f84 A
li looks overwhelmed. He reaches for his prized posses- sion – the little one-string horsehair lute njurkel (“my monochord”) that’s been with him throughout his travels and that was his very first musical instrument, and begins to pluck the string; if ever there was a sound to bring on the djinns, that’s it. Then in a sudden gesture, he hands it to Cooder.
“It’s for him. Tell him that I present it to him with all my heart,” says Ali. (“I couldn’t believe it,” Nick Gold commented afterwards. “He never goes anywhere without that instrument. And I’ve had my eye on it for years!”) Cooder seems gen- uinely surprised and touched. He holds it as if it were a baby, gingerly picks out a few notes and in no time at all is playing riffs. “I’ll have to learn how to tune it up now!” he says (how do you tune a mono- chord?). And there – frustratingly – ends the video.
The next day Ali was brimming over with delight. “Ry Cooder! – that man’s head is packed full of ideas,” he whistles. “I had only heard of him, but had never heard his music. But when I did – I loved it, he’s unique in his genre. And what especially struck me about this man was his humility. Normally someone that famous is full of himself – which is silly, because everything you’ve done has been done by someone before you. But this man – its impossible to describe his simplicity of character. That’s what struck me most. But don’t ask me how old he is, because he’s a vegetarian!”
“Me, when I like someone, I’m very sentimental about them. What do I have to offer someone like Ry Cooder? The only thing I had to give this humble man who I liked so much, was my little monochord. And in fact, by doing that I was giving him my soul, and my mastery. Because it wasn’t our meeting of today that I was thinking of, it’s our meeting in the future.”
“I know I can learn a lot from him, and maybe he can learn from me. So he was proud to receive the monochord, and I was excessively happy. If, God willing, we are able to work together, I believe it’s some- thing that will make people talk. Ali with Ry Cooder, with John Lee Hooker, with Taj Mahal… these are the projects for the future. which I hope will show musicians in the Third World something of the reality, of the mystery and the re-encounter, of this genre of music. Because we are all masters of our own craft.
“Taj Mahal, he’s my professor. Taj and I, we have a real sympathy; I’m sure he’ll be visiting me back home. He’s promised me – and we’ll greet him with open arms. We’re not looking to get anything from him, but I know that his visit will make Mali very proud. And I think that when he sees our folklore, he’ll be very, very aston- ished. He’s a great professor; I’m only his little student, the genius of the river… ”
These were Ali’s first comments to me at 10.30 in the morning, at the end of a hectic but happy week in London. He was in better form than I’d ever seen him. There’s hardly a trace of the original bit- terness he used to vent regularly when he
first came over to London – still stung from a raw deal over his six French albums – one of the main reasons for his constant threats to “retire”.
Some years later, there are still no signs of Ali retiring. But then, he’s not a ‘griot’; he chooses to play music, but considers himself a farmer, spending most of the year on his small plot of land in Niafunké, on the north bank of the Niger river. Stardom and legendary status among blues fans around the world have not changed him or his aspirations. He is completely immersed in the life, history, economic problems and politics of his home town and its surround- ing countryside.
The Source reflects his obsession with these themes, consolidated by his recent purchase of a video camera with which he is gradually documenting all the traditions of Niafunké. He showed me a selection of his recordings. There are long sequences of baptisms and weddings of the Sonray and Tamaschek – two of Niafunke’s many ethnic groups, which also include Fulani, Touareg, Bozo, Hassaniya, More, and Zarma, each one with its own distinctive musical culture.
Ali is riveted and excited by the chal- lenge of documenting the tradition in Nia- funké – something which he points out has not yet been done. The music of the Bam- bara, Maninka, and Wassoulou of western Mali is well known, but Ali is the only musician of international status to work with music from the desert regions of the country. And what better person to become self-appointed archivist? His cam- era is steady – he was trained as a techni- cian – and it has the accuracy and discre- tion of the complete insider.
“M
ali is the roots and trunk of West Africa,” says Ali. “If you go to the Ivory Coast, or Guinea, or
Senegal, or Gambia, their culture comes from Mali. That’s why my new album is called The Source, and I think I’m not mis- taken in calling it so.” Meanwhile, as we were talking, ironically it wasn’t Malian music Ali had chosen to listen to, but Light- nin’ Hopkins. I wondered how that music made him feel, but don’t expect straight answers from Ali – or any concessions for being in Europe: his conversation is pep- pered with riddles and proverbs, spoken in a low and rich voice with a classic Malian French accent. He says things like “tradix- tion” for tradition and “soche’ for chose.
“Honey is not sweet in the mouth of one person only… The blues remind me of back home – they make me nostalgic. They make me think of the people who work the countryside – the farmers, the fishermen.”
“You may find that strange, but not if I tell you that only the words are Ameri- can; the music is African, really African. Not just African but precisely from the region where I come from. When I hear it, it encourages me to work hard. Forget about the instruments, forget the lan- guage, listen to the melodies, they speak to me directly.”
Which is closer to the blues, Sonray or Tamaschek music?
“There is something of Sonray in blues, but, really there’s much, much more between the blues and Tamaschek music. Look, you’re going to see something now.” Ali puts on one of his videos shot in Niafunké. The landscape is flat and yellow, with a brilliant blue sky. The houses are a soft golden-colour mud brick, with creamy, smooth surfaces and wedding cake tops. In an open space, in front of Ali’s newly built single-storey house, a group of Tamaschek women in dark dress form a circle, sing a chorus and clap their hands to make the rhythm – there’s no other percussion, and no instruments. A blue-robed man with a white turban covering his head and face except for his eyes, sings a bluesy solo. He’s dancing the hekkam, a dignified and graceful solo dance with a gliding move- ment and fancy footwork, with one step down, then three in the air.
“You see the hekkam dance here?
That’s the basis of my song Karaw. It’s one of several songs on the new album about the difficulties but rewards of harvesting the inhospitable land in northern Mali. So much you can do with so little – just two pumps turn our land green. When we see green, that makes our hearts live, it makes our souls happy. Green is a kind of science for us, an oxygen that doesn’t depend on any human being, only on God Almighty.”
“Tamaschek songs are about love, you
see? It’s the blues. They’re about living. They’re an education, they talk about everyday life, about progress, about advice, about knowing how to live and how to behave. They’re about the two colours of the sky and earth, and what’s in between.”
Tamaschek rhythms find their way into several of the album’s songs, but there is only one with Tamaschek lyrics: the driving Inchana Massina, in praise of the Prophet Mohammed. With its clicking calabash rhythm offset by rolling congas and long vocal lines, it is one of Ali’s all- time masterpieces.
“I am a tape recorder,” says Ali. He smiles. “C’est a dire – I am a tape recorder and I use one. My recorder is my biro. When I hear our music, I get an idea. I think I’m right to call our traditions ‘the source’. On my album all the folklore of Niafunke is there. I sing in Fulani on Dofana, but there’s French translated from Fulani in there too. Then Hawa Dolo is a Dogon song, particularly from a village called Diankabou. It’s about nobility – when I say nobility I mean people of noble behaviour and deeds. But you can be born ‘noble’ and be dishonest. I’m not interest- ed in millionaires who are liars, their money is worthless. If you’re honest and you have only 20 francs, that’s real money. That’s my philosophy. I look around me now and see more bad people than ever before in this new generation. This is why I sing ‘Mahini me, mahini tie’ – you have to know how to watch your mouth.”
That’s a very bluesy track – and Taj Mahal plays on it with him.
“Yes and also on Roucky, a love song. Roucky is the name of a Tamaschek girl. But I can tell you,” (he laughs) “she is real- ly beautiful. Her hair is down to here. Even those who aren’t in love with her, if they
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