When E. began working at his current job, he traveled frequently and for weeks at a stretch, spending as much time in various hotel rooms in Bamako as he did in our Adams Morgan apartments. In fact, the address listed on our marriage certificate, the last one-bedroom we rented in Washington, is a place he barely knew and, though he tried to politely conceal the fact, always hated. During the three months we rented it, I spent evenings and weekends alone, reading every book I could find about Mali -- not much, in English -- and listening to Malian music: old cassettes of the Rail Band, bootleg Ali Farka Toure albums and Wassoulou compilations, an Oumou Sangare album borrowed from a Library of Congress friend. I bumped into an old friend at the DMV, who recommended Habib Koité. At the folklife festival I saw a free concert by Salif Keita. Malian music was everywhere, it seemed.
So when I arrived in Bamako last October, one of my goals was to hear some live music, but somehow, despite regular and varied performances to choose from, I managed to avoid hearing any music at all. (I don’t count the CDs that I played on my portable CD player and piped through cheap, tinny speakers into our echoey salon.)
When I returned this month, music was the first thing I heard, whether I liked it or not; the wedding celebration at our neighbor's house woke me up on my first morning. A griot -- who is at once a traditional singer, an oral historian, a mediator, a negotiator of social contracts, and more -- was singing the wedding song of the Peul, one of Mali’s many ethnic groups. She sang at regular intervals, accompanied by joyous drumming, and seemed to lead a procession from the house’s gate to the heart of the party.
Welcome back to Mali!
A week later, we attended a sort of private grand opening party, for a new restaurant. Moussa Coulibaly, the owner, has grand visions for Blue Indigo as a creative haven, someplace where local artisans can work during the day, and jazz musicians play at night. That evening he hired two traditional musicians. They looked no older than twelve and twenty. The older, chubby-cheeked one wore an American cowboy-style hat and a playful smirk. He strolled the outdoor restaurant, sang at full volume in an increasingly hoarse but melodious voice, and played the largest kora I’ve ever seen. The kora is a stringed instrument with a long neck and a hollow body; he plucked the strings, beat the body, and shook the neck, which had a sort of rattle tied to the end of it. The younger, skinnier boy trailed him with a metal wand, which he scraped with a stick for raspy percussion, and sometimes sang.
When they approached our table at the end of the evening, we reached for our wallets. These traditional musicians sing guests’ praises, for a price. This young man's cora even had a conveniently located opening in its body, where one could stuff bills. E. slipped in 500 CFA or so, and the musicians directed their song to him. They sang words incomprehensible to us, with great enthusiasm and no small touch of humor, stroking E.’s shoulder with a horsehair brush, tracing a circle on the ground, and, as the song wound down, looking pointedly at me. E. stuffed another bill in and they turned to me, stroking my shoulder, singing, stomping. After a few minutes they slowed, and quietly sang their way to guests in another shadowy corner.
I think the only cover band I ever saw in the U.S. was a KISS cover band (full makeup, fire-eating, etc.) so when we went to the Golden Hippo, which hosts a cover band on weekend nights, I expected a boozy dive with a raucous crowd, sticky floors and no seats. The Peace Corps volunteers who frequent the Hippo for the discount beers might like that, but I'm getting too old; luckily it was quite civilized. We sat at a table under a mango tree, and were instantly delighted when Gibi 5 took the stage. Backed by a bass player, drummer, and two guitarists, the singer covered songs by West African bands, French jazz artists, Cesaria Evora. E.'s Malian friend could name every song they played, whether it was Guinean or Senegalese or Malian, within the first few notes. "They're quite good!" we all agreed after the show, but our friend had to make one exception clear: "He could not sing Salif Keita's song as well as Salif. He tried, and he has a good voice, but no one sings as well as Salif."
We stayed at the Golden Hippo until 11:30 that night. I thought we could start training to see Habib Koite, who plays late every Friday at the Bouna on the other side of the river. We could stay up until 12:30 next Friday at the Golden Hippo, and by the Friday after that we’d be ready for Habib, who sometimes doesn’t hit the stage until 1:00 a.m. But Habib has left for an American tour, and I don’t know when he’s coming back. Look for him in your town, and check him out, if you get the chance.
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Hey! Mali-music.com (in French)
Also check out Rokia Traoré
Malian music on buildAfrica.org
1996 interview with Salif Keita
