thanks in large part to my French dictionary. I asked where I could try the traditional millet beer or dolo and Aziz said he could take me to a dolo bar right then. Brilliant.
Back on to his moped and we ended up at much more local styles place called Principe 2 that basically looked like a house with heaps of people in the back garden. We went over to where his friends were sitting and I soon found a bowl of dolo in my hands. Dolo is sort of like the colour and consistency of dirty water… much like kava. But it tastes like warm sav blanc with a good dash of sake. Not unpleasant, and Aziz showed me the part of the garden where the women were preparing the brew. That is why it was warm; we were drinking it straight after its rapid fermentation process. There was a DJ at Principe 2 sat in the corner playing a mixture of Bob Marley songs and Burkina balafon jams. He was playing tapes, and using a dual-cassette deck, except one was broken so he had to stop and eject, put the new tape in, then press play again. I remember marvelling at how the tapes started right off at the beginning of each song – no dead air, but then later saw him winding tapes round with a pencil… I guess cueing them up in a way. Still, impressive that he knew where to stop winding without actually hearing it.
After the dolo bar we went and paid a visit to a mate of Aziz’s called Clemson. It was pretty late at this stage but Aziz wanted me to meet him because he was an artist. Sure enough when we arrived at his compound he was up, puffing on a joint and finishing off painting a commissioned photo frame. His style was beautiful… bright decorative pattern making with text. I loved it, and got on real well with Clemson who was a lot closer to my age than Aziz. We smoked a whole lot more, and chatted about all sorts of things. Then Clemson dropped the news that he was a rapper as well. He promptly gave me an a capella performance and I was blown away. I asked if I could come back the following night and make a recording, and he said sure. He would buy some more weed for the occasion.
In the morning I set off for Balomakoté again to chase up my leads. On the way I met a young djembe player called Isufa who said he could take me to meet Mahama Konaté. We walked for a couple of hours until we got to a canteen slash bar where a relative of Mahama worked. He said he could take me the rest of the way on his moped, so we bounced over the compacted dirt roads for another half hour or so stopping every now and then to reattach the mopeds kick pedal. We arrived at a compound with an incredible mural painted on its exterior wall depicting all kinds of animals playing instruments in the jungle.
I was lead into a small room with a very sick man lying on top of a bed. Two younger men were perched on a bench, their body language displaying respect. This old man on the bed was Mahama Konaté. He sat up when I came in and was introduced to him, and he did not look well at all. There were black stains creeping over his dark and brittle torso. He was obviously dying, and it seemed as though those black stains creeping up his chest were responsible. He was smoking a cigar, and after chatting for a little while using my ridiculous French the younger men in the room led me off to the balafon workshop. I made a donation to the ailing maestro’s healthcare and was able to make a couple of recordings of the two men playing. One of them, Son Bako, was also in Farafina and he played the balafon with virtuosity. I spent some time sitting with the old man again after the recordings were made. Mahama Konaté is considered the Grandfather of the balafon, and is a living treasure in Bobo Dioulasso. I asked him about all the festivals and tours he had done and his face lit up as he listed off countries. I asked if he had ever jammed with a guitarist. He thought for a bit, as if trying to imagine how a guitar and balafon would sound together, then clicked his lips and shook his head, smiling and blinking slowly.
That night I went back to Clemson’s and made a recording of his rhyme. It is awesome and is about AIDS, and I would love someone to one day put a beat to it. My next two days in Bobo were spent hanging out with some Spaniards who were also at my hotel, one of whom was a magician and did some tricks for the local kids, and also spending evenings at the local clubs. These outdoor bars are all much the same, and ALL play reggaeton. My time in Bobo was swell and I felt a certain reluctance upon getting on my bus bound for the capital – a capital with the coolest sounding name of them all I reckon – Ougadougou (pronounced Wagadoogoo).
Next Post: Uncle Barnie in Burkina Faso Pt. 2
Uncle Barnie in Mali
Earlier posts from Uncle Barnie:
1. Uncle Barnie has a wander…
2. Uncle Barnie Wanders Further…
3. Uncle Barnie @ Gnaoua & World Music Festival
Uncle Barnie in Mali
I arrived in Bamako International Airport at 2am, queued for an hour or so to get my 5-day VISA, then queued some more to get through immigration. So it was almost 4am when I found myself outside all of a sudden in "African" Africa… looking for a cab and wishing like hell I knew how to speak French. Well a cab driver and a helpful guy that could speak English materialised quickly enough, and soon all three of us were trying to find my chosen accommodation, which was apparently out the back of a restaurant.
When we found it myself and the friendly fellow who had jumped in the cab with us had to do quite a lot of banging on doors before a large lady came out, obviously pissed off and wrapped in a crimson sheet. She showed me upstairs to a sort of room, and I paid her, and the friendly fellow, and then passed out. Next day I woke up thinking I’d better orientate myself and went for a walk around the block. It took about two minutes for me to become totally lost. Where I was staying was just around the corner from the biggest market in Bamako, and I spent about two hours getting enthusiastically taken around various artisan workshops, which resulted in my becoming both linguistically and geographically bewildered. So I decided to dedicate my first two days in Mali to becoming acclimatised. I had no idea really of how to start meeting musicians let alone making any recordings of jams. This temporary conundrum was lifted however thanks to two international languages – the language of guitars, and the language of weed.
I came out of my room after a brief siesta (the temperature was pretty overwhelming… the Sahara covers a large part of Mali, and I was in that part of Africa at the hottest time of the year, affectionately termed the dog days of summer) and immediately smelt weed, and heard someone playing guitar. Within seconds a door opened and a young guy poked his head out. Talla is the son of the owner of the restaurant slash rooms for rent (I couldn’t really call this place a hotel) and he was getting stoned and teaching himself guitar. Beautiful. I showed him three chords, and also tuned his guitar, and he shared his spliff with me. From then on we were mates. I told him I was interested in hearing some live music, and he said he’d pick me up from my room at 9 that night. So after wandering back from finding a feed of fried spiced plantains and lentils we jumped on the back of his moped and went to a club called Le Diplomat.
Now while I was at the closing party of the Gnaoua Festival in Essaouira I had chatted to a Frenchman who gave me the names of various musicians I should keep an ear out for in Bamako, and one of them was playing that night at this very club – none other than the virtuoso kora player Toumani Diabaté.
He was playing along with his Symmetric Orchestra, comprising kalimba, bass and electric guitars, drums, djembe, talking drum and an array of singers. The guitar player complimented the kora beautifully, sitting underneath the kora’s harp like cascades. The kalimba acted just like keys, and there were regular solo opportunities for the amazing and aptly named talking drum. One of the singers I subsequently found out is kind of like modern day Mali’s answer to Johnny Cash. His name is Morojala Comoura. Infamous for his deep plaintive voice and heart-wrenching lyrics, his flamboyance with women and alcohol, and for wearing all black except for a bright red cowboy hat. Talla had ditched me to go meet his girl so I hailed a cab and it took the driver and me 2 hours to find my restaurant. I had to argue my way out of paying double the fare (in Africa the price is decided before you get in).
But it was where Talla took me the following night that really rocked my brains, and made me feel like I had found some sort of Holy Grail so early on in my trip. Although Le Diplomat had its charm – a circular outdoor bar with a large dancefloor and attentive beautiful waitresses… plus it was free… it was still a place that definitely took measures to ensure ‘foreign’ patrons were pleased. Where Talla took me the following night was a place commonly referred to as ‘Bar Djemebe’, but on the outside is a sign saying ‘La Dundunba’. Dundun is a type of bass drum common in Mali… and djembe is also as we all know a type of drum… so maybe we can just call it the ‘Drum Bar’. The place is amazing, and definitely caters to the locals. Hardly any lighting, rows of bench seats and low tables, hot like sauna love and only one type of drink sold: Flag beer. It was also packed with equal amounts of men and women, which was refreshing after the more dominant Islam scene in Morocco. There were obviously Muslims getting down here too… just a whole lot more chilled about things like... recreation.
But the band – either called “Beperi†or “Kitacula†depending on whom I talked to later on - were incredible. They had the sonic mix that had initially drawn me into the bottomless well of African popular music years ago. Traditional rhythmic and melodic ideas blended with raw interpretations of homeland-via-the West styles like rock, soul, and funk. I have a lot of records dedicated to this kind of music, and I honestly thought I would have to be a pretty lucky mf to get to hear any young dudes playing that kind of stuff now… especially in a continent where the messages of MTV hip-hop have made such an impact. But here it was – a drummer and djembe player intertwining between 4/4 blues-rock beats and more traditional rhythms, and a bassist and guitarist going crazy over top. The guitar player slash leader of the band was dressed in a sky-blue shiny traditional Muslim djellabah, and was also screaming his lungs out. A young man had the nerve-racking job of being a human mic-stand for this guy… kneeling down so as not to obscure the view and tying with arm outstretched to hover the mic with respectful distance from the possessed lips of the leader (who was also swirling his guitar through some truly mind-altering psychedelic blues soaked clouds). They played slow, and fast and then real fast. And towards the end of their set a young kid got up and danced like I have never seen a human being move in my life. Half Bambara, half electric boogaloo. He danced himself into a body poppin’ frenzy as the drummer kept playing fill after fill…. the djembe player going completely nuts and swirls out of the tiny little overdriven guitar amp chorus-pedalling my brains out. They got faster and faster. Suddenly the dancer feigned breaking his leg and hobbled off dramatically to the outdoor garden. Everyone in the room started shouting and laughing and hitting their feet harder as they danced, and then the power died. There were claps, hisses and laughs, and candles appeared randomly. Somehow I ended up sitting beside the djembe player. It was pitch black, and my burgeoning French and few words of Bambara seemed to be floating along beery rivers well enough for us to talk about all sorts of brilliant things.
Talla had again ditched me early on to meet his lady, but this time he turned up again right when I was walking out to attempt another cab expedition. I hung with his mates outside drinking warm beers and miraculously knowing how to speak French.
I had made some invaluable recordings in my short stay in Bamako, but more importantly felt acclimatised and confident that the rest of my trip, if somehow carried out with the same sort of karmic magic, would yield further gold. I had made a good friend in Talla, and on my last day we gapsed it on his moped up to the top of a rim of hills looking down over Bamako and the river Niger. We smoked joints, drank warm beers, and watched goats getting grazed on the recently constructed exercise park. We went back to the restaurant and I grabbed my bags, jumped on the back of his moped again and headed for the bus station, to catch my 26 hour ride to Burkina Faso.
NEXT POST: Burkina Faso Pt. 1.
Uncle Barnie @ Gnaoua & World Music Festival
This is a continuation of Uncle Barnie's travels, the previous post can be viewed here
Well the Gnaoua and World Music Festival in Essaouira consumed me for a good four days, and I got to meet some incredible musicians as well as hear them play. The press pass I lucked myself into gave me access to all the musicians on the bill, plus got me right up the front so I could pretend to be a journalist photographer guy. Brilliant. As soon as I find the correct kind of wires and plugs I'll be able to post some pics with this here blog.
The opening of the festival was very impressive, with a parade through the stall ridden streets of the old medina of Essaouira. Lots of different Gnaoua troops clanging their castanets and singing as dignitaries strode along and got their photos snapped. The parade ended infront of one of the main stages (there were six in total) and the opening act was a mash up of a Brazilian Candomble percussion group based in Germany called "Afoxé Lomi" and a Gnaoua ma'alem of considerable fame called Ma'alem Mahmoud Guinea.
It was an awesome display of rhythm. There were three sets of conga, one cowbell, one shekere, a tin and scratching stick, a djembe, plus 8 sets of gnaoua castanets and a ma'alem playing Gimbri. Plus three dancers. Beautiful to hear how the language of hitting stuff can travel so far and yet nothing gets lost in translation. Over the course of the next three days I got to as I say interview and get to know a few of the invited and local musicians, and check out a shit load of music. The spirit of the festival was sort of encapsulated by that first performance - the combining of traditional Gnaoua music with stuff from all over the globe.
Some of the highlights for me were:
These guys played on the beach stage at night, and had a complete cross section of dudes going nuts in the crowd. Plump Moroccan businessmen and yoof jumping around and singing along to what is obviously much respected music. Their lyrics touch on fairly brazen stuff as far as Moroccan popular music goes... subjects like the King, corruption, and the plight of women. Their sound was rooted in the 60's... big, passionate, rich and rocking, with beautiful Arab tones coming through. Definitely as everyone was saying "the Rolling Stones of Africa";
Ma'alem Abdenbi el Gadari & DJ Hak'x:
Again down on the beach a 'Pepsi Fusion' stage was set up, chiefly as a venue for the electronic acts. This DJ Hak'x was doing a fairly good job of mixing up some 'progressive soulful house' for about an hour, then a ma'alem and some of his boys arrived on stage. The ma'alem plugged in his gimbri, and his troop began doing the slow C-Walk type boogie that accompanies their castanets... and soon Dj Hak'x was bringing in some whack house synth over the top. I was worried... but then a smooth bit of mixing ensued and the whack house synth in danger of throwing the whole thing into Deep Forest territory ended, and a growling little stomper was born... I stayed and danced around and dug it.
I had an awesome chat with Speech, Nicha and Baba Oje the day of their performance which no doubt heavily influenced my thorough enjoyment of their set. Being able to meet and talk with musicians you have dug for 18 odd years is always fuckin cool. When they turn out to be the humble, switched on positive people you suspected they might be it is even cooler. Their set really was good, and the Moroccans went mental for them. Africans in general seem to go mental for anything vaguely hip-hop related, but Arrested Development's conscious message was clear, even if some of lyrics went over peeps heads. They played a moving rendition of "Redemption Song" and a beautiful Speech only a cappella version of "Tenesse" as an encore. Real good shit, but no collaboration with other musicians as such, although a Djembe player did appear for one song.
There were also 'acoustic venues' setup for more intimate performances of the more traditional Gnaoua variety. These were held in traditional Moroccan riads - two or three storied dwellings that contain a central courtyard which acts as a kind of amphitheatre. It was at one of these performances, that started after midnight each night, when I found out about Michael Jackson. I was at a particularly bizarre performance of a group called "Sidi Ali Lasmar Stambali". They are apparently proponents of the more ceremonial form of Gnaoua music, the kind played at the all night lillas used to cure a sick person from mental illness, among other things. Different spirits are invoked during the ceremony, according to the colours they are associated with, and I believe that is what "Sidi Ali Lasmar Stambali" were intending to do except were given an unceremonious time restraint of two hours.
This seemed to bewilder the extremely elderly ma'alem on the gimbri, who seemed uncomfortable with things like microphones pointing at him. His assistant was also the troupe's dancer, and was an exceptionally repulsive individual. He looked like a kind of evil young nephew of the king or something. The rest of the troupe were very dark skinned and obviously sub-Saharan, and this guy looked like a Greek accountant. Tall, languid, and with absolutely no sense of rhythm. Every time he came out and did a little dance with a flag he would put on this camp little smile as if he were auditioning for Madame Butterfly. Except it just made him look evil. He gave off a very cringe producing effect for the entire audience. I couldn't figure out for the life of me how he had conned his way into a group of obviously very talented musicians. I took a break and went outside for a spliff to contemplate this and other questons, and one of the organiser ladies came up in a fluster asking if i had heard about Mike. I was of course struck dumb.. and all my favourite Michael Jackson songs and images ran through my head, a reaction i guess the rest of the world shared. I went back into the riad and continued watching this bizarre performance, now thinking to myself: "I am in Africa, and just found out Michael Jackson died, and i am watching a guy trying to dance to some old old music..." and i wanted to pull some incredible epiphany out of all this... but i couldn't. I think it just added to the overall weirdness of the situation, something i guess Mike was getting pretty used to...
I went to the closing party of the festival a few nights later and got to work on the open bar. An open bar in a Muslim country is like seeing an out door live sex show in Tiananmen Square, and i hadn't really had many sips since leaving Spain. I chatted with some of the friends i had made, looked out from the roof top luxuriousness of where i was standing over the North Atlantic ocean and felt an extremely lucky man. And now i am at the airport of Casablanca, waiting to catch a plane to Mali. So, one country down in my trip to Africa, and if my time in Morocco is anything to go by my remaining couple of months is going to blow my tiny little mind...
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