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his father, no one else can set foot in that house. Not even his own wife. Women are very curious, but in that place… hmm hmm! Out of the ques- tion. Anyone who tries to go in there will never come out, you’ll dis- appear.”
“I sing about this. There’s a song on my sixth album with Sonafric called Banga. It’s not about our his- tory or anything else, it’s just a spirit song. If you’re in trouble and you lis- ten to it, it may help you; if you lis- ten with the wrong intentions, you're taking a risk.”
“I have a cassette here that I always travel with. It’s djinn music and when I have a head problem, I listen. Now you’re going to hear it, but stop your recorder, this is for ears only.”
A
li turned on his little Walkman and let me lis- ten with headphones. A distorted tape of Sonray music and singing, with
lutes and percussion and a hypnotic beat that made me feel almost dizzy. He stopped it before the djinns could get to me. “You see? I record- ed that, just for me. And it’s not for everyday listening, it’s strong. More than that, I won’t say.”
“So now I’m becoming the archivist of my town. I want to try to have at least an objective document of the reality. I wasn't lucky enough to go to school. But I live among the sages and it’s my duty to learn from them, and to pass it on to my chil- dren who do go to school.”
“So you see my video? These are the authentic sources. The dances you see are far more interesting than certain current dances like break dance. The break, that’s what? This generation that do these dances, what are their roots? When you see the hekkam, the takamba, the diaba, the real dances of the Tamaschek, you see something that’s been around for a long time, and still powerful, and the source of all these European dances. For example – if you take the tango, or the jerk – you can see that the roots are the takamba. Hekkam is the dance of power and strength; he who isn’t strong can’t dance it. Fulani dances are very refined, very noble, like in Dofana which is a Fulani dance called Tounguire. It goes like this – with the chest and the neck out. We say that a woman with a short neck can’t dance this!”
“Take salsa, it’s more African than European, because even though it’s Span- ish, Spain was colonised by the Zarma (Sonray). When I went to Spain, I felt at home. Spanish music and Arab music mixed in together. That’s Mali too!”
“Salsa will never go out of fashion in
West Africa. If you ask me what’s the best foreign music, I’ll always say salsa, because it’s the music I’ve known in my lifetime, and most admired. When I first heard Pacheco, Papaito, Barroso, Ray Barreto, Monguito, I couldn’t believe it, I was put back into my roots. You know we in Africa dance very well salsa; it’s what we dance best apart from our own traditional dances.”
to you that since that day I haven’t set foot in that village, I felt so bad about it. When I got home I dis- tributed most of the rice among my neighbours, the rest I kept myself. But the people of Mbouna are still saying ‘Why doesn’t Ali come here again?’ After my visit there, there’s been jealousy between the villages. Everybody heard about Mbouna, they all want to do their own thing for me. But I say no! I’m not a griot."
So why is he back when he said he was retiring?
“In all sincerity, my first album and tour here were done with heavy heart, against my wishes. I was unhappy with the situation then, I will never be happy with it, I will never forget it. I could avenge myself if I wanted to; those who I wish to avenge could be in trouble now. But why? God is here to judge for me. Now, I’m happy with Nick Gold. I know we respect each other. But I still say to you that music is not my profession, and has never been, and will never be. I am a farmer.”
Ali with Hamma Sankare and Oumar Touré, 1992 S
o where are his best audiences? “British people are seriously into music but then they can’t under- stand my words so that limits the enjoyment. So my best audience is back home – those who love music will go to any lengths to show it. They give suitcases full of things, and also give cows, houses, cars. Here in Europe it’s different. One looks, drinks and dances. Music is pleasure here, just pleasure; it has no more meaning than that. In some ways I prefer it here because back home, people do the impossible, they give everything they own away during a soiree, then they have nothing. It’s pitiable; it’s doing some- thing bad without realising it. That’s why my concerts back home are few and far between. The day you hear I’m going to play at home, huh! That day you’ll see people crying, because they’re moved to do things that aren’t within their reach. So they cry from, how do you call it, frus- tration and emotion.”
“At home I’m excessively solicited to
play, but I rarely accept, because I know the consequences. Here’s an example. In 1987 I was invited to play in a village called Mbouna. I was there for five days. I swear, for them those five days were like ten months. I could have had every single thing in the entire village if I’d wanted. Every night I played for two hours, not more. In the morning, I had more than forty tape recorders waiting for me – everyone want- ed me to record something for them.”
“In those five days I was given 50 sacks of 100 kilos of rice and millet. That’s five tons! I was given half a kilo of the best gold. I had a horse and money – I left Mbouna with 840,000 CFA (£1680), in only five days. And all the sacks of rice were loaded up on camels and they brought them all the way up to Niafunke. I swear
“That’s why for me the most important song on The Source is Dofana. Why? Dofana is a pilot project, a village created by one person, a great marabout who died. He left two children, the eldest is called Mahaman Dofana. When the drought came, Mahaman stayed at Dofana – he didn’t abandon his village. The life of Mahaman is a bit like your Robin Hood; he only lives for the poor, though he doesn’t take from the rich. He’s worked hard, single- handed, to make the land green, and now every year he harvests tons of cere- als and fruit. At harvest time there’s always a huge celebration, and he always invites me. That’s inspired me to make my own garden. I have my own land, why not cultivate it? We must work! When our stomachs are full, we have no need to ask for anything else. You say you’re free but you’re in debt to the state. You’re not free!”
“I’m very happy with our new govern- ment. But we have to wait and see. It’s a new state, just born. We’ll watch the good with the bad. But if we see something we don’t like, we’ll speak out.”
And finally, a question I'd always wanted to ask him. What does the nick- name ‘Farka’ mean?
“Thank you for asking. My mother kept losing her children – I lost nine brothers, of the same mother and father. My mother’s first child was born in 1922, and I was her tenth born. It’s a custom in Africa to give a strange nickname to a child when you’ve already lost other chil- dren. I was baptised Ali Ibrahim, but they called me Farka, meaning donkey. My friends want to call me Franco, but I insist, it’s not Franco, it’s Donkey! Well the nickname worked, because here I am, and my mother went on to have two more children who also lived. But let me make one thing clear – I’m the donkey that nobody climbs on!”
F
Photo: Dave Peabody
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