Sophisticated Malian singer, songwriter & guitarist, Rokia Traore, strutted her exceptional stuff at the Enmore earlier tonight; two solid hours of groundbreaking, extra-African music, sung in her native tongue, Bambara, French & English, followed by what surely must have been a half-hour, tour de force encore, which saw Africans jump onstage, to sing, compliment, pay tribute and stage an incredible, impromptu dance-off. When you see that energy & vitality, an unbridled manifestation of potency of the lifeforce in all of us, but all too rarely encountered or exploited in 'European civilisation', notwithstanding extreme poverty, disease, colonisation, racism, dictatorships and other disadvantages, it just makes you wannabe African. Thank God for immigration, so we might be blessed with this, in our very midst. (Of course, we have the double-banging good fortune to be able, if we choose, to soak up similar spiritual intensity, from our own indigenes. But, I digress.)Mali, of course, is a prolific music factory, dotted with divas. In fact, they're a dime a dozen, since there's probably, easily, that many. All with merits. But RT might as well be ET, such is the difference between her and the others; whether we're talking the partying crossover of Ramata Diakite, or sublime understatement of Khaira Arby. Traore ranges far and wide, right across that vast territory, and further still. She sometimes breathes a song, in that way characteristic of so many African singers that seems to be an inimitable linguistic idiosyncrasy. At other times, she is as impassioned as Piaf, in full flight.
Descriptors such as adventurous and experimental have been used in relation to her sound which, in effect, while its roots are undeniable, is by no means traditional, but very, very contemporary and all her own.
Beginning as an aspirational acoustic artist, her head was turned by blues and rock and an old Gretsch electric, with its distinctive warm tone, which she adopted and which helped her transform the noise in her head. In practice, the instrument is almost bigger than her fine-boned, petite frame.
Her playing is distinctive and intricate; her vocals rendered haunting, by a striking vibrato. At least, some of the time. That's how she sounds on a clip I caught on You Tube, pre-show. But she's nothing if not unpredictable. She's as likely to turn-up, onstage, with a harp, as balafon; zig, to pay homage to Holiday, or zag, to collaborate with lunatic-and-loving-it director, Peter Sellars, on the life of WAM (that's Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, not the former pop haven of George Michael). She even tangles, or tangos, or toys, with Gershwin's The Man I Love, which she reinvents as a smoky blues, subverted by a somewhat anarchic ngoni. It's edgy. Her catholic, worldly vision was probably inevitable: as the daughter of a diplomat, she came to know the US, Europe & The Middle East well. Perhaps this is key to her artistic development.
Yep, she's full of surprises. Like the fact she played precious little guitar and, I recall, more of it was on a solid body (Telecaster, I think) than the trusty, semi-acoustic Gretsch. And, as if in defiant betrayal of the reputation which precedes her, which tends to portray her as a sensitive artist (she is), far from demurely and delicately presenting her songs (though there was some of that, too), for much of a very generous set, she partied hard, with copious assistance from her apoplectically brilliant band. I only wish I'd caught their names, above the fierce acclamation.
The drummer, an Italian, if I heard right, and a virtual dead-ringer for Elvis Costello, pounded the skins in a supportive manner throughout: while not, perhaps, the flashiest soloist, he was a strong ensemble player, who provided the backbone required. If her touring band is roughly equivalent to the lineup on her latest & fourth album, Tchmantche, he would be, according to my calculation, Steve Shehan, which doesn't sound Italian at all, but rather more Irish, I would've thought, so maybe the Declan MacManus connection is real! But wait, no, my latest information, just to hand, indicates Vincent Taeger is the man in question, which is sounding more French, if not German (Shehan being percussionist, as opposed to drummer, on the album).
The bass-player, whom I now deduce to be Christophe 'Disco' Minck, made up for any lack of self-assured showmanship in the drummer; he, too, something of a doppelganger, looking, for all the world, like Donald 'Duck' Dunn, or Leo Sayer, with beard. Whatever. He was a complete master of his instrument and very distracting, such was his flashy, 'look at moi' technique; (though my brother, who was my date for the night, was agitated by same, insinuating 'the Don' Dunn been too busy, a veritable lovechild of Jack Bruce & Flea). He also fronted, with a somewhat unorthodox approach, on harp (the Harpo kind, not the infinitely more portable blues type) & contributed backing vocals.
Was it Seb Martel, or Sibiri Kone, on guitar? The latter, methinks, but I can't be certain. Whoever, he was also eye and ear- catching. The former, as like Rokia, he was a natural, irrepressible mover, The latter, because he made that fluid, but fast, intricate & difficult, distinctively African, finger-pickin' guitar style look like a doddle. Lovely player.
Mamah Diabate's presence is more modest, but equally impressive. I really have no idea, but expect the n'goni, while an accessible instrument, is rarely played as well, acoustically, let alone under electrified circumstances.
And let's not forget the demure (mind you, not so much during the encore, when she emerge from her shell, to move centre-stage, showcasing spectacular physicality) Dianke Termessant (or who I take to be), on backing vocals, who was only ever just there, unlike all those whiter would-bes, who feel inclined, or hellbent, to compete with the frontman, or woman.
Highlights are impossible to delineate as, for mine, there were so many irresistible riffs and grooves, so much finesse and such a good time had by all, throughout, on and offstage, that made it a night, from top to bottom, to remember. The whole effect was, by turns, startling, beguiling, seductive, spellbinding, exquisite, refined, rocking, intimate, infectious, affecting and 'funktional'. But, most of all, exciting, stirring the blood, vigourously.
It's the kind of music, in concert, which requires an active repression of instinct if one is not to dance, as one's liable to find parts of one's body getting active, by some autonomous miracle.
Special mention, too, for the lighting design and execution. Ripper!
Rokia Traore is a breath of crisp, fresh air, from the beating heart of West Africa.
Rokia Traore
Venue: Enmore Theatre | 118-132 Enmore Rd, Newtown
Dates: 10 Mar 2009
Tickets: $79.00 Booking fee applies
Bookings: www.ticketek.com.au or 132 849
