Tag Archives: azawad

Tallawit Timbouctou – Hali Diallo

takamba

In 1989, Aghaly and his brother Mousa left their home. A small village called Ewit, it sits just outside of Timbouctou, not far from where the barge shelters cars across the river. Their family are forgerons and griots. I’m uncertain of the difference between the two, or if there is one. In any case, when Aghaly was young, he chose the tehardine. Training in the shadow of his father, Amoumine, the two brothers left to seek their fortunes.

The brothers traveled throughout the diaspora, finding Tuareg and Sonrai and playing at weddings. They traveled through Burkina Faso, down to Abidjan, then North into Kidal. “The city was nothing then, just a generator. It was the bush! One night there was a panic in the town, a whole family was killed by scorpions!” They traveled North into Algeria, to a place called Ingazzam, resting there for 10 days, playing in weddings and collecting money. They took the money and purchased gasoline, blankets, and other goods to take to Niger to sell. But on the way to Niamey they heard news of a relative’s wedding. They had to spend all the money on their family. “It’s like that,” Aghaly shrugs.

The brothers continued onto Kano and Lagos, Nigeria (“I never went out of the house in Lagos” Aghaly says). There they received news that their father had died, leaving the family alone. The brothers realized it was time to return. They crossed the border the same day it closed. The Malians applauded when they arrived. knowing them to be the last ones to make it across. “If we came later, the army would have killed us.”

Takamba is immediately recognized by the complex but distinctive rhythm played on the calabash. Takamba is also a dance, kind of a slow ghostly movement, but also a subtle courtship. Performed on the tehardine, the traditional instrument is electrified through small amplifiers and transducer microphones. “The first time my father played with an electrified tehardine,” Aghaly says, “the microphone fell over and my father said ‘I knew it would fall, listen to the sound, it’s too big.'”

In 2017, Aghaly formed a new group, Tallawit Timbouctou. His repertoire today is a record of his travels. From flattering odes to his patrons in different cities, ballads learned along the way from other groups, and traditional pieces that have long circulated amongst the griots, takamba is as much an ancient music as a living record. Earlier this year, we released a special WhatsApp “live” recording. Their debut album is now available on vinyl/cd/digi from the shop and bandcamp.

Tracklist

Hali Diallo – a song for a Pulaar women, from Badi-Hausa, near Ansongo. Written in 1992 in Niamey. She is generous to all the griots, and gave Aghaly lots of money, bazzin, and furniture.

Super Continue – from a group in Niamey

Adernibah – Takamba classic. Translates to “lost feet”. Written by Hamar Assalla, the first griot of Gao. It’s about Sallo and Douma, in a car, lost in the desert. The griot took out his guitar and everyone was happy. It tells the story of Ifoghas. “Everyone should listen to this song, everyone in Agadez, America, Mali.”

Khoumeissa – Another ancient song by Hamar Assalla. Telling the story of a man and woman who dance.

Ami Cisse – Woman from Timbouctou. Written by Baris Ahmedou.

Kanji – Written by Ahany, from Rharous Gourma.

Fatimatou – Written by Aghaly, for a woman from Gao, now deceased.

Kalitay – Song for a group from Gao, led by Doudou.

Abacabok – Song for Hawali, an ancient marabout, who didn’t like griots, and tells the story of how they convinced him to bless their takamba.

Chebiba – A song for the youth. Originally composed as Ishumar guitar song.

abba’s home recordings, or how whatsapp is changing everything (pt 1)

The sand in Mauritania always carries the scent of the sea. You can tell you’re far from the iron rich dust of Timbouctou. Sitting under a tent in a wide empty space of sand and brush, dominated by hulking concrete half finished mansions, I meet with Tuareg guitarist and longtime collaborator Abba Gargando.

I first met Abba after hearing a grainy cassette playing outside of Bassikinou. Over the years we have met various times, though always near his home. This time, we are in Nouakchott, Mauritania. Abba had been here for over two years now, living between here and refugee camps in the east. Ex military, he now works as a guardian, moving his family and tent outside the houses as they are being built to scare away would be thieves.

While we are talking about “what to do next” he plays me some songs he has recorded on his cellphone. A drum machine clicks out a rhythm, while he strikes out the notes in mechanical time, singly softly. “I recorded this on my cellphone in the camps,” he explains. “It was night so I had to play quietly.”

We decide to piece together an album. The recordings are lofi – but so is Abba’s entire oeuvre; he is known today because of his music on cellphones, playing through the tiny speakers. The album could be a sort of homage to the cellphones recordings and listening, recorded by Abba. Unfortunately, he only has a few recordings on his phone, so he suggests to regroup all the youth from Timbouctou.

That night, he organizes a small gathering. We collect songs from the cellphones of Nouakchott’s Gargando-in-exile. There are hundreds of mp3s – recorded in festivals in Timbouctou, weddings in Nouakchott, or small informal sessions like tonight. Abba rewards the group with a few hours of guitar. When he starts playing, they switch on their phones, start recording, and throw them onto the floor.

I have no chance to listen to all the music until later, on the other side of the world. I make a selection and check with Abba. Five years prior this would have been arduous task – playing the songs over the phone connection, waiting for an SMS with the correct spelling, repeat. But times had changed. I send him the files over WhatsApp, to which he replies, identifying the songs and altering the tracklist to his choosing.

His final record hints and what will likely be the next phase of artists control over their own work, as it translates into the West. The role of record label/blog/writing about “the other” is as mediator between cultures, but rife with problematic issues of representation and exoticism. Holding to task the most exotic ethnography and offensive ‘world music’, it may be simplistic to think we can cut through decades of misappropriation with technology. But it does suggest the increasing role that artists may have in their creation and representation abroad – the Western mediators saying less, because it’s already being said.

lack of better words


Fadimoutou Wallet Inamoud, photo by Ibrahim Ag Aminy

Isswat, for lack of a better word, is what people have the habit of calling this particular music from the desert. It’s a style that like many things, seems to be localized and specific to one particular region of the world – a tiny circle of Azawad, North of Mali, in the Adrar D’Ifoghas. The Adrar is desert, but instead of the Sahara of dunes, it is a landscape of vast open sky, wiry bushes and twisted trees scattered across a surface of parched earth. There are low mountains, rendered spectacular in the otherwise planar landscape. In comparison, they seem enormous. It is nothing like the mountains of Air with mountaintop villages and citrus filled oases, but there is a rugged beauty to the emptiness and repeated motifs that you can name and comprehend – seven types of tree, three types of bush, three type of wild animal, four directions. But innumerable starlight.

Isswat comes from here (I’ve spoken of the music before 1, 2) Musically it consists of what a friend calls “the four elements”: singing, clapping, stomping, and drumming. There is always a woman singing a melody that dances over a constant droning hum that is maintained by a group of young men, each picking up the spaces when the other one takes a breath.

There are few recordings of Isswat. Perhaps some exist in archives somewhere. Two very unique recordings, certainly the only studio recordings of Isswat, were made at a small studio in Kidal in 2008. They were released on cassette and CD, sold locally in Kidal, and distributed via mp3 on memory cards and cellphones. A few years ago, the first cassette by Idassane Wallet Mohamed was reissued. This is the second one – recorded by a young woman from Adrar, Fadimoutou Wallet Inamoud.

This time, we were able to translate the songs, courtesy of Ibrahim Ag Mouhamadine, a Tamashek speaker and Portland resident, and researcher Nadia Belalimat. Translation is an art, and nowhere is that more apparent than translating from a distinctly different culture. My contribution was clarifying some words and cleaning up grammar. Since there is no objective translation, these err on literality, and may read as cumbersome. They demand a certain acceptance, a willingness to be baffled and confused, and suggest the path to profound understanding is not just in language, but culture itself.

In one case, we struggled with the translation “tarha n ibliss” which literally translates to “love of the devil.” In Tamashek, this is the term for romantic love, as opposed to the “pure” love for one’s family. However, calling it simply “romantic” would be stripping away all of the structure and poetry of language. In the end, the translation reads as “devil’s love,” so as not to confuse the reader that the singer is praising the devil. Such are the difficulties of translations.

Translation booklet available here.

One thing is sure – the songs here are all about love, and are full of the passions and follies of romance. However, while it is easy to envision these songs as archaic poems of the desert with imagery evoking tradition, they are firmly contemporary. There are lines that compare beauty to a Toyota 4×4. There are lyrics that compare love to Kalashnikovs. Heroism and power are illustrated by comparisons to the “Americans who came looking for Saddam Hussein”.

I’ve written before about the two worlds, that of the small cities and villages and that of the bush. There are vast differences between the city and the bush, but my interpretation has always been filtered through the lens of language – the cities, with French speakers that I can understand, the bush with Tamashek speakers that I cannot. It is clearly more complicated than a division of language. But there is certainly a two world dichotomy at play. In the global movement of people from rural to urban lives, there is no more striking example than trading a nomadic tent for a house. There are too many differences between the city and bush to name, but suffice to say that in the camps, there are no guitars. There is only music, or for lack of a better word, isswat.

The reissue of Fadimoutou Wallet Inamoud’s 2008 cassette is now available on bandcamp and vinyl.

Tuareg Drone

Idassane Wallet Mohammed

There are two worlds in the Northern country. If there is any global access to Tuareg culture, it is a window into the city life: the Tuareg who live in places like Kidal, ride motorcycles, swap songs on their cellphone, and dance at the guitar soirees. But outside of the islands of infrastructure, there is another world, a way of living impossible even to the inhabitants of the city. Nomadic families are scattered across the desert, living under tents, surrounded by herds of animals that are both possessions and sustenance. Amongst the majority of families, there is no money, no electricity, no cellular phones, no transport except for your feet. There is, needless to say, no guitar. Conditions in the dry season are difficult and food is sparse. Then finally, Orion disappears from the evening sky for 40 days, and soon the rains come.

The rainy season of the Northern deserts of Mali and Southern Algeria is a time of meeting and celebrations. Nomadic families usually spread out over the parched scrubland gather around the seasonal and intermittent water holes. The animals grow fat and give enough milk to drink to exhaustion. Clothes are cleaned from months of dust and sand and children bath freely in the lakes. Every night, the air is filled with chanting and clapping as the youth play isswat.

Isswat is characterized by singing with a vocal drone. Much like the families who subsist on nearly nothing, the music is sparse and composed of few elements: voice, clapping, stomping, and the drumming on bowls or water drums. The single note drone is accomplished by a circle of men who maintain a low vocal humming while a woman vocalist sings a melody that dances over signature rhythms. (see previously)

For those familiar with Tuareg music, there is something eerily familiar to the guitar based desert rock that has come to define the folk style. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that this was the inspiration for ishumar guitar – rebel fighters in Libyan camps sought to recreate the sound of their far away home, and adapted isswat to the guitar. The guitar melody was created to mimic the female singer, the droning low note of the bass string as the vocal hum.

This recording of Idassane Wallet Mohammed was made in Kidal, Mali in 2008. The Tuareg run studio “Maison de Luxembourg” produced a handful of CDs and cassettes sold in Kidal (It has since been looted and destroyed by the Islamists who briefly occupied the town). The recordings stand out as professional/local Tuareg productions. They are love songs, songs that speak of nomadic life, songs that reference Adrar and local geography. Today, while the guitar music may reign supreme in towns like Kidal, the nomads live in world apart. Isswat is the real music of the desert.

The record is available now from the shop or via bandcamp – a collaboration w/ Mississippi Records. We’ve made 500 of them with handmade covers, a homage to the some of the motifs of Tuareg design.

Below is a video of Idassane Wallet Mohamed performing. Currently, she is near the border of Algeria.

the malian cyborg wars

Wandering through Youtube, I recently stumbled across the work of Cheick Ouattara. Amongst the Malian Youtube content – an abundance of music video clips, ripped from the national television, ORTM – this was vastly different. A montage of shots show what is undoubtedly Bamako, with the banks of the Niger and the smoggy sky. But in this Bamako, unbeknownst to the stream of commuters on motorbikes, a giant red dinosaur wreaks havoc, galloping over the bridge and into the center of town – where it meets a young man who can see it, and covers his head as it unleashes a roar. This brief sequence is one of the vast, albeit brief oeuvre of Ouattara, a self taught 3D animator, and the first in Mali to experiment in live action animation.

Cheick runs a small advertising agency in Bamako designing logos and short animation sequences for state television, educational systems, and local NGOs. Using 3D, Java based animation software, Cheick combines live action with computer animation. His short clips on Youtube, from technical test videos and samples, show skeletons dancing in the Niger, X-wings flying over the Niger river, and animated crocodiles. His objective is cinema, and his collective has made some moves in this direction, working on a film for the French Cultural Center and in talks about a movie about Vampire Mosquitoes. “Our difference from other West African filmmakers” Cheick says, “is we want to make films with animation and special effects – science fiction and fantasy films.”

One particular trailer begins with a preamble describing the conflict in the North of Mali against the Islamists, and the resultant effort to create cyborg warriors. The short video shows terminator-esque machines racing Northwards from Douentza, retaking Timbouctou, sauntering before the ancient mosques and libraries. “The idea is,” he explains, “with the war in Mali, people have been asking ‘Who will come to help’? In the film, Malians working abroad create Malian cyborgs. The problem is, when the robots liberate the North, they become their own problem. When you create an artificial intelligence, it wants to preserve its own place. This will create a new problem, between humans and cyborgs.”

Cheick has hope for the film, in among other things, showcasing the unity of the country. “I want to show there is no difference between people. When the resistance starts against the cyborgs, the Tamashek are going to play a big role. They know the most about the desert, and they’ll be the ones who will be fighting the robot war,” he says. “Before everything, they were the masters of the North.”

The intended film will be a mix between live action and animation. Using the Xbox Kinect to capture motion, Cheick intends to trace out the movements of the cyborgs. The film would require filming in the Timbouctou and hours of animation. “We want to simulate a cyborg war,” he explains. It’s a big project, and the short Youtube trailer is just a synopsis to show the possibility of the idea.” And while there is no firm plan or Malian kickstarter to make the vision a reality, Cheikh continues his work – his Youtube stream is available here.