You Had Me At Tuareg Guitar: 2019 Albums From Mdou Moctar and Tinariwen

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Sometimes known as “Desert Blues.”

Sometimes known as “Saharan Rock.”

Sometimes known as “Tuareg Guitar.”

Whatever you call it, there is a style of music closely associated with the Tuareg people (Kel Tamashek) and the geography of the Western Sahara desert, from Morocco extending to Mali. Steeped in its stark, unforgiving geography, and a political climate to match, the music is a derivative of blues rock and relies on open tunings and repetitive, droning, of patterns played over skittering percussion often creating an effect that many might equate with psychedelic rock. Many of the lyrics are centuries old poems and stories passed down from one generation to another. It is often highly political and is always rooted in its time, place, and people. The Tuareg people are one of the largest confederations of African Berbers and have often had to fight for their own survival and identity, whether against French colonialists, or the Malian, or Nigerian governments.

Cooked up in the sunbaked desert and under breathing the air of political struggle, “Desert Blues” often reflects the shimmery simmer of the desert heat; the very fight just to survive somewhere that seems to be actively working against you being there in the first place, which of course extends to the political struggles endured by these resilient people. The Blues isn’t just about being Blue, it’s about the fight to keep on living despite what life may bring. Often reflecting the nomadic nature of its creators, Desert Blues can be both transcendent and imminently urgent; joyous and defiant all at once. You have to live where you find yourself, even if you know you’ll be moving along soon. The fantastic label Sahel Sounds (home to Mdou Moctar) describes the music as:

“Tuareg guitar has become one of the most popular folk music in the contemporary Sahara. Originally political ballads, created in exile in Libya, today the sound has expanded to encompass everything from introspective love songs, blistering psychedelic rock, and synthesizer and drum machine. At its core, the music still relies on poetry to transmit a message, carried by the pentatonic solos of a guitar.”

The music has gained popularity over the years, in large part riding the visibility of artists like Bombino, Tinariwen, and now Mdou Moctar. Both Moctar and Tinariwen released fantastic albums in 2019 that deserve to be listened to, not just heard.

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In fact, Mdou Moctar released two albums this year. The first, was released to less fanfare and has largely flown under the radar, but in January, 2019, Jack White’s Third Man Records released Moctar’s ‘Blue Stage Session,’ a live album recorded in 2018 at Third Man Cass Corridor in Detroit.

This live set preceded Moctar’s proper studio debut, ‘Ilana (The Creator)’ which appeared three months later, in March, 2019, but the ‘Blue Stage Session’ is no less important, featuring several tracks that didn’t make it on to the later studio album, including opener ‘Tarha,’ which explodes with repeated psychedelic swirls and pounding percussion, displaying that this Moctar is not just a studio musician but a live force to be reckoned with. Much has been made about Moctar’s backstory which bears repeating if you haven’t already heard it: Moctar was raised in a strictly religious home where music was forbidden. But, much like the little boy in Coco, Moctar would not be deterred, fashioning a clandestine guitar for himself out of a piece of wood strung with brake wires from an old bicycle. He practiced in secret for hours and is a self-taught guitarist of the highest caliber.

That determination and zeal is woven throughout this live performance. This is someone who is playing because he has to. There is an urgency to the music and reminds us all of the importance music can play. It can help us rise above our circumstances while also preserving the story of the struggle to be heard. Moctar combines traditional blues with Saharan tunings and charges at the listener with guitar shreddery that doesn’t shred just to show off but because it’s in his soul.

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The live ‘Blue Stage Session’ release was followed in March 2019 by Moctar’s full-band studio debut ‘Ilana (The Creator).’ The studio album succeeds in large part because it is able to capture that sense of joyous urgency made apparent in the live set. Lots of bands are great live but struggle in the studio, or vice versa, but Moctar shows that, despite his self-taught nature (or maybe because of it?), he is adept at both.

Some of the songs have a slightly slower tempo which does not hinder from the music’s urgency but does allow for the guitar playing to shine through as the real star. Moctar’s repeated patterns draw you in with their drone-like qualities, but it’s also clear that this music shares a lineage with the choogle-boogie of John Lee Hooker, early ZZ Top, and others. The studio allows the songs room to breathe while also retaining their spontaneity (the album was largely recorded live in the studio). Recorded in Detroit at the tail-end of touring, the band was cohesive and tight yet the compositions don’t lose any of their spaciousness or immediacy. The added production of the studio is minimal and the tracks were then taken back to Niger for final production.

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While Moctar’s music draws focuses a self-taught guitarist, Tinariwen is a Desert Blues collective. The same swirling, insistent guitars and driving percussion are present, but the focus is never on a single player. Watch a short documentary about the band and the new album here.

Tinariwen was was formed in 1979 in Algeria, but returned to their native in the 1990’s after a cease-fire. Perhaps more than anyone else (possibly with the exception of Bombino?) Tinariwen have been at the forefront of bringing Tuareg guitar to the world’s attention. The group has done this by relentless touring including Denmark’s Roskilde Festival and high-profile fans including NPR and others.

Tinariwen has also held closely to a collaborative approach throughout its history, not just within the group but drawing from outside as well. On ‘Amadjar’ Tinariwen’s ninth album, collaborators appear on many of the tracks. For example, five tracks here feature Warren Ellis of The Dirty Three and Bad Seeds fame and there are other notable collaborators including Willie Nelson’s son Micah on ‘Taqkal Tarha’ and Cass McCombs on closing track ‘Lalla’. The band recorded these tracks in the camper-van turned studio in Southern Morocco (watch the video featured here).

The tempos are often slower than Moctar’s but the music is no less insistent, driving, or mesmerizing, swirling in and out of complex patterns forming a droning effect that rises like the desert shimmer but, like the desert, doesn’t want you staying in one place for too long. This is music shaped by and for life’s journey, as difficult as it often is. This shimmering swirl lays the perfect foundation for someone like Ellis, who's violin punctuations serve as a counterpoint for the electrifying solos of a songs like the album’s second track ‘Zawal.” The vocals throughout the album are often presented in a call and response pattern which draws the listener in to a collaborative experience evoking the desert haze and the joyful fierceness of living. Noura Mint Seymali’s vocals soar above ‘Amalouna’ but never leave us below. We hear in the choir-response and we feel her short but piercing vocal solo. The danger with bringing in collaborators is that a group might lose their own sense of identity, but ‘Amadjar’ finds Tinariwen bringing their collaborators along for the journey rather than finding themselves drowned out. This is, without a doubt, a Tinariwen record and it is a very good one.

The album’s acoustic guitars, violin and even mandolin remind us of the folk/rural nature of the music’s origins, but it is always insistent music, perhaps because of the nomadic nature of its creators; it is driven by urgent percussion, even when the vocals feel calm, even joyous. It is this struggle between transcendence and imminence, between the journey to wherever is next and finding one’s self on that journey that has always been at the heart of Tinariwen’s music and ‘Amadjar’ finds the band, perhaps content with the journey, but not standing still by any means.

In Celebration of Deep Listening: Three 2019 Albums to listen to, not just hear

I have loved music for as long as I can remember, even though I have not talent at it myself (which I believe helps me appreciate those that do all the more). And I listen to a lot of different kinds of music. Many years ago, I went through a phase of really trying to expand my palate. During this phase, my friend and I used to refer to some music as “intentional listening.” In other words, you had to work to get through it. It required your attention and engagement. It also referred to a lot of music that our wives sometimes referred to as “racket.”

Somewhere along the line during those musical excursions, I came across Pauline Oliveros and the idea of “Deep Listening” and that changed things for me. The idea of “intentional listening” implies forcing one’s self to listen. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re actually engaging with the music itself, just getting through it. In hindsight, “intentional hearing” or “intentional music” might have been better descriptors of what I was doing during that phase. I was certainly expanding my musical horizons to include things like free jazz, drone, “freak-folk” and lots of other stuff like that, but I’m not sure how much I gleaned.

As Oliveros points out “We know more about hearing than listening.” I was hearing a lot of challenging music but I’m not sure I was up to the challenge. Oliveros describes “Deep Listening as a way of listening in every possible way to everything possible to hear no matter what you are doing. Such intense listening includes the sounds of daily life, of nature, of one's own thoughts as well as musical sounds.” If you are interested in hearing Oliveros explain some of this a bit further herself, you might want to watch her TED talk: ‘The difference between hearing and listening.’ Oliveros points out in that TED talk:

“Scientists can measure what happens in the ear. Measuring listening is another matter, as it is involves subjectivity. We confuse hearing with listening . . .

. . . I differentiate to hear and to listen. To hear is the physical means that enables perception. To listen is to give attention attention to what is perceived, both acoustically and psychologically.”

Like any skill, Deep Listening requires practice, patience and persistence. But it also has its payoffs that not everyone can understand. I still listen to all kinds of music and I often find myself at odds with family who does not. Much modern music requires very little of its hearers; certainly not deep listening. It is packaged in tiny shiny nuggets and treated as a product. As much as I wish my family loved the same music that I do, they will often come home and say things like “What are you listening to?!” This is no slight to them. But it doesn’t fit their expectations. They are not practicing Deep Listening (which is not to say that everyone who does will enjoy the same music).

It should come as no surprise, then, that three of my favorite albums so far this year require a listener’s participation. They ask for engagement and while they can be simply “heard,” each album opens itself up further and further with each “listening.” These three albums are wildly different from one another, but I think of them as kindred souls in the pursuit of Deep Listening.

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75 Dollar Bill: I Was Real

75 Dollar Bill is the core duo of Rick Brown who plays the plywood crate and homemade horns, and Che Chen, who plays microtonal guitar. Sometimes as just the duo and oftentimes with a revolving cast of guest musicians, 75 Dollar Bill plays hypnotic drone/trance/desert-blues/rock that swirls in and out of itself, often in long-form pieces. The unconventional percussion patterns and guitar tunings may be a bit jarring for some, but once you allow yourself to dive in, the songs are somehow primal, guttural, meditative, and joyous all at once.

Album opener ‘Every Last Coffee or Tea’ originally appeared on 2011’s Cassette and is presented here with an expanded lineup, laying out a fine template for what to expect from the rest of the album. Starting off with washes of viola drone, jangling bells, and minimal, searching percussion, the guitar plucks about, finding its place, and then everyone locks into the groove. And the groove is undeniable. Listeners might be reminded of Malian Blues, Saharan Desert rock, and/or Thai psychedelic rock. 75 Dollar Bill’s music certainly includes elements of all of those things but it is somehow more than the sum of its parts.

‘Tetuzi Akiyama’ (named after Japanese guitarist, violinist, and instrument-maker) further shows that Deep Listening can have a good beat that you can dance to. Swirling, repeated patterns build upon driving percussion, continually moving us forward until stopping abruptly, opening to the drones of the title track without jarring the listener. It’s all part of the same musical journey, tied together by Brown and Chen’s interplay.

The album drones and grooves. It challenges and rewards, inviting listeners to confront their preconceptions without ever coming across as pretentious. 75 Dollar Bill’s music invites listeners to cross borders, including genre, and find the sounds underneath. It is at once transcendent and immediate.

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Dire Wolves Just Exactly Perfect Sisters Band: Grow Towards The Light

Often known simply as Dire Wolves, welcome to the musical universe revolving around San Fransisco’s Jeffrey Alexander. The musical collectives makes music their website introduces as:

“a sound of ecstatic improvisation, each member documenting coordinate points in the higher dimensions of cosmic free-rock. The music lies somewhere near the nebulous intersection of psych, kosmische beat and spiritual jazz. These are exploratory journeys, transportive trance-based experiments in vertical listening, totally collaborative and often forming spontaneous compositions. The focus is more about feeling than any specific approach to playing. Psychic rock for the mind and body: breathe deep and grow towards that light, dig.”

That’s about as an apt a description as one is likely to come up with. Consisting of an often rotating lineup, the newest album ‘Grow Towards The Light’ finds the group including vocalist Georgia Carbone who sings in an invented language which accentuates the notion that this music is “more about feeling than any specific approach to playing.” There is a visceral nature to the trance-like tunes, driven by almost-tribal, immediate percussion and flourishes of of violin and skronking saxophones (courtesy of Sunwatchers Jeff Tobias) the music builds on repeated rhythms evoking both Krautrock and hippie fireside drum circles all at once without sounding contradictory or lost. This is confident music chasing a mood as much as technical precision.

The music comes in pulsating waves and sometimes resembles “freak folk,” sometimes “free jazz,” sometimes Krautfolk (is there such a thing?) and yet always sounds immediate and urgent without being stressful or repetitive. The soaring vocals float above the earthy rhythms and the violin and saxophone sometimes jar you back to reality and sometimes help transport you into the ether.

The longing search of spiritual jazz lies at the center of what Dire Wolves are about and may help us tune in to their frequency, but this is not a jazz record, even if it is a spiritual record. With an album title of ‘Grow Towards the Light’ and song titles like ‘Every Step is BIrth,’ and ‘Crack in the Cosmic Axis,’ Dire Wolves remind us that, with those for ears to hear, even wordless music (as we recognize it; this is not quite instrumental music because there are vocals) can still be a soundtrack for the journey of discovery for those willing to listen.

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Joshua Abrams And Natural Information Society: Mandatory Reality

Another musical collective featuring a rotating cast of players, the core of this one features prolific and influential Chicago bassist and guimbri (a three-stringed percussive African bass) player Joshua Abrams. Having played with the Square Roots (later becoming the Roots), Tortoise, and Fred Anderson among many others, Abrams has centered his newest ensemble around the “ecstatic minimalism” of repeated guimbri patterns and assorted accompaniment. The band’s most recent release, the sprawling 81-minute (with none of them wasted) Mandatory Reality consists of four long-form pieces (the shortest of which is just over six minutes) proves not only the necessity but the joy of “Deep Listening.”

Like other minimalist music, the music pulses with slowly repeating but slowly unfolding patterns that transport the listener from one place to another almost imperceptibly, requiring attention and patience, but there is also a sense of yearning towards something (shared ecstatic experience?) the us from losing interest. The gradual tempo shifts reflect the rise and fall of the deep ocean more than the crashing of the waves on the shore. But you have to be willing to travel to get there. The music requires focus but never seems tedious. It music shimmers with hypnotic waves and the long-form pieces call attention to the spaces between as much as the notes being played themselves.

These slowly unfolding pieces stand not only as a testament to Deep Listening, but to the idea that we are more than our schedules. We needn’t always feel rushed, and when we do, this music asks us to pause, take some deep breaths and pay attention; to listen and not just hear. There is much detail and beauty that may initially escape us if we’re not paying attention.

As Oliveros urges: “I invite you to take a moment now to notice what you are hearing and to expand your listening to continually include more.”

Ode To Joy

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I keep thinking about what it means that Wilco titled their 11th album ‘Ode to Joy’. 

The album often finds Jeff Tweedy in a reflective, even meditative, if not somber state. The topics aren’t exactly what you’d bring up at a dinner party (Or, if you did, most people wouldn’t invite you back).

Whether being startled out of staring at the knives in the kitchen drawer by the sound of the front door ringing through his guitar against the wall (‘Bright Leaves’), or feeling his blood run cold at the passing through of the sad ideas of losing a loved one (‘White Wooden Cross’). But if Tweedy is stuck inside his head, at least he lets us know what he’s thinking about. Life is hard. Relationships are hard and sometimes a person just feels stuck. I’m not sure I can change. I’m not sure you can change, but somehow, deep down, I know it’s all worth it, even if I don’t know why.

It’s a meditative, spacious record that doesn’t work as background noise. It is best heard either through headphones or really loud. It’s a record that asks for and rewards your attention. It’s not a big rock record but neither is it a quiet folk record. Anchored by Glenn Kotche’s skittering percussion, the record traffics in restraint (every guitar is denied) and asks you to immerse yourself. Largely eschewing cymbals, the album feels is initially jarring because it leaves out the high/bright splashes we’ve come to expect from so many records. It leaves us looking up in places we didn’t expect.

If relationships are the currency of life, then Tweedy understands that sometimes the account feels overdrawn. Relationships often feel more taxing than anything else. The album opens with Tweedy lamenting “I don’t like the way you’re treating me” and recognizes that sometimes when we argue, we’re not even sure which side we’re on, we’re just stuck in relational holding patterns that feel like we can never change (‘Bright Leaves’). So much so, that Tweedy recognizes that “Deep inside everyone hides some of the time” (‘Everyone Hides’).

But what happens when we’re tired of hiding? That seems to be a theme Tweedy is interested in exploring. Sometimes we know we’re stuck. Sometimes we know we’re not helpful and we certainly know that we don’t have the solution, even if we’re convinced that one exists. The album opener ends with the blunt statement: “You never change,” forcing us to ask whether we are prisoners of our own nature. Are we doomed to unhappy lives with unfulfilling relationships? Tweedy picks up this thread in ‘One And A Half Stars’, singing:

“There is no mother like pain

I'm left with only my desire to change
So what I stay in bed all day?
I can't escape my domain”

Even if we want to change, it feels like we can’t escape our natures or our circumtances.

But for all the isolation Tweedy might feel, there is also the notion that we cannot live alone, even when it frustrates us. Tweedy says in ‘One And A Half Stars’: “You mean too much to me I'm angry I could need so much.” Even when he is alone, he is/we are tied to those who have come before us (‘Before Us’) and we’ve got family “out there” (‘Empty Corner’). We all feel alone and yet we are all tied together.

This sense of what to make of our need for others is a theme throughout the record. ‘White Wooden Cross’ finds Tweedy again in his thoughts, but this time wondering to what he would do if a white wooden cross on the side of road meant that he had lost someone dear to him; even someone he’s angry that he needs. Even when we feel weighed down by our relationships, we’re not sure we would want to be without them.

Death, loss, failed relationships, the inability to change our circumstances; they are all present. And it’s not just relationships that seem to weigh Tweedy down. The album addresses riots, never-ending wars, the inability to change ourselves (or others), and self-deception. It’s not just inter-personal relationships that get us down because Society is made up of relationships. It’s all about us. We’re all in this together. And sometimes it feels like society is a mess. It’s easy to think in depressing terms. Vice says “The music is weary.” Vulture chooses the word “glum” while NPR says the album has a “heavy atmosphere.”

But the beauty here is that there is beauty to be found at all.

The full Vice quote reads: “The music is weary, but it's also the prettiest entry in the Chicago outfit's vast discography, one that synthesizes every era of the band's career into something forward-thinking and essential.” As my friend Jason Woodbury points out at Pitchfork, Tweedy “populates the album with surprise flashes of brightness, too. These are love songs about possibilities and the way our vision may be limited by our vantage point.” This leaves us to ask: “What might a shift in position reveal?” What if we don’t give in to despair?

I keep thinking about what it means that Wilco titled their 11th album ‘Ode to Joy’. 

Of course there is the reference to Friedrich Schiller’s poem which was co-opted by Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 9”, whose opening stanza reads:

“Joy! A spark of fire from heaven, Daughter from Elysium, Drunk with fire we dare to enter, Holy One, inside your shrine. Your magic power binds together, What we by custom wrench apart, All men will emerge as brothers, Where you rest your gentle wings.”

There are certainly repeated themes if you read Schiller’s poem and listen to Wilco’s album, but we are all products of our times and I can’t help but wish that Tweedy meant more than literary allusion here. He looks frustration in the eye and chooses not to blink. These are difficult times. People are choosing politics over family. Our current president seems more intent on dividing than uniting. May of us feel alone.

And yet, in spite of it all, despite how hard it all is, Tweedy chooses not to give in to despair or hopelessness. He’s still got a desire to change that we should all hold on to. After all, society doesn’t change if individuals don’t change.. And there are things still worth believing in and fighting for. He sings on ‘Hold Me Anyway’:

Are we all in love just because?
No! I think it's poetry and magic
Something too big to have a name
And when you get it right it's still tragic
And when you die who's to blame?
Did you think everything would be okay?

Even knowing that it all feels tragic and it might not turn out okay, love is “poetry and magic, something too big to have a name.” Even when things don’t make sense, “Love is Everywhere,” and it’s power can be frightening (‘Love Is Everywhere’)"“

So many things I do
I can't explain to you
Right now, right now
Love is everywhere
Right now, I'm frightened how
Love is here, beware

In ‘One And A Half Stars’, Tweedy admits that he is worried about the way we’re all living. But he doesn’t respond with anger. He doesn’t give up. Instead, he says: “I'm worried about the way we're all living, and this is my love song.” He responds with a “love song.” He responds with love. Even when it doesn’t come naturally and certainly doesn’t come easy.

Love ties us all together. Love brings us out of ourselves into community. We are bound together for good or for ill, so why not choose joy even if those we are tied to don’t? We can name our shortcomings and we can acknowledge other people’s failings, but we’re all in this together.

The tension between individual and community seems to lie at the heart of ‘Ode to Joy.” On ‘Before Us’, Tweedy knows that even when he is physically alone, he belongs to those that came “before us’ and that we are part of a lineage. We are part of a community. This theme is repeated throughout the album, most notably in the closing track ‘Empty Corner’. Even if you don’t care, “You've got family out there.” Family transcend circumstances. Love ties us together. There is always reason to choose joy. Especially when things seem their bleakest.

Relationships, immediate and far are what make the world go around, even if no none likes it. We can’t escape this, so we have a choice. We’re left with only our own desire to change (‘One And A Half Stars’) and maybe that’s the point of this record. Things suck. But what are we going to do about it? What will each of us choose? Maybe, the best that we can hope for is to declare with Tweedy: “I tried, in my way, to love everyone'“ (‘Quiet Amplifier’). What more would you ask of your neighbor in difficult times?

It takes maturity to own our faults and name our difficulties. It takes wisdom to choose joy anyways.