Recorded over the past three years “I Sing the Desert Electric” is a short film I’ve pieced together from video that I hastily shot while documenting music. Final Cut, a little post production, and voila. From fuzzy electric guitars of Mauritania to raucous electro-street parties of Bamako, public performance has become louder over the past 40 years (from what I’m told). Amplifiers, speakers, microphones, and megaphones have joined the more or less traditional repertoire of instruments. But these impromptu parties are still such an integral part of music in the West Africa – and easy to find if you’ve got some time to wander around the neighborhoods of the capitals or the villages of the Sahel.

You can download it for free at the following Vimeo link. The film runs about 19 minutes. Download it and share it and enjoy. If you’d like a higher quality copy for screening purposes, please email me at ckirkley at gmail.com. Any contributions for screening will be greatly appreciated.

Vimeo link

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Mohamed Karzo – C’est La Vie

Guitar music in Niger is curiously distant from its Malian cousins. Looking at a map of the Sahara and following the roads, it makes sense – though the two countries share a border, the respective capitals (Kidal, Agadez) are often reached via a circuitous route, North via Algeria, or South into the Zirma speaking Niamey. One distinction could be that Nigerien guitar is faster, or that it has as many as four chord changes, or that it sometimes uses an alternate tuning (G-B-D-G-B-E). Another is that each country is informed by a different godfather. While Malian ishumar guitar traces its roots back to Ibrahim from Tinariwen, Nigerien guitar pays homage to Abdallah Ag Oumbadougou.

While I neglect to make it as far North as Agadez, the capital of guitar in Niger, in Niamey I meet with Mohamed Karzo, nephew of Abdallah Ag Oumbadougou. Mohamed is a young guitarist with a group in Agadez. And though one gets the impression there are hundreds of such groups, guitarists are quick to point out when they have their own compositions – a rarity in the folkloric music where even new songs tread sonically very close to older ones, a quality perhaps of a finite number of solos over chord changes. Too dark for photos and without acoustic instruments, his electric guitar is plugged into a pair of speakers fixed in another room. We simply turn up the volume, and Karzo sings one of his songs, followed by, of course, by one of his uncles.

Mohamed Karzo – Tenere (Abdallah Ag Oumbadougou Cover)

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Lost in a music archive in the capital of Niger was the first I heard of the legendary Mammane Sanni Abdoulaye. The space was overflowing with dusty CDs, cassettes, and Nagra reels, and hunkering down from the insufferable heat outside, I prepared to spend a long week in research. Mammane’s cassette was the first I pulled from the shelf, and I almost passed over in lieu of something more obscure. But I was captured by the photograph — a black and white picture of a young man with a goatee and a knit cap, posing in front of faux backdrop, hands on what appeared to be an organ. The music proved equally intriguing. The instrumental compositions were simple but dreamy, repetitive but hypnotic. It was esoteric and bizarre, unlike anything I had ever head – the imaginary audio track to an arcade game of desert caravans trek through an pastoral landscape of 8-bit acacias and pixelized sand.

Finding Mammane was surprisingly easy. Immediately after asking about him to the archive director, I had him on the phone. The next day, Mammane arrived. Much older than in the photo, with greying hair and in a pressed shirt and slacks, he had a laugh when I showed him the cassette, and he said it was best if we spent the day talking – he was retired, and didn’t have much to do anyways. Moments later were running through the streets to catch a bus, followed by a taxi, that soon carried us outside of Niamey into the surrounding Sahel of scrubs and brown plains, where Mammane lives today. Inside the tiny house, interrupted intermittently by the persistent crow of a rooster, Mammane told me his story as we listened to his cassettes and paged through books of old photographs.

Mammane is well known throughout Niger, but his synth music was never hugely popular. He came from a privileged place in Niger society – his maternal grandfather was a chief in Ghana, his paternal grandfather a Colonel in the first World War, and Mammane’s father was a librarian for the American Cultural Center. As a young man, Mammane became a functionary for UNESCO, during which he traveled to Japan and Europe. During one of the UNESCO meetings, a delegate from Rwanda had brought along his Italian “Orlo” organ. Mammane was captivated by the sound and convinced him to sell it. “It was possibly the first Organ in Niger,” he explained. He began to compose songs on the organ. Many of these songs were interpretations of Niger folkloric classics. “I wanted to make the Wodaabe songs on the keyboard, make the Tuareg tendé with the rhythm,” he said. Some were his own compositions. Salamatu, one his most popular songs, was created for his girlfriend. He stopped as he came across her photo, how he once lay with his head in her lap, and tears came to his eyes. When she asked him why he was crying, he answered “Because I’ve never been so happy as I am in this moment.” He sits quietly, before I asked what happened to Salamatu, and he smiles before shaking his head and turning the page.

His first and only album was recorded in 1978. Mammane stepped into the studio of the National Radio with his organ, where it was transposed and overdubbed in two takes. In coordination with the Minister of Culture, the album was released in a limited series of cassettes showcasing modern Niger music. The cassette project unfortunately did not progress as planned, and merely a handful were released. Perhaps 100 were made – Mammane is unsure – fabricated in Nigeria. The copy that he owns and the one at the archive are the only ones he knows are left. Nevertheless, for over 30 years, Mammane continued to play. For a short while he even had a television show called “Mammane Sani et son Orgue Électronique” on Niger’s television. He digs out a short clip, a black and white video transfer playing in front of the same backdrop that graces the cover of the cassette. Mammane is hardly esoteric or forgotten in Niger. His music today is known by everyone – it forms much of the repertoire of televised intermissions, radio segue-ways, and background music. And Mammane has continued to update his organs and pianos when they fall apart, benefiting from generous contributions from high society, gifts of presidents and ministers.

I left Mammane’s house in the evening, ducking out of his house to catch transport back into town before the night came. And it was nearly a year later when we started to talk about releasing it on record. Mammane was nonchalant about it, only insisting that the proceeds could be used to upgrade his computer and get a new copy of audio software. But one of his musician friends I recently spoke to in New York was more adamant in his idea of the vinyl release. “He’s been waiting over 30 years,” he said. “It’s about time.”

Grab the vinyl here at the new Sahelsounds shop or Mississippi Records – and of course, the music is available on Bandcamp. Proceeds of the sales will go to Mammane’s new computer and a copy of Reason, so stay tuned for future recordings.

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Haïdara and Abdoulaye live with their friends in a compound on the fringes of Niamey, the capital of Niger. The two concrete buildings house perhaps thirty students who have come here to attend the University. They are all from the town of Timia, an oasis in the Aïr mountains far up into the North of Niger. They are all here to study.

Haidara and Abdoulaye – Song 1

Though Niger is in theory one country, there remains divisions between the North and South – and huge differences between the cities and the country. As representatives of Timia, the student group is, in essence, a community in exile. Like immigrants living abroad, they maintain their connection to their home, visiting on vacations, and collectively forging a small enclave of Northerners. Although far removed, here they have the benefits of a global connectivity with regular access to the internet – in fact, I first meet the group via Facebook, who knowing of my impending visit, send me a short audio recording of Haïdara and Abdoulaye playing guitar.

Cellphone recording via FB

When we do finally meet, we are received with some fanfare. Nearly all of the students living in the house are crammed into one of the rooms to receive us – though I suspect more for Ahmed, from Amanar, whose stardom precedes him. His sometimes cynical lyrics chastise the powerful and corrupt and demand the creation of a Tuareg class of intellectuals, and we are at the exact people that he’s trying to reach. While Haïdara and Abdoulaye play guitar (perhaps more for Ahmed then for me) a youth named Adouma scrolls through a Word document on his laptop, anxious to share on of his projects. Contingent with his studies at the university, he has written a textbook with audio lessons for the Tamashek language of Niger, with accompanying Tifinagh.

In the North, the road to prosperity has been limited to a few options – the unpredictable tourist industry, the long shot musical career, competitive posts in the numerous NGOs, or dangerous black market smuggling. One of the continued complaints in the North is directed at the lack of education and opportunity – not always eloquently manifested, but expressed in a constant series of rebellions over the past decades.

When I lived in pre-rebellion Kidal, I regularly met with youth who would become instrumental in the overthrow of the Malian state, particularly in the utilization of technology to distribute their message. In a cyber cafe of the now defunct Maison de Luxembourg, I watched what would become an MNLA website launched on blogspot. Even then, the youth were ready for revolution, enamored with Che Guevara and inspired by the idealism of youth culture. They were already beyond peaceful reconciliation, products of Northern schools that for the most part, ignored them. Teachers from the capital, assigned to these outposts, were unable to speak Tamashek and even the most dedicated could be forgiven in their aparthy – sent to unfamiliar territories, with little or no support from the capital, they too were far from their families. Needless to say, Tuareg culture was not taught. I visited the Kidal high school library, and could not find a single book referencing the Tuareg. When I suggested to the soon to be revolutionaries that they compose an open letter to the Minister of Education demanding support and books, the idea seemed too small and inconsequential. Growing up in the shadow of Bamako, the Northern territories had too long existed in limbo, and their big dreams demanding big ideas.

While post rebellion Niger has followed a much different route, the student group from Timia is hopeful, a model of a new class that may usher in changes in the North countries. As ambassadors, or immigrants in exile, they remain “enfants de Timia”. While Haidara and Abdoulaye play guitar, their compositions are not remarkable for their unique style – but in their purposeful nostalgia creating an oasis in the capital. It is not just symbolic, but a very real and pragmatic collective environment where resources are pooled to support one another in their struggle.

Haidara and Abdoulaye – Song 2

When Ahmed is out of the room, the students whisper to one another, finally asking if Ahmed will play a song. I ask him, but he politely refuses to their disappointment (though they do their best to hide it, and are somewhat allayed by a group photograph with the star). When we leave, I ask him why he wouldn’t play, and why he seemed discouraged. But it was March, the rebellion had just begun in Mali, and his family was left behind. The message that was so readily embraced by the students of Timia had not been heard at his home in Kidal, and now a war was raging.

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Mamane Sani et Son Orgue, recorded live on his workstation, Niamey, 2012.

Mamane Sani – Lamru (2012)

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To my Scandinavian friends: I’m in Sweden this week! Amanar was supposed to be joining me, but due to visa issues I’m representing Azawad by my lonesome. I’ll be in Stockholm and on the 11 and 12th I’ll be djing at Gagnef Festival.

Brought over a bunch of records, including the new Pheno S., Mdou Moctar, Amanar/Celestino 7″, and sister label Boomarmnation’s El Mahdy Jr. LP – available at Larry’s Corner and Snickars Records.

Lastly, for those of you that missed it – the program I co-produced with Sam Backer on Modern Malian music is still live up on Afropop Worldwide. Big ups to letting us play “Malien Dougie” on NPR affiliates across America. Eat your heart out Terry.

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The mixtape of Music from Saharan Cellphones has been made into two vinyl records, but the momentum continues and two of the featured artists now have full lengths of their own.

Mdou Moctar, known for his autotuned anthems – the Hausa film interpretations of Tuareg guitar – has dozens of his own compositions. In 2012, I visited Tchin-Tabaradene, Niger to meet with Mdou and record. The resulting LP captures some of the highlights, from the electrifying wedding parties to mellow acoustic love ballads. Titled after the Tuareg warrior Afelan, a celebrated historical/folkloric hero of the Azawough of Western Niger (also the subject of one of Mdou’s songs), this is Mdou’s first and only release.

Pheno S. is of a very different school, one of Gao’s most popular rappers. As the first ever Mali Hip Hop on wax, Pheno is hardly representative of the country, but creates homemade and self produced village Hip Hop w/ Autotuned vocals, Fruityloop beats, and unconventional, yet somehow perfect, song structures. I visited in 2012, and downloaded the songs from Pheno’s cellphone, which were then remastered for vinyl. The jacket image of cyborg Pheno S. taking over the world pays homage to Pen and Pixel in an original Malian design by Prinsco Fatal Bass (previously featured in Sahel Digital Art expos).

Both albums are available via digital download on bandcamp or vinyl via the Sahel Sounds shop – or at your finest record retailer.

*a special thanks to Salym Fayad, journalist and photographer who was in Gao recently and snapped the source photos for the jacket

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Over the past few weeks I’ve been back in Niger working on a film project in Agadez with Jérome Fino from the Marseille based collective l’improbable. In addition, we’ve been shooting some short music segments, many of which have now been edited and uploaded – including Group Inerane, the Cure Salee, Mdou Moctar, and more, available here.

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Japonais – Piyano 1

Back in 2012, I found a few incredible instrumental piano tracks in Niger. This trip to Agadez, I asked around and friends were quick to identify them as the work of a young man known as “Japonais”* who had been killed in the rebellion of 2009. It was soon after that I was meeting with his family.

Born with the name Alhoussane Khadim, he was given the knickname “Japonais” as a baby for his small eyes. When he was 12 years old, his mother traveled to Libya and returned with a keyboard. Japonais had a natural ear for music, and taught himself to play, eventually upgrading to a larger keyboard purchased in Zinder. He played his piano in weddings, sometimes accompanying musicians, like Abdallah Oumbadougou. He remeeventually learned to play guitar and drums. “He wrote songs for all the family and for all his friends,” his sister explained. “Everyone had their own song.”

Japonais – Piyano 2

During the last rebellion of Niger, Japonais joined the MNJ (Niger Movement for Justice), a group seeking independence in the North of Niger. For all appearances, the Niger rebellion seems to lack the popular support of the current Malian rebellion. On the other hand, and maybe in explanation for its rapid suppression, the Niger rebellion also was in direct conflict with foreign interests – namely the French company Areva that owns and operates uranium mines in the North with a notorious track record. “It’s one thing to go up against Niger, another to go up against the French,” a friend explains. In 2009, while battling government troops, Japonais was captured, arrested and subsequently “disappeared.” He was 25 years old. The fact that he was captured alive and assassinated by the Nigerien government is unfortunately unsurprising. (“They do this all the time,” a young man explains as I read him this text).

When I ask the family if they have any pictures, they are able to find only two – one of Japonais, a child no more than 12 years old, around the time he first started to play the piano. The other photo shows a young man on the left, arm draped over his friend. The photo is worn and degraded from time and sand and sun. These are the only pictures they have, they explain. After his death, soldiers came to investigate his background and arrest his friends, so they gathered up all the photos and burned them.

Today the music of Japonais continues to circulate through the digital networks of Niger. The songs are often titled “Piyano,” or “Instru,” or sometimes “Bambino” (there are many people that believe the songs are by said artist, due to this clerical error). But not once have I seen one carrying the name of the musician Japonais.

* There is another “Japonais” in the group Tinariwen. This is not him.

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Regue Lybie – Zira Am

While in Agadez, we dip out of town for a wedding. There’s a very vanilla, somewhat boring, festivity at the bride’s village – a handful of people sit under a tree while the band plays a lukewarm guitar concert – and I consider heading back unto town. But suddenly it’s time to move to the groom’s house – in this case, a nomad encampment in the bush. The party quickly disperses, climbing onto motorcycles and into (and top of) landcruiser trucks. What ensues is a raucous race through the desert, as we chase and overtake each other in blinding clouds of dust. The women in the backseat are cheering, the men let out war whoops. The driver, however, is quiet and focused, eyes dead forward even as he reaches down for a cigarette which has fallen out of the pack.

Mohamed is a “frauder,” a respected occupation, perhaps owing to its renegade and dangerous reputation. “Frauders” make the three day journey from Agadez to Libya directly through the desert, circumventing police checkpoints and borders. They deal in people – anyone wanting to travel to Libya, for example – but can and do transport anything else: smuggled goods, alcohol (illegal in Libya), or drugs. The other thing they bring is mp3s. Mohamed has a USB key plugged into his stereo. “You have to have music with you, three days, nothing out there…” he says, later.

Regue Lybie – Issafara

As we’re streaking through the desert towards the bush, barely avoiding the spindly acacia trees and other motorcycles, he chooses the most serene music: Ishumar ballads, Arabic reggae, Hindu film songs, all inspiring that mild concentration amidst the tumult. One song “from Sudan,” he says, is of a woman, singing over this delicate synth that answers her. “You have to get me this song,” I tell him. He shrugs. But the next day he’s preoccupied with upcoming trip in a few days, circling through town, meeting up with Ghanians and Senegalese from far away and passing out burner SIM cards, for who knows what purpose. I never see him again after that, he disappears back to Libya. I’m able to find a few of the standout Libyan Reggae* with local mp3 sellers. But the bulk of the music as we crashed through the desert is gone, vanishing with Mohamed back on the long trek North.

Regue Lybie – Safi Galbie

*Libyan Reggae (or “regue lybie”) is all over Youtube. It’s also undoubtedly the source of the mystery “Friday” track (featured on Cellphones Vol. 2). The kids in Agadez tell me they started hearing this genre around 2001.

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Just returned from Niger, where I’ve been working with Mamman Sani in preparation for his first international tour (on a few dates, joined with the incredible Lonnie Holley). We’ll be heading to Europe for about two weeks. Drop by and say hello.

Nov 2013
29 4AD Club – Dikmuide, Belgium
30 Le Guess Who festival – Utrecht, Netherlands

December 2013
2 AB Club – Brussels, Belgium
3 King Georg – Cologne, Germany
6 Passos Manuel – Porto, Portugal
7 ZDB – Lisbon, Portugal
8 La Casa Encendida – Madrid, Spain
10 Helioglobal – Barcelona, Spain

In the meantime, you can watch the definitive documentary about Mammane Sani, broadcast in 2004 on Dounia TV in Niger – in French, now available below – and a few additional clips on Youtube from 1981 and 2013.

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Super Onze – Gao

Around the fall of Gao in 2012, I met a cassette vendor in Niamey’s grand market. For years he has sat on a bench in a busy corridor with stacks of cassettes and an array of simultaneously spinning duplicators. One of a few vendors left in a vanishing trade, a steady clientele of old men maintain the fledging business. Recorded live on tape decks, dubbed and re-dubbed, they vary in quality from slight tape hiss to degraded into a magnetic distortion. The aquamarine semi-translucent tapes are packaged in plastic cases with recycled paper j-cards. Some of them bear handwritten description, some with fine stencils, more often marked simply with symbols, as if in a secret codex.

Nearly all the cassettes are Takamba.

In the 1980s and into the 90s, Takamba rose to prominence. Empowered by newly amplified instruments, griots toured throughout Mali and Niger and takamba music and its ghostly dance became a signature of the Sahel. And then came the guitar. Circulating in the underground cassette trade, the revolutionary anthems and homesick ballads spread across the diaspora – first as strictly revolutionary discourse but soon becoming expression of popular culture. By the late 90s, guitar music found itself in respectable company, in weddings, political campaigns, and even state sponsored soirees. Takamba drifted out of fashion, retreating to its home in Gao and the sleepy Songhoi villages alongside the lazy river.

Takamba (previously), with the raw shrill guitar and the clattering percussion, continues to be played today. But most often, today’s experience is through the format of the cassette and the hundreds of sessions, recorded years ago, dubbed and re-dubbed, in disintegrating reproduction. The slightly muddied sound and persistent hush of white noise, temper the clatter and crash and buzz – defining a new signature – the Takamba cassette. The old ghosts dance under the stars, blaring out of a boombox of the shopkeeper, shaking the dying embers of that third and final tea, as the town drifts off into sleep.

Super Onze de Gao * was, and is, a Takamba super group (more info here). One of the most prolific Takamba outfits, its membership has including stars such as Douma Maiga and Yehia Samaké. One of the highlights found in the market, a cassette recorded sometime in the early 90s, has recently been pressed into vinyl. As the group never had released an official cassette, we indulged in a bit of creative indulgence to re-envision what such a release may have looked like, with screen printed covers featuring hand-drawn artwork – as the session plays with that slight background hiss of the tape, a tribute to the cassette. Available in 500 limited edition vinyl at the Sahel Sounds shop (or your local record retailer) and bandcamp.

*Super Onze is also the name of the Brazilian-dubbed version of Japanese anime show based on a Nintendo DS game Inazuma Eleven, owing to some confusion on Google.

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Mariam Ahmed is a guitarist in Agadez, which in itself is not spectacular. With so many guitarists in the city, one needs not to search far. However, there are practically no female guitarists in Tuareg music and Mariam is perhaps one of a handful across the diaspora.

Tuareg guitar is largely a folk tradition of men. While not imposed by force, it is maintained by social norms of where the guitar appears. The long days of the ishumar, teapot slowly bubbling on coal, is a world segregated by gender. When guitar enters, it is in this male milieu (a world reflected in my recordings over the past years, which are mostly of male artists).

When I press her on the subject with a litany of thinly veiled questions about the gender dynamics of Tuareg guitar – “is it hard to be a female guitarist” – she simply shrugs and shakes her head. Later, Mdou posits that the bigger problem and prohibitions on playing music are class based – if family comes from a tradition of nobles and chiefs, or a religious lineage of marabouts. Mariam comes from neither, so can play shred in weddings.

I’m left expecting more, waiting for her to deliver some explanation. I begin to suspect that I’m more focused on this imagined conflict with a woman guitarist than anyone else. Later that evening, Mariam returns and we record three songs on her acoustic guitar. I finally stop asking questions and Mariam plays. She sings in a soft voice, carried by her acoustic guitar but with a driving pace. Part way through, the power cuts out and we’re left in total darkness. I can’t see anything. She keeps playing.

Mariam Ahmed (cover)

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A few years back, a friend and I were joking about the idea of adapting films to the Sahara. The buddy cop film in Nouakchott, the alien invasion of the Western Sahara. We eventually came to Prince’s 1984 epic rock-u-drama Purple Rain, which seemed the ideal model. The film is written around a musician. In some ways, it plays like a long music video. While some of the writing seems kitsch today, and riddled with clichés, the idea at the core – a fictional film very loosely based around the life and struggle of a musician – was a feasible project that could be possible.

Flashforward a few years, I began working with Mdou Moctar (the autotuned star of the Music from Saharan Cellphones compilations) and Jerome Fino of the French collective L’improbable to make this film a reality. Over three weeks in Niger, we started shooting, found a cast and crew, and most importantly, began rewriting the story from the perspective and experiences of Mdou and his fellow musicians. The resulting project that we’ve titled Akounak Tedalat Taha Tazoughai (English: “Rain the Color of Blue with a little Red in it”) is less a remake than a homage – a telling of a universal story. Akounak follows a fictional Mdou who has just moved to Agadez, and his struggle to become a star in the winner takes all scene of Tuareg guitar music. The movie is full of musical performance, and features a number of Agadez’s star musicians.

Akounak will have the honor of being the first ever movie shot in the Tuareg language (specifically, a mixture of dialects from Aïr and Azawagh). We want it to be a hit in the desert (we’ll release it as DVDs in Niger and as 3GP on cellphones). But it will also be one of the few fiction films concerned with the Tuareg music subculture. While Tuareg guitar has been explored somewhat exhaustively in documentary features, most of these films have focused on the political origins of the folk music – not how it thrives today. Like my friend Drew Wilson says, this film is not about Kalashnikovs but “cellphones, motorcycles, and guitars.”

The Kickstarter is now well under way, so we’ll be headed back next month to shoot the project. If we exceed the goal, we’ll be adding more rewards and goals – maybe a vinyl original soundtrack recording? Stay tuned.

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Adouma Ousmane, musician from the court of the Sultan of Agadez, playing the Algaita.

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Before the Kickstarter finished, we left for Niger to shoot the footage that will eventually become the film “Akounak.” The windy season was fast approaching, which would be followed by a blistering hot season, followed by torrential rains. We acted quickly, shooting at breakneck speed over a mere ten days.

Work began immediately as we arrived in Agadez. There were a litany of problems that plagued us throughout the shoot – none of which are unique, as I’m assured they occur in every film production. But this particular project came with a caveat. The story was intended as collaboration and everything was subject to constant revision with input from cast and crew. Sets, designs, clothing, actors, and even the story itself was constantly rewritten during production. One scene calling for a marabout using evil gris-gris against the protagonist was deemed too controversial, and no one wanted to read for it. A hug was equally scandalous. Our lead actress stipulated she had to dress in brand new clothes and full makeup anytime she was filmed. As such, her character was rewritten to be very rich, with expensive habits.

Agadez is surrounded by Tuareg communities, but the Hausa language dominates, and by extension, Hausa film. Besides the more interesting aspects of the Hausa-Bollywood connection, Hausa films are stylized in their own manner. They are censored for controversial subject matter (both by filmmakers and an actual board of censors) and the stories unfold in soap opera settings. The protagonists dance through fancy houses with new furniture, beautiful gardens of manicured grass, and expensive neighborhoods with paved streets and luxury cars.

The tendency towards the luxurious was a common theme throughout the production. Often, locations did not correspond to my vision. When a house was deemed too small, we moved to a bigger one. When a sight was deemed unsightly, we covered it up. When children ran into the street, they were told to clear out. The day to day realities – the corner dusty boutique, the donkeys milling about dirt streets, the blown out amplifiers and bricolage guitars – were not considered the cinematic ideal. The scenes were not wholly natural, but artificial and idealized. Actors wore their best shirts and dresses. Sets would be cleared of all debris to appear flawless. Locations were chosen for their paved roads and new buildings. Once I tried to shoot a cluttered street of dirt and mud, trickles of sewage winding out of houses onto the road and garbage strewn about the alleyway. “Not there,” Moustapha said. “That’s dirty. Why would you shoot that?” It was a legitimate question. Equivalent, perhaps, to a Tuareg filmmaker coming to Portland to make a film about the noise scene, and stepping into my bathroom. While I had imagined that a film could both be a fictional tale and convey the ethnographic glimpse into the realities, the shoot seemed to lead us deeper into an ethnographic fiction.

While the film has just finished shooting and much work lies ahead in the laborious editing process, it remains to be seen just how much of “the real life” Agadez will come through. A better question to ask is whether it should. In adapting a film to Tuareg culture, we were not only re-creating a story, but adapting Western cinema itself. Relenting creative control of the project to the new representations that arrived was difficult at times, though necessary to create art that could exist outside of Western audiences. Perhaps where “Akounak” refuses to revel in the exotic culture of Agadez, it is also denying to film with the eye of the outsider and can speak much more eloquently about local fictions, idealized visions, and what Tuareg speaking cinema might look like.

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The next two weeks, Mamman Sani will be touring around France (plus brief stopovers in Geneva and London). We have a great lineup of shows, sharing bills w/ Group Inerane, Phono Mundial, and the amazing Brigitte Fontaine & Areski:

April 4th – Cave 12 – Geneva, Switzerland (w/Orchestre Tout Puissant Marcel Duchamp)
April 5th – L’Embobineuese – Marseilles, France (w/Bibi Ahmed + Phonomundial)
April 7th – La Nef – Angoulême, France
April 8th – Sonic Protest, Eglise St. Merry – Paris, France (w/Brigitte Fontaine & Areski Belkacem, Jéricho)
April 9th – Le Temps Machine – Tours, France (w/Le Cercle des Mallissimalistes)
April 10th – Le Sonic – Lyon, France (w/Group Inerane)
April 11th – Café Pompier – Bordeaux, France
April 12th – Le Lieu Unique – Nantes, France (w/Larry Gus + Discolowcost )
April 13th – Point Limite – Rouen, France
April 14th – Cafe OTO – London, England

We’ll also be touring with the new LP “Taaritt”, a collection of unreleased studio sessions made in the late 1980s.* The record is from an era when Mamman began programming his own rhythms, and the music is more Vangelis than Terry Riley. Some of the tracks were recorded during Mamman’s last visit to France in 1987, including the following title track – so it’s a bit of a homecoming.

Mamman Sani – Taaritt

*Big ups to Maria Joan Dixon for the incredible Tuareg alien spaceship artwork, modeled on the Croix d’Agadez and this.

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Tonight we begin our first stop on for the Mdou Moctar summer tour across Europe. Lot’s of dates, from Sweden all the way down to Portugal (Paris date coming soon)! For more details, check here.

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The debut tour of Mdou Moctar and the band wrapped up last month. I’ve spent the past month since the tour thinking of how best to sum up the experience. In lieu of too many words, I’ve put together this short collaborative video collage:

(photos here)

In the concerts, the band brought a fierceness to the stage that electrified the audiences, and myself, even after nightly shows. On the long journeys from Sweden to Portugal, we joked at the surreal cultural chasms of Europe and Niger. And throughout the multitude of problems plaguing the journey – robberies from unknown assailants, institutional bureaucracies, and predatory businesses, we kept our heads up. Touring is not easy. We’re forever indebted to the people who helped us along the way.

And we’re continuing forward. The movie is in the final stages, and will wrap up soon, with an upcoming Agadez screening. And though touring was never the intention of this site/blog/label/project, the opportunities continue to assert themselves, and Mdou will be returning for another European tour in the fall. I’ve pressed up a small quantity of Mdou’s first album, the never before released “Anar” – 8 tracks of autotuned Tuareg guitar anthems. The vinyl will be available only on the tour, via the shop, and bandcamp:

I apologize in advance for the high price, but after a series of problems on the previous tour, culminating in a $3000 car rental bill from Sixt in Denmark the tour made no money after a month work, so we’re trying to recoup some of our costs to pay for the next one. You’re encouraged to send any and all complaints to info@sixt.dk on our behalf. And be careful in dealings with the monsters of the rental car world. Here be dragons.

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