It is a dark and quiet night when I first come across him. The air in my bedroom stills. My own breath pauses—I am an audience of one, eagerly taking in the synth composition before me.
Its conductor is Mamman Sani, a pioneer in West African electronic music. He hails from Niger, and is commonly credited with being the person who first introduced the organ to the country, back in the mid-70s. The album that, by some blessed grace, first finds its way to me is Unreleased Tapes 1981-1984. Its contents are atmospheric and nostalgic, dreamy to the point where my body feels the urge to slice and sway through the air, reminiscing on my own drifting memories. Its successor is Taaritt, which has more of an intergalactic quality to it, the evocations stretching to spaces only existing in dreams. Mamman draws on both Niger folkloric classics and Wodaabe influences to craft his instrumentals. A song like “Zaybanakoy” commences with layering: there is a consistent rhythm that acts as a grounding heartbeat, and there is the evocative swell. There are moments that coalesce; high notes hold in tableau, before being transformed.
The process reminds me of an unpredictable wind. I am its willing passenger.
My love for Mamman Sani, and my desire to better understand the neighbouring influences of the North African sounds I am more accustomed to, leads me to the Western part of the continent. Here is where we meet the music of Tuareg, although you may hear it referred to as Sahrawi, Assouf, Tishoumaren, or plainly “desert blues”. The title is vast, but it can refer to music from Niger, Mali, Nigeria, Burkina Faso, Algeria, and Libya. Common instruments of Tuareg music are the use of synthesizers, electric guitars, and drums. There is a specific drum called “tende” which is fashioned out of mortar and pestles—tende also refers to the communal quality of the music. On these tracks, you’ll often hear things like call-and-response, the use of the choral, or simply background voices.
The most iconic group of this region’s music is the band Tinariwen (“Deserts”), who are from Northern Mali but formed their band in 1979 Algeria due to political tensions. I’d like to shift the spotlight to names that have since been born in the Tuareg scene, or are only recently gaining commercial release. It is essential to bring these figures into conversation, without the lazy homogenization that marginalized groups are often treated with. There is power in naming and there is power in specificity.
In 2009, Christopher Kirkley of Oregon founded the label Sahel Sounds. The project has gone on to restore, remaster, and release music from West Africa—with a commitment to directly investing in the careers of these musicians, and to amplifying each individual artistic voice.
One of those voices that has already asserted its immense talent comes from Mdou Moctar, also known as Mahamadou Souleymane of Agadez, Niger. I find that his music shifts between two distinct qualities. The first, displayed on a song like “Ibitlan,” is the epitome of cool. It laughs in the face of conventional rock music. Frenetic electric guitar lends itself to unflinching psychedelics and a drum that threatens to shred you apart, lest you align yourself with its energy. If “Ibitlan” is the forceful sun, “Anar” is the soothing moon. The title meaning eyebrows, it is a tender ballad that reminisces on a past love:
“Love has become a malady for me — the night passes, I don’t even know it’s night, and in the morning I don’t do anything but think of her. If the love for her had a medication, I would drink it regardless of the taste. My dream is to turn into a small bird to fly to her, and give her a kiss between her eyebrows.”
In Central Niger, we find the women-led Les Filles de Illighadad, whose member Fatou Seidi Ghali is the first female Tuareg guitarist. They expand the concept of tende to center entire communities of women that lend their voices and their clapping to the song. Zaghrootas, a celebratory sound common to regions in North and West African, build up the soundscape. In an interview with The Guardian, member Fatimata Ahmadelher had this to say about the role of music in their village: “Everyone listens. Everyone plays.”
And it is on Etran de L’Aïr’s tracks that you can truly hear everyone. On a song like “Mon Amour”, the Agadez band commences with an orchestra of voices and giggling. The electric guitar warms up, there are about four drumbeats, and then: the tender explosion of joy and fullness. It is as if we hear the song deconstructed at first—the tools of this odyssey are laid out before us, then we are shown the power of putting them into conversation with one another.
That unifying quality is vital in lands that face transformation and challenges, perhaps best displayed by group El Wali. First recorded in Belgium 1994 to a lack of success and only finding its way to a commercial release in 2019 via a collaboration with Badawi Archives, the collection of songs on “Tiris” speak to the politics of the Sahrawi movement. The harmony of female and male voices lends itself to national anthems and folk songs, made to inspire and invigorate.
Politics have often defined the movement of music in West African regions and Abdallah Oumbadougou is certainly no exception. In 1984, alongside many Tuareg groups, he fled to refugee camps in Algeria and Libya due to growing famine and the failure of national governments. It was the year 1995 and in Benin where he recorded his album Anou Malane: Poesies et chansons de la resistance Touaregs. These songs have more of a groove to them, effortlessly blending elements of boogie and Tuareg. Both Abdallah’s voice and his guitar riffs are incredibly sensual. There is a sense of command and effortlessness, undoubtedly aided by the work of West African producer Nel Oliver. Oumbadougou passed away in January 2020 and is remembered by friends and fans as a true ‘anou malane’: desert rebel.
In Tamanrasset, Algeria, we come across the six-piece Afous d’Afous, founded by Kader Tarhanine. Despite being incredibly popular in local communities, they have never toured internationally. Songs like “Dounya Hi” expand to incorporate different elements, such as an emphasis on reverb, and even the Indian sitar. The circulation of music by Afous d’Afous is an example of how music can move in conflicted regions: being privately shared on WhatsApp, or smuggled via cassettes across borders.
They are certainly not alone. In 2011, Sahel Sounds released an album titled “Music from Saharan Cellphones” which featured songs that have yet to receive commercial release, or very little of it. They are self-produced, often in home studios, and exchanged by memory cards and Bluetooth. It is here that we glimpse music that pushes the boundaries of what encompasses Tuareg music. Group Anmataff’s feature utilizes house beats that frame a combination of throat singing and communal harmonies. A group like Amanar melds the atmosphere: their song “Alghafiat” commences with a flute and a single male voice, before an intoxicating and sensual riff comes into play. On the song “Yereyira”, which is a collaboration between Papito and Iba One, the genre completely flips. It is here that we move into elements of rap and Auto-Tune, paired with an energetic synth that cuts through the chorus of the song.
The latter mentioned song could not be more different than the quietly evocative worldscapes of Mamman Sani’s synth. Tuareg music has resisted a single definition, despite often being referred to under that umbrella term “desert blues”. Its sounds are ones that have persevered, passed in smuggled files from one pair of hands to another. Its songs, whether they carry voices or instrumentals, are both rooted in the specificity of their creators and serve to be expansive, carrying themes across the world and into whatever realms may exist beyond. ■
Collages by Mena Fouda