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On the Road, In Griot Time: Part 3
Seattle
November 4, 2002
Hear Djelimady Tounkara, Bamba Dembele and Banning Eyre on KEXP, Seattle
A Puffy Guitar
Djelimady, Bamba, and I got a preview of the space needle city on Sunday night, October 27. Salif Keita was playing at the downtown Century Ballroom, and Alison Loerke, the tour producer, drove out from Seattle to bring us into town for the concert. She met us at a jolly, afternoon party at the home of Chris Yates, our host at Evergreen College. A misty, mountainous view spread before the picture windows and porch, just across a narrow, bird-filled finger of the sinuous bay that carves the Olympic Peninsula from the northwest corner of Washington state. Inside, there was a fabulous spread of food and drink including the obligatory band favorite--chicken and rice--along with sauces, breads, cheeses, wine, beer, even martinis, and a house full of bright, cheerful, mostly young folks from the Evergreen community.
It didn't take long for music to break out. There were frame drums, Bamba had his djembe, Fode his ngoni and of course we brought along our compliment of guitars, such as it was. Serendipitously, a luthier named Marc Connelly introduced himself to me in the kitchen. He gently informed me that he had brought two of his guitars and would be honored if Djelimady would deign to try one out. I explained Djelimady's circumstance of not having a proper performance instrument along, and soon, we were in a downstairs room and Djelimady was sitting down with a small, simple, pale and pretty guitar, just number 17 in Connelly's "Puffy" guitar series.
At first blush, it looked wrong. The largeness of Djelimady seemed at odds with the smallness of the guitar, which had only 12 frets between the head and the body, rather than the standard 14. Connelly explained that his design is an adaptation of the old "parlor" guitar, the sort played without amplification among friends in an intimate salon. Marc returned to this style in part because he feels that the popular dreadnought guitar--big and boxy and familiar to every country and western or folk fan--is "over-bassed." Shortening the neck by two frets, the old design moves the bridge back away from the soundhole, tightening and brightening the sound. The trouble is parlor guitars tend to be quiet, so Connelly's design deepens the body, making the guitar not bigger but fatter, as Connelly puts it, Puffy. That name also seemed a little off for Djelimady.
But when Djelimady started tickling those strings and his glorious Manding melodies began to spin through the room in brisk, even tones, something happened. After awhile, his daughter Mariam began singing, and Chris Yates--a Welshman long settled in Olympia but always keen to sing--joined in. It struck me that the guitar made a kind of sense for Djelimady. He had told me that he wanted a small instrument, like the one that Ian Anderson, the editor of Froots Magazine, loaned him to play at the ceremony where he received his BBC Radio 3 Award for World Music in London last January. "Oooooh!" he had growled, "C'est formidable, cette guitar." Then there's the fact that most of the time, Djelimady tunes his guitar down a whole step and puts a capo on the second fret, shortening the guitar by two frets and more or less approximating the effect of the parlor design, where the tension on the strings is a little less.
The zinger was that Connelly said to Alison and I that if Djelimady really liked the guitar, he would "interested in a trade," whereby Djelimady could have the instrument in return for a few publicity opportunities, such as a photograph he could use on his website, a quote, the odd mention in interviews. It seemed too good to be true, but before long, both Djelimady and Samba Diabate were up in the living room playing Puffies while everyone sang and danced and drummed and ate and drank. The moment to leave for the Salif concert came so swiftly that Djelimady and I didn't even say a proper goodnight to Connelly. I did have his number, and I had promised to call him the next day, but as we sped off to Seattle, listening to the new Bembeya Jazz album, the guitar question lingered, but now with a new sense of possibility.
Cocha!
Djelimady also had a particular interest in seeing Salif's current acoustic group. Acoustic projects are quite the rage in West Africa now, but Salif's endeavor is unique because he is actually arranging earlier material recorded on Western, electric instruments for his current, all-Malian band, which features mostly traditional instruments. Djelimady is a big fan of the album, Moffou (Universal), but the show held still more promise. With three percussionists in the mix, Salif boosts the energy of the songs on Moffou for the stage, and based on what I saw in New York a few weeks back, I knew that Djelimady and Bamba would be thrilled.
Salif's sold-out show had already begun when we arrived, but it didn't take long for Djelimady and Bamba to be spotted by the musicians on stage. Guitarist Djelly Moussa Kouyaté accompanied Djelimady in the Rail Band for nine years, and as soon as he spotted his old soloist, he shouted to him from the stage, "How can I play with you standing there watching?" Salif has poor eyesight, especially in stage lighting, so it was only when his longtime percussionist Souleymane Diabaté, who plays bass in the current band, whispered into his ear that Djelimady was there that Salif--in mid song--shouted the familiar greeting, "Cocha!"
Much dancing and laughter ensued, and although Salif did not invite Djelimady to take the stage and play on his classic "Mandjou," as some of us had hoped, it was a rich musical conference. Backstage afterwards, there were lots of hugs and kisses and photographs, but when Djelimady and Salif sat down at last, Djelimady showed little interest in small talk. First, he complimented Salif on finally finding the right band and urged him to keep it just the way it is. (Not likely for this peripatetic artist.) Djelimady also wanted to talk to Salif about what they could do to improve the payment system for author's rights in Mali. Salif is known to be friendly with the new president, Alpha Toumani Touré, and Djelimady suggested that they arrange a meeting with the appropriate authorities upon their return to Mali. Salif seemed genuinely pleased to see his old friend. "Hey, Afropop!" he shouted to me, handing me his digital camera, "You take our picture now."
On the drive back to Olympia, we listened again to the Bembeya record, and there was a good deal of talk about the need to add new arranging ideas when you reprise 30-year-old songs, especially for the African audience. But all agreed that the recording sounds fabulous and swings hard.
On Monday, Djelimady and I held a workshop for Evergreen students, who proved quite adept at asking good questions and kept Djelimady engaged for a good two hours of talking and playing. "I'm a griot," he said afterwards. "If you don't stop me, I'll talk all day." He was especially impressed by a young black woman who had studied djembe drumming and wanted to know whether the solo introductions to Djelimady's songs were like the opening riffs of a lead djembe player, in effect, a call to the spirits for inspiration. Djelimady loved this question and responded with a colorful reflection on the way he as a griot talks with his guitar, calling on powers beyond to give courage to the gathered nobles. He then played an extended introduction to the song "Mande Djelilou," singing along with his notes in a deep, tuneful growl.
On the way back to the hotel, we passed by the home of the luthier, Marc Connelly and sealed the deal on the Puffy guitar. In return for a nice photo of Djelimady playing the guitar in a show, and a few kind words about his work, Marc offered to install a pickup, give the guitar a complete checkup, and offer it to Djelimady, gratis. He delivered the instrument to the hotel that very night, and as we headed off for Seattle the next day, the problem of Djelimady's guitar was solved.
Sleeping in Seattle
The next night, Kar Kar and his calabash accompanist Madieye Niang arrived straight from Mali, shagged, and promptly crashed. Kar Kar joins Djelimady and Salif on the American tour circuit, starting with the Earshot date on Sunday, November 3, where he shares the stage with Djelimady. Jon Kertzer--a veteran of the Seattle African music scene who currently works with Smithsonian Folkways, KEXP, and others--brought Djelimady, Bamba and I into KEXP to record a half-hour interview and music segment, which is available on the KEXP site (11/1/02: 4:00), and will soon be linked from here. Jon and his wife Claudia also invited the entire Malian contingent out to their home for a feast on Saturday evening, the night before the concert.
Once again, with a gorgeous view of the water and the city, we ate like kings and queens. Despite Seattle's reputation for awful weather, we've seen nothing but sunshine in five days here. From dinner, we went straight to a concert of classic jazz by Ellis Marsalis and Bobby Hutcherson, the elders of this year's Earshot lineup. Most of the musicians were impressed, but baffled by the old players' sly, masterful improvisations, and left at intermission. But Djelimady, who has long contended that there are deep ties between jazz and Manding music, was transfixed and stayed through the last night. The way the two old players reinvented classics on the spot, improvising and talking with their instruments even as they honored old tradition, and the way they condensed and stretched time to allow seemingly endless possibilities within a single rhythmic structure--all this and more touched Djelimady deeply. As we walked back to the hotel on a crisp, clear Seattle night, Djelimady chuckled at the way Marsalis and Hutcherson had overwhelmed the younger griots with their complex harmonies.
"It's not what they know," he said. "For them, it's bajourou music: go to the wedding, put on the capo, and play 'Lamban' all night. That's it. But it's good for them to hear something different." I was amused by guitarist Samba Diabaté's comment. He had admired the technique of the old veterans, but echoing the Ludite king the Mozart bio-pic Amadeus, he said that there had been "too many notes."
Back on Stage
Once we hit the stage for soundcheck, though, there was trouble. The Puffy guitar had a problem with its new pickup, which we had not had a chance to test--a long story. "The two E-strings say nothing," said Djelimady, meaning that they weren't as loud as the othe strings. There was no time to address the problem and no way to work around it, so all of a sudden, we were back to Plan B with Djelimady playing my guitar and me playing the Fender.
On the plus side, the show was sold-out, and fabulous. Seattle really turned out to support Malian music, and they were rewarded gloriously. Kar Kar wiggled and weaved as he dug into a deep, bluesy set dressed in blue jeans, a plush, waist-length leather jacket, and his trademark white cap. Madieye Niang is a truly extraordinary calabash player, with stylish moves to match his deep grooves. Djelimady's set was long and rousing, culminating in a boogie version of "Senelalou," during which Bamba commanded the string players to dance, and then invited people on stage to do so. Djelimady had called the new (old) song, "Sada Diallo," which we've all practiced in the hotel room a few times since that last, great Olympia gig. But some, unnamed musicians chickened out. Stay tuned, though. This one is coming together, and it will be the show closer to die for!
Off to Carleton College in Northfield, MN, in the morning. We'll be hunting a competent luthier to look into our pickup situation, and with a little luck, Djelimady's Puffy will have it's debut before the election. Yikes! Time to pack.
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