Markus James visited Ali Farka Toure in Mali, January 2006, a few weeks before Ali's passing, and shares these thoughts and remembrances about his long-time friend and inspiration:

 "Ali Farka Toure was one of the greats.  He translated some very precious traditional music onto the guitar, which he played with a grace and elegance like no one else. It happens that these musical traditions represent the ancient roots of Blues music. I believe that he will be known to future generations as a seminal figure in music, along with the greatest musicians from other eras and cultures. But Ali was much more than a musician: he was a man of his people. Besides supporting hundreds directly, he was a major source of inspiration to millions, enlightening their lives with pride in their cultures.  Ali touched many lives, beyond his music; he would easily and tirelessly advise, mediate, acknowledge, and give what he could of that most precious gift: respect.  Over the last 12 years I have come to have the impression that virtually everyone from Mopti to Gao has their own story about Ali, and as is usually the case with these things, it's as much about them as it is about Ali.  For this toubab (white person), Ali was my hero, and my friend.

"je suis tres, tres content ici"

In 1994, I was in Niafounke, sitting with Ali on his veranda, overlooking the vast Niger floodplain - animals grazing, people tending the rice, cutting adobe blocks out of the banks of the river, and poling their long, thin pirogues in the river. He had made us some Nescafe on his camping stove, and we were playing guitars, quietly enjoying the moment which for me was like a dream of heaven. Out of this reverie, he looked up and in his unique version of French asked "how are you going to get back to Bamako?" I said I was amazed to have gotten to Niafounke, and hadn't really thought much beyond that; what did he suggest? He said that the river was low in places now, so that was out; on Saturdays there was a plane leaving Timbuktu, which would involve a seven hour overland trip, but that because of the (Touareg) rebellion, and as a toubab, I was officially advised by the government to travel with some army if I went in that direction. I said "some army?" He said "yes, some army." His sparkling eyes were really checking me out, and then the lights went off and I asked "how much will this army cost?" With a smile that was starting to get away from him he said "ca depend...".  I said "that depends on what?" He erupted into laughter and said "that depends on how much army you want!" Then we went back to playing music and drinking Nescafe, and I daydreamed of a Don Quixote-like figure walking across the dunes with one soldier and an old musket, or maybe columns of soldiers struggling through the sand. Days later when it was time for me to leave he arranged for me to go in his jeep with about 10 other people from Niafounke, and his friend Samba driving. Ali waved goodbye as we drove off through the Sahel towards Mopti: crossing the river on pontoons, losing our way several times in the trackless expanse, breaking down, meeting lonely herders and mysterious travellers riding camels and donkeys, passing isolated desert campements, and for me, filling my mind with images that would inspire years of songwriting collaborations with Sonrai and Wassoulou artists. That first visit to Niafounke is a vision of perfection in my memory - the amazing music, playing with his joyful kids, feeling that ancient place where the river runs through the desert and where people first built houses, meeting Hamma, and Ali repeatedly saying "je suis tres, tres content ici". He loved to be in Niafounke, and the depth of his feeling of belonging - to the place, the people, the spirits - inspires me to this day.  May everyone get to where they want to be. Insh'Allah.

"the real voodoo"

One night I had gone to sleep in his house down by the river, Ali's more private space away from the main family house where he stayed. He came in the middle of the night and woke me up and said "come with me now, you will hear the real music of the spirits". In the darkness we walked through the sandy passages between the crumbling adobe-walled compounds to his other house, and he and a young man played, the two-stringed Gurkel, and the one-stringed Njarka. I was spellbound; it was some of the deepest music I have ever heard.  It seemed as if the music itself was alive, with its own indescribable presence,  independent of the two men playing it. He said "ca c'est le vrai voodoo." I was trying to assimilate all of this; I had been to ceremonies in Haiti, and Brekete in Ghana, and had studied the drumming music for those, and associated it with drums and physically powerful playing. Here was something that felt like it came from another dimension, yet it also reminded me of intimate Blues music, and it was being played on delicate one and two-stringed instruments. This experience give me something to aspire to forever.

no tomorrow

During this last year, I've been blessed to be with Ali a few times, knowing that he had already defied doctors' predictions by long stretch of time. I was able to spend a day and night with him at the Nice Jazz Festival (France).  After talking about our families and the musicians we knew in common, we had some long talks about the specific traditional music and the players that had become something of a quest for me; and I got to be his roadie for the day. At soundcheck, I couldn't resist playing the Takamba on the calabash as Ali came onto the stage for his check, and of course he started to do the Takamba dance. He danced as beautifully as ever, elegantly undulating his arms and hands, before calling for a chair to sit down; and that night I was frozen in place as he played some of the most gut-wrenching Blues solos I ever heard anywhere - like nothing I'd ever heard him play before - long, sustained, bent, almost tortured-sounding notes; and he turned and gave me a look that said "this is what we're talking about", before going out onto the edge of the stage and playing like there was no tomorrow.  As it turns out, that was Ali's last concert.  I have always, from day one, felt that I was in the presence of greatness around Ali, and I felt privileged to just be around him, no matter what was going on: navigating around Niafounke seeing his various projects, or in San Francisco where he seemed to have photographic recall from years earlier, or sitting in a tent in the desert at Essakane making designs in the sand and talking about horses and guitar tuning, or looking out over the Mediterranean discussing his thoughts about the sea: how different cultures relate to the same thing ("Mais, les esprits sont partout"), and most especially, experiencing his nobility, generosity, wisdom, and grace near the end, in Bamako.

the real roots

In Bamako this last January, lying half-paralyzed on his bed, and resembling a shadow of his former self (physically at least), Ali greeted me with his incomparable smile and a big hug.  He asked to be propped up on pillows and proceeded on a tour-de-force of a lecture / demo / counseling session that was astounding. Operating the boombox beside his bed, he gave me an in-depth commentary about each track on the four CD's worth of material that will be distilled into his upcoming releases: which culture, which players, which language, what themes. All this time, he was fielding phone calls, responding to requests from his various helpers, monitoring a soccer game on TV, smoking; and when I asked a question about the Njarka, he called for his, took the delicate one-stringed violin out of the leather bag that had carried it around the world, and played beautifully for several minutes, with perfect intonation, while explaining that whether it's Peul, Tamashek, Sonrai, or Bambara (there are so many cultural and musical nuances in Northern Mali, it's enough for a multi-generational career for the truly academically-minded), with the Njarka, it's all about the fingers. He wanted to give me these 4 discs, but I couldn't bring myself to take them, and he insisted that I borrow them until I had really had a chance to study them, which I did. I said that this new music, which will be released posthumously, was my favorite, along with his earliest recordings (recently re-released on "Red and Green"), music from the 1980's when it was just Ali, and Hamma: guitar, calabash and their two voices.  He smiled and said yes.  And that's a lot of great music in between.  Then he told me about the ancient roots of Blues music.

"one hundred percent"

The last time I saw Ali, it was three weeks later, and amazingly, he looked better than he did at the beginning of the month, energetic and excited to discuss music and hear about my travels. And I was eager to tell him about the shows we had played at Essakane, Timbuktu, Goundam, and that I had taken his advice and played with more and different traditional musicians: with Zoumana on Njarka when we were both in Timbuktu, and some Blues with a Tehardent - playing the Peul cadences he had showed me, and a wild-sounding group of Tamasheks in Goundam, and he was especially interested in my story of playing with the 75 year old leader of Timbuktu's Ho Le Hoire. He nodded his approval when I shared the advice that this leader of the pre-Islamic spiritual life of the Sonrai people had given me.  He smiled a lot, and seemed at peace, his young son and wife close by him; and he reached to his boombox and played a track from his next album, and we both closed our eyes and listened, and I said "Ali, this music, it's completetly traditional isn't it?", and he smiled and said "cent per cent"."