Posts Tagged ‘tamashek’

Year of the Toyota Land Cruiser (Y.T.L.C.)

Saturday, June 26th, 2010

Historically, musicologists lacked the capability to record audio. Songs were transcribed either in Western musical notation or some peculiar form of transcription. Both forms suffered from inevitable selection bias as to what was or was not “recorded” (or able to be recorded in the confines of the transcription method, which may not take into count nuances in rhythm, the force by which a note is struck, etc.) as well as being cumbersome and inaccessible to those not trained in music reading. The advent of recording devices solved these difficulties – enabling the perfect reproduction of the said event, at least in the sonic realm.

While tramping around with a microphone, it is often easy to focus on the music being produced. Sahelian musicians, particularly the modern musicians (here I would note that all “musicians” are “modern”, something distinctly different from a traditional music maker who is often bound to a specific title and role) will gladly perform for a Westerner for a myriad of reasons that should be rather obvious. It can be easy to forgo the other variety of sound that is unique and probably endangered.

The Kel Adrar dialect of Tamasheq, spoken by only around 270,000 people, does not seem to be in danger of disappearing; though certainly much of the rich vocabulary is likely to vanish as the nomads leave the desert and settle into urban centers.* But besides the work of language preservation, there are some other bizarre curiosities of the desert – such as Tinfusain (TIN-foo-sain). A type of story telling, sometimes improvised, it demonstrates to the non-Tamasheq speaker at least the sound of Tamasheq and a distinguishable rhyming meter.

Poetry, Tinfusain

Another of these strange/beautiful things is humming/song/sound. Known as “bel-lu-wel” which I’ve heard as well on some of Francois Borels’ recordings in Niger, it’s explained to me as “something for children”:

Belluwel 1
Belluwel 2

Accompanying the seemingly limitless vocabulary for animals which occupy much of the time of the Kel Adrar (the proverbial Eskimos’ “seven words for snow”) is a menagerie of sounds used to both call and disperse animals:

Goat call
Cow, camel, mutton, donkey (call and disperse)
Calling “kids” to eat acacia

Digging around the old archives of sound recordings, as I’m oft to do, I happened across this nugget. Recorded in 1939 by John and Ruby Lomax, it shows a Texas gentleman demonstrating how to call a hog. Listening to this, I would wonder how pedestrian and common this sound was at one time – and how few Texan inhabitants know this today. The sound probably exists now only in some dusty archive (or some metaphorically corner of the internet). But it’s comforting somehow to know that it exists.

* As well as the written version of the language which uses an ancient script known as Tifinagh. The mostly vowel-less alphabet differs drastically between regions with variations in letters within 100 kilometers. Again, the alphabet is on the verge of extinction due to a Malian ban on teaching it in the schools and inability of Tuareg intellectuals to arrive on a mutually agreeable Tifinagh.

Pen drawing by Ibrahim Zouga (ag.ibrahimdessin@yahoo.fr)

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har tifawt.

Wednesday, June 16th, 2010

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“Il y laisse de jouer.”

Wednesday, May 19th, 2010

Another routine evening, we assemble inside Ahmed’s compound of chest high mud walls, sitting on the light mats thrown down in the dusty yard. Two or three guitars are picked up and traded around, the flickering light of the fire just barely bright enough to make out the shadowy figures – who all remain relatively silent in the breaks between songs. Silent, except for my persistent questions, which they’ve become accustomed to: “Who wrote that song? What’s that called? Where is that from?”

In the regional musical scene there is a strong surviving folk tradition. While music may occupy a place in recorded and played back form, songs are still learned and collected by traveling musicians. Incidentally, the songs have their own stories – how they were learned, where they were learned, and then the tales of the songs themselves: their creators and the stories behind them. Often tragic, or near tragic, as the musician is forced to leave his craft for love or family, these common themes are as important as the song itself.

The following recordings are from a guitarist known as “Bebe” – a childhood nickname that stuck with him. Like many of the young Tamashek, he spent his youth in exile and his later years traveling about the desert regions of Algeria, Mali, and Libya, in the nouvelle-ishumar existence.

“N ca, n ca, ca ces pour uh, le, ce pour dugah dugah…c’est un noir, dugaduga s’appelle, joue le guitar la les arabes la…abodit…il e fou, le tip que joue le morsel la, il e fue! Il e fue, c’est un fou, mais il joue. Walahi je te jue. Nooo, dugaduga? Il e forte. Il joue bien! Il e son group.”

“And this, and this, this here is for, this is for Dugah Dugah…he’s a black, Duga Duga he’s called, plays the guitar of the Arabs there…abodit…he’s crazy, this guy that plays the song, he’s crazy! He’s crazy, he’s crazy but he plays. I swear to God he plays. Noooo, Duga Duga? He’s strong. He play’s good! Him and his group!”*

bebe – dugaduga

“ishilan an tenere…le jour de la desert. C’est un Tamashek blanc, ver a un Djanet la. Ca pour Oun-tas-ili. Le tip il ya n de Tasili…le fronteir entre Algerie… le morset il e fait seulementil, apres il e laissez le guitar. Il jouer, il lodge a la Sahara. Son pere il ya beacoup de chameaux. Beacoup! Il y ri. Il e dit faux laisse ca, tu e pas un forgeron qui fais ca. Tu e pas un griot. Il y laisse. Il e a Tassili, le guitar c’est fini. Le chameaux. A dit ah, comme il s’appelle? Le gen que…le mutton. Le mutton tak tagila. A cote…il dor, il son fatigue! C’est ca il e dit. Son fatigue. Le gen des animaux, tak tagila.”

“Ishilan an Tenere…the day of the desert. He’s a white Tamashek, near Djanet there. This for Oun-Tas-ili. The guy he’s from Tasili…the border between Algeria…the song he just made, afterwards he left the guitar. He playes, he lived in the Sahara. He’s father has lots of camels. Lots! He’s rich. He (his father) said, leave this, you’re not a blacksmith that does this. Your not a griot. He left. He’s in Tassili, the guitar is done. The camels. A said…what’s it called? The people that….the sheep. The sheep tak tagila. Next to…he sleeps, he’s tired. That’s what he says. They’re tired! The people of the animals, tak tagila.”

bebe – ishilan an tenere

“Ca. Ca c’est pour un group avant Algerie. Avant!” “Ces temp ne pas des artists beacoup. Maintentant le tipe joue pas guitar, c’est fini. Il a marrie. S’appelle Salah bin Omar. Ca ces un Tamashek noir de Algerie. Il e marrie, e les gen, le pere de femme, il y dit laisse joue. Tu vais marrie la fille. Il e laissez de jouer, il y marrie la fille la. Il joue pas maintenant. Il entren les enfants le guitar seulemente. Donne le cour de guitar, mais il jouer pas.”

“This. This is for a group before Algeria. Before! This time there wasn’t a lot of artists. Now this guy doesn’t play guitar, it’s over. He’s married. He’s called Salah bin Omar. This is a black Tamashek from Algeria. He married, the people, the father of the women, he said to leave playing. You’re going to marry the girl. He left playing, he married the girl there. He doesn’t play now. He teaches the guitar only. Gives the guitar course, but he doesn’t play.”

bebe – transcribed text

bebe – salah bin omar

*The transcriptions demonstrate how this “folk” data is recorded, and the ensuing difficulties of a mutually second language (French transcribed in most appropriate phonetic manner, and direct English translation).

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issawhat?

Friday, April 30th, 2010

Teyti anounces isswat

In the rainy season, pooled water gathers and flows into seasonal rivers. They follow the same paths, snaking deep gulleys carved into the hard earth from the many years. The area around these gullies is flourishing with trees. Craggy vicious trees with spines, but relative to the plain desert it is rather like a forest. With the first rains, parents warn their children to stay clear of the gullies – the small trickles will grow into torrents of mud and sticks. And the head of the stream is often preceded by tumbling snakes.

Teyti, Aki, and Towti

Maroniya and Sele

It’s here in the forest amongst the pools that the families gather for the rains. Most of the year they live in small family units, a few tents of extended family, far from neighbors to maximize the yield, grazing their animals on the besieged and sparse vegetation. Thus, with the rains, a surplus of water and food, the animals giving abundance of milk, the families coming together is a moment of relaxation and celebration.

Isswat is an activity relegated to the night. After the stars have come out, the families have finished dinner, the youth sneak off. Perhaps one will begin playing a tende. The other young and unmarried youth will hear this, the distant low pounding of the drum. Sneaking off to some locale away from the camp, the youth assemble.

The music of the issawat is characterized by the sigadah, the low humming of the men, which provides a bass, and the woman who will sing the melody. The songs are often provocative, songs of love, albeit it in a very coy and covert manner. Issawat is also the opportunity for the youth to meet and flirt, and in the periphery of the performance, the young boys and girls whisper to one another.

Hoymada as performed by Halima Walet Mohamed, Kidal, Mali

More

Issawat is not merely the music, but the name given for the activity. In general, the music is a type of non instrumental symphony, where one singer leads with a melody and the others sing a bass, accompanied by clapping, stomping, or drum playing. There are similar types of music found that share these traits, such as “el medh” (previously) in Mauritania, or that “isswat” of the Sonrai.

Recordings of Isswat as performed in Bourem

More

I once heard a story about the family in Djounhan. Tigadahasit’s older brother once fell in love with a girl from another camp. She had come to Ijuhrer for the rains, but staying far across the forested plain. Realizing the brevity of the season and the possibility that another suitor would arrive in his absence, he was determined to arrive every night for the issawat. Late at night, and dressed in the finest clothes, he would walk out into the dark. At every flooded gully, he would disrobe and wade through the dark mud, carrying his clothing above his head, dressing on the other side, just until he arrived. Here, he would rest until the early morning, the long journey home under the lightening sky.

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Root Down

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

djounhan

Imagine the brousse like a rich tapestry laid out over the desert. This is not the empty desert of bleached sand, the “tilemsi” as it is called in Tamashek, not the vast stretch wasteland where no plant grows, not the sea of alternating sand dunes and lush green date palm oases. The desert is not even called desert by the inhabitants, but “brousse” (or bush). It is an area where grass abounds in after the rains, where spindly trees disguise the tents, where craggy rock mountains peak over the horizon.

The brousse is thickly inhabited. Each section has a name and a history. The people are mobile, like all nomads, but not overly so. There’s water in the rainy season, and forgiving the years of drought, enough pasturage to support goats, mutton, and cows.

One of the trees that one associates with the brousse is the acacia (“tamat”), a thin twisty tree of numerous white nail-like spines. The tree also bears litte yellow flowers that are fed to the young goats. The sap, tinhoost, is picked off in the dry season and eaten like candy. The root of the acacia is used to make the Tamashek flute. The difficult part is finding a section of straight root. The piece is placed into the sand over which a fire has been blazing. The heat seperates the outside bark from the center wood, and after substantial twisting, the outer layer of wood is pulled free. Holes are cut along the shaft. The inner wood is reserved to store the flute, which is quite fragile, being only the outer bark of root.

The Tamashek flute is known as the “ta-kha-nit”. It’s a transverse flute, similar to the flute found in Mauritania and Senegal (and across the Sahel). Traditionally the flute is associated with herders – those with an ample amount of time, tramping around the brousse with their sheep and goats. Today it is still a common brousse instrument, something to play with friends in the evening.

Harim Batem

“This is a song for a man named Harim Batem – it’s a type of song called “tar-li-lit”, a type of praising poetry made in honor of someone. Harim Batem was a man from a long time ago. He was a ‘broussiere’, not a warrior. It’s not always war here. He was someone who was strong and brave, he could do any type of work assigned to him. He was popular with the women…well, it’s the women who write the poetry after all…”

Tahalun tahsun

“This is a song that tells the story of a herder who went out the pasture, and one of his cows had an accident and broke his leg. All the cows left, but the other cow remained, trying to limp along to follow the others home. Sometimes the music is fast, then slow, and sometimes it stops. This is the creation of the song, the story of the cow.”

Yerodi

flute

The flute is made from the desert. And it invites one to imagine the low wistful hum as the brousse itself, the wind whistling through the acacia. In the evening at the camp in Djounhan, not an hours travel from Kidal ville but already a world apart, the sun is setting. The children gather the animals, tying up the young camels. The girls wander amongst the trees, looking for firewood. The sun descends into the band of dusty horizon and a cool wind blows.

Sunset at camp

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Three at a time please.

Friday, February 19th, 2010

The guitar soiree is the quintessential to the modern Tamashek. At least a few times in a week a festival will be organized — be it a marriage, a baptism, or simply a concert. As the first stars appear in the sky, the guitar can be heard wafting over the city. “Listen…” heads tilt, to ascertain the sound. “Radio? No, definitely guitar…”

The guests, the women in glittering shawls, the young men in new turbans and sporting leather jackets assemble on the ornate rugs on opposing sides. In the center lies a section a few meters squared. This is the dance floor. The first group is announced over the microphone to come forward as the band strikes a few chords, and groups of men rush forward. There is usually disagreement, as six young men stubbornly claim their place. “Three people only, please,” the announcer begs. The band waits patiently for concession. “Merci,” the announcer sighs, and the music begins. There is some bustle in the crowd of women before a few jump up. The dance is a simple two step from side to side, although it occurs on a counter beat, and the dancers dance in place, facing one another yet separated by a good meter, moving their arms about in striking poses. At some point in the song, the refrain, both sides step forward and and dance close to one another, before passing and changing sides on the square. The music ends, the six dancers rush back to their places.

Group Amanar at a small concert in Essouk.
(myspace link)

The guitar soiree is the forum for Tamashek guitar music. It’s rather non participatory — after all, everyone wants to dance — but it is just as much an opportunity to be seen. The first guitar soirees came in the 1990s. Prior to that the guitar cassettes were more likely to be heard blaring throughout the speakers in Libyan military camps.

In some ways, the precedent of the guitar could be seen as the tahardint, the traditional guitar, and the takamba. The takamba is a style of tahardint with a distinctive rhythm pounded on a calabas. It is a fast sound and paradoxically a painfully slow dance. The format of the soirees are similar, but the dancing is slower, ghostly, and more eloquent.

Takamba from Ali Ag Moman, Timbouctou.

Yet the music that probably comes closest to the guitar is iswatt. Iswatt incidentally is a non instrumental music. The sound is created by a rhythmic clapping accompanied by foot stomping, a constant low frequency male humming and grunts, and a female singing (“the five instruments of iswatt,” a friend proclaims). The crowd forms a circle and pairs of dancers enter amidst the energetic hand clapping. The dancing is fast, arms flailing, dust raising, and with billowing robes. The dancers drop to the ground and jump into the air.

If the guitar is the music of ville, isawatt, even today, continues to be a music of the brousse. In the rainy season, a few people will sneak away into the darkness, far away from the tents and begin singing. The others will hear and come together, following the echoes through the dark night. In that way at least, things are not so different. Well – maybe a little. As the Tamashek saying regarding issawat “Sin, Sin, Keratd Warhein” translates: “Two by Two, Three is Sick”. Or in other words, “two pairs at a time.”

Iswatt “demonstration” by children en brousse.

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That ain’t workin’, that’s the way you do it…

Wednesday, December 2nd, 2009

The Tuaregs consist of a variety of tribes, stretching across the center of the Saharan desert, East of Mauritania, across Mali, Algeria, Niger, Libya. In the past, the Western association was with “blue men” in the desert, the fierce resistance to colonization, the romantic myth of the desert nomad. Today it is impossible for the West to speak of Tuareg without the obligatory reference to the Tuareg guitar.

Koma and Attaye, two acoustic guitars in Kidal

The Tamashek guitar, or “ishumar” (A French deriviation of chômeur, or “unemployed”) was borne in the rebellion. After the first rebellion, the youth that had left for Libya for military training in the war with Chad returned to Mali — without any education or opportunity.

Interview with Initriy and Tahieat (French)

Origins are difficult to ascertain, but Tinariwen of Tessalit, Mali are popularly considered the pioneers. The music of Tinariwen is traded across Mali, via the Tamashek. Numbering only 600,000 but stretching over thousands of kilometers — the Malian Tamashek community is like a small town, and everyone knows everyone. But the heart is definitely in the North of the country.

Ishumar guitar music is preferably played with the electric guitar (for its responsive touch, both solo and rhythm) bass, percussion (calabas, djembe, or drum kit), and singing and hand claps. It is almost always played in a pentatonic scale (familiar immediately for the “blues” component), with a droning bass note and syncopated treble that accompanies the singing. One chord is often sufficient. but with tremolos and impressive solos. A friend remarks that tremolo of “false” notes are what separate Tamashek guitar from Sonrai guitar. “It plays better with the way they speak.” And certainly, the language Tamashek is full of bent and ululated vowels, placing it closer to Arabic in sound then with its cousins to the South. While the music has certain roots in traditional Tamashek guitar, the influence of Western music (cassettes of Bob Marley and Jimmy Hendrix most substantially) cannot be ignored. And today, as is common throughout the Sahara, the favorite guitarist amongst the younger generation: Dire Straits.

Talking with a former rebel/musician: “Dire Straits is the number one guitarist for the Tamashek. If he held a concert here…no…all the Tuareg – Algeria, Libya, Niger – would come to Kidal.” Mark Knopfler, are you listening?

Abba and Ahmedou Ag with acoustic guitar, Timbouctou
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Sarid Ag and Doni with electric guitar, Kidal
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Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be Griots.

Sunday, November 8th, 2009

While Tuareg rock (Desert Blues, i.e. Tinariwen) is the most known form of Tamashek music abroad, traditional guitar still has a strong place in the North. The traditional guitar is found throughout West Africa, for Peuls, Sonrai, Maures, Tuareg, Sarakoles – respectively named Hodou, Koubour, Tidinit, Teherdent or Hardine (and a four stringed version known as Gambare or Jeli Ngoni for the Bambara).

There are two sizes of the guitar; both are the same form – a three stringed lute of wood hollow body. The guitar is fretless, and the strings are bound to the neck by a wrapped bands of elastic. The larger, with a deeper resonance, is used for “listening” while the smaller, with a brighter and tinnier sound embodies a more lively sound, suitable for dancing. Amplification is achieved with the standard microphone of West Africa – a transducer microphone furnished from the Casio watch. The guitarist sits with a knee bent the guitar held between the legs, a seemingly acrobatic position (photo needed!).

Ali Ag Mooman is a griot from Timbouctou. While the griots still hold a strong role in society (no marriage would be possible without one), they are often marginalized in the market. The traditional music is not sought after with the fervor as the modern sounds.

Ali plays some songs while his brother explains (in French, translations below).

Adernibah

“This is in the desert, there is a group of guitarists that had lost their route, and they played this song for 20 days. Adernibah in Tamashek is people who are lost in the desert. It is a song known in the entire world.”

Two Songs


“This is the first song of the Tuareg. It’s called “Yona”. The beginning of the (Tuareg) guitar, this is it!”

Takoba


“This is from a grand leader, called Hawadine.”

Hawadi

“This is called y’addi. This is the song uniquely for the Tuareg. If there is a war, this song is played. It’s like a drug, this song, and if they hear it they march straight!”

Lastly, a recording of Ali Ag Mooma (thardint), Moussa (Calabass), and myself (guitar) in an evening soiree/cassette recording, performed at his house by the “Gare Goundam.” As the night progresses, all the neighbors trickle in, drawn by the buzzing of the guitar – the best promotion, and how most soirees are “advertised” in the desert towns and the nomad ‘acampaments.’

This is a popular song titled Chebibah, which means “the youth” in Arabic. It was originally composed by an Algerian, but is a standard for Tamashek guitar.

Chebibah

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A million and one stars

Wednesday, July 29th, 2009


The desert north of the river Niger is a scrubby dry place. Along the border with Mauritanian and Mali, there are a mixture of Maurs, Berbiche, and Tamashek (Tuareg). I meet a group of Kalashnikov carrying youths (military). The zone is in a state of continuous tension, as rebel raids have been frequent and recent as a few months ago. There is a clear division between the Bambara and the Tamashek officers, even though this is likely to be denied.

Ag Said singing independence songs in the truck

I stay a few days in Gargando, a tiny and unassuming village, known in the region primarily for it’s brackish water. The youth have come back for vacation. In the late evening, we sit around and play songs on my guitar.

Night Soiree with youth

Night Soiree 2

Night Soiree 3

During the day, the heat is too oppressive to move. Later, by the afternoon, there is millet to pound and cows to feed. But there is lot of time to sit around too and play with the microphone.

Young girl raps (in tamashek)

Unknown song

At night, under the stars, the old bearded patriarch Abdullahi tells me, in a deep cinematic voice: “In America you sleep in five star hotels. Here in the desert, we have a million and one.” And his laugh bellows out over the white sand.

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