Joel Rubin’s clarinet can trill like a sparrow, wail like the life of the party, and sing like a voice in sacred rapture. Deeply connected to the lost-and-found world of klezmer—he wrote one of the first major scholarly works about it—Rubin takes old-world frolics and hasidic songs, and interprets them with freewheeling verve and classical lyricism.
Now with Uri Caine, the masterful classically trained jazz keyboardist, Rubin savors centuries-old melodies and newly composed pieces on Azoy Tsu Tsveyt (Tzadik; July 26, 2011). The duo transforms the secular and sacred sounds of the Jewish world into an utterly contemporary vision embracing everything from the funkiest Rhodes lick to the intensity of modern minimalism.
As a dedicated academic researcher, ethnomusicology professor at the University of Virginia, and experienced music educator, “I’ve often been pigeonholed as a traditionalist, but I’ve never tried to play as if I were from the 19th century,” Rubin reflects. “I’ve always played contemporary music and been moved by avant-garde jazz and classical approaches. Everything telescopes, the traditional and the edgy.”
Azoy Tsu Tsveyt spans the broad range of Rubin’s musical experience. Moving between virtuosic solos and calibrated understatement, Rubin and Caine reimagine klezmer chestnuts, hasidic nigunim (songs of spiritual elevation), and works by contemporary Jewish composers straddling the jazz, klezmer, and classical realms.
Rubin’s wide-reaching, groundbreaking sound will also be featured at a retrospective concert October 11, 2011 at 8:30 pm at Sixth Street Community Synagogue (325 E. Sixth Street in Manhattan, as part of the East Village Klezmer series). Joining Rubin will be tsimbl (hammered dulcimer) player and longtime collaborator Pete Rushefsky, in an evening paying homage to Rubin’s thirty-year contribution to the klezmer revival and contemporary music.
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Rubin grew up hearing the sounds of many musical worlds—the Yiddish and Slavic folk songs played by his Ukrainian-born grandfather; the opera and contemporary classical recordings of his other, native New Yorker grandfather; the Coltrane and Miles records that fascinated him as a boy. A talented classical clarinetist, Rubin moved away from a career as an orchestral player in favor of the blossoming underground of klezmer, a movement quietly expanding on the East and West Coasts in the 1980s.
Introduced by some Boston musician friends to the seminal work of klezmer clarinet whiz Dave Tarras, Rubin was intrigued and began learning repertoire from old recordings. He was soon an accomplished performer, landing spots on Prairie Home Companion and teaching gigs across the U.S. and Europe.
Over the next several decades, he found himself picking up tunes from klezmer elders, digging into their straightforward attitude and their unique feel for phrasing. Rubin sat beside the imperturbable Sid Beckerman, who would plow through an hour-long block of handed-down tunes without missing a beat. While researching a book on klezmer, Rubin began collaborating with klezmer clarinet master Max Epstein, who demonstrated a special sense of rhythm vital to the early 20th-century feel of klezmer.
“Max was already about 78 when I first started working with him,” Rubin recalls. “So he was not in his prime, but he was still amazing and had made these wonderful recordings in the 1940s and 50s. It was hard to define, but Max had a really free approach to the beat. He used really fluid phrases with lots of notes that shifted around the rhythm and across bar lines.”
Rubin and Caine channel this swing on tracks like “Kiever,” an old David Tarras tune, hinting at the good-time intersection of klezmer and Caine’s background in Philadelphia’s jazz scene.
Rubin also stumbled on another trove of klezmer creativity among hasidic musicians he met almost by chance. While researching old 78 recordings at a Jerusalem library, a Hasid approached Rubin and asked if he spoke Yiddish. Rubin did, and the two struck up a friendship that led Rubin to a whole scene full of musicians working in the 18th- and 19th-century European Jewish traditions maintained and expanded in Israel’s hasidic communities.
These often ecstatic, transporting songs resonated deeply with Rubin, who began exploring them, both in collaboration with singer Rabbi Eli Silberstein, and alone, as a source of compositional inspiration. The lyrical quality of traditional nigunim shines on “Nign for Shabbat and Holidays,” as Rubin and Caine unfold the melody’s delicate, stately beauty.
Rubin and Caine connected after repeatedly running into each other on stage (Caine was touring with Don Byron, Rubin with the ensemble he led). Equally at home playing Schumann with a major orchestra and leading a jazz trio, Caine could easily find engaging foils for Rubin’s mix of ancient and newly minted tunes, sometimes turning to his Fender Rhodes, and sometimes (on “Yiddish Soldier”) balancing Rubin’s bright clarinet with rich Hammond organ.
The unexpected blend of timbres adds fresh depth to contemporary compositions as well as traditional melodies. Rubin’s musical contribution to Roman Polanski’s The Pianist, ultimately left on the cutting room floor, gains a new life and meaning with Caine (“The Pianist”). On “Yiddish Soldier,” Rubin and Caine intertwine a World War I-era klezmer classic with a tune written by former Klezmatic Alicia Svigals.
The duo pays tribute to Rubin’s late, great classical teacher, Kalmen Opperman, who got his start as a young boy hanging around New York’s Yiddish Theater and who composed “Ah Zoy,” revealing his unsung klezmer side. They take klezmer-inspired tunes by Steve Greenman (part of the gospel-inflected “Ahavas Oylam/Eternal Love”) and young clarinetist Michael Winograd (“New Khosidls”), who has explored both Jewish roots music and classical minimalism.
Regardless of their origins, the pieces reveal the intuitive musical connection between Rubin and Caine, a connection that vibrates with the spontaneity of two well-seasoned musicians jamming for the joy of it. “Playing with Uri immediately affected the way I would phrase the music,” Rubin notes. “I always try to find some common ground, to blend with whoever I’m playing with.”
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Simply Six: Hudson K
1. For many artists, they cite a defining moment for themselves when they knew they wanted to be a singer. For many it was the appearance of Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show, to another generation it was the Beatles’ appearance on Sullivan half a decade later. Is there such a defining moment for you?
I remember hearing Madonna for the first time and wanting painfully to BE her. She was just at the beginning of her career when my family discovered her and I would dress up in clothes to mimic her and dance around with a hairbrush as a microphone singing "Papa Don't Preach," (to the dismay of my parents as i was only ~6 years old and I didn't know what the song was about) and "Material Girl," etc. etc. I thought the words to "Like a Virgin" were 'like a bird dance' and my sister and i danced accordingly.
2. When you’re not creating music what are you listening to? Who are some of your favorites?
Terry Riley, Beethoven, Debussy, I still listen to classical music. But then I turn on Neil Young, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, Buffalo Springfield, and also poppy female artists like Imogen Heap and Bat for Lashes.
I also love weird music...I realize weird is a vague term, but basically anything that stands out as being completely and utterly different. The most obvious example I can think of that people might recognize would be John Cage.
And I actually think his music is pretty tame.
3. What would you say is your greatest moment so far as an artist, either on record or live?
This past year when I realized that I AM an artist. And I can do whatever I want artistically and I don't have to care a damn about what other people think. I have no plans of getting rich:)
4. Do you believe music can change the world or is just something to listen to? How much can music influence current events?
Yes. Music has saved me from depression, anxiety, and drug abuse.
I also believe it shapes your consciousness and helps you understand differing world views. I have learned more about humanity through song-writers than from anywhere else.
Music has gotten me through the tough times...and I think about that when I am creating it for other people.
5. How has technology affected the music industry? How has technology affected your career as a musician?
Technology has made it possible for me to even MAKE a record that sound sas good as what we are used to hearing on the radio. It has also made i possible for me to reach out to venues and fans and build a relationship with those that I would not have had the chance to do so 10 years ago. Really, before Myspace existed and was mainstream, there was still very little way an indie had a chance of reaching the world at large without beating the pavement 365 days a year.
6. Now for my Barbara Walters question: If you were a pair of shoes what type of shoes would you be?
An old-but-loved-pair of leather boots
I remember hearing Madonna for the first time and wanting painfully to BE her. She was just at the beginning of her career when my family discovered her and I would dress up in clothes to mimic her and dance around with a hairbrush as a microphone singing "Papa Don't Preach," (to the dismay of my parents as i was only ~6 years old and I didn't know what the song was about) and "Material Girl," etc. etc. I thought the words to "Like a Virgin" were 'like a bird dance' and my sister and i danced accordingly.
2. When you’re not creating music what are you listening to? Who are some of your favorites?
Terry Riley, Beethoven, Debussy, I still listen to classical music. But then I turn on Neil Young, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, Buffalo Springfield, and also poppy female artists like Imogen Heap and Bat for Lashes.
I also love weird music...I realize weird is a vague term, but basically anything that stands out as being completely and utterly different. The most obvious example I can think of that people might recognize would be John Cage.
And I actually think his music is pretty tame.
3. What would you say is your greatest moment so far as an artist, either on record or live?
This past year when I realized that I AM an artist. And I can do whatever I want artistically and I don't have to care a damn about what other people think. I have no plans of getting rich:)
4. Do you believe music can change the world or is just something to listen to? How much can music influence current events?
Yes. Music has saved me from depression, anxiety, and drug abuse.
I also believe it shapes your consciousness and helps you understand differing world views. I have learned more about humanity through song-writers than from anywhere else.
Music has gotten me through the tough times...and I think about that when I am creating it for other people.
5. How has technology affected the music industry? How has technology affected your career as a musician?
Technology has made it possible for me to even MAKE a record that sound sas good as what we are used to hearing on the radio. It has also made i possible for me to reach out to venues and fans and build a relationship with those that I would not have had the chance to do so 10 years ago. Really, before Myspace existed and was mainstream, there was still very little way an indie had a chance of reaching the world at large without beating the pavement 365 days a year.
6. Now for my Barbara Walters question: If you were a pair of shoes what type of shoes would you be?
An old-but-loved-pair of leather boots
Spotlight: Hali Hicks
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| Webpage: http://www.halihicksmusic.com/ | ||||
| Location: Midlothian, Virginia, USA | ||||
| Description: Meet Georgia Singer/Songwriter Hali Hicks. Hali's Unique sound is a mixture of pure country, blues, top 40 and soul | ||||
| Biography: Meet Georgia Singer/Songwriter Hali Hicks.
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Friday, July 29, 2011
Notes from the Yugoslav Dub Underground: La Cherga Rocks the Mic and the Diaspora with Pan-Balkan Funk
Founded by a former Croatian punk turned dub DJ and infused with pop sensibility, La Cherga knows how to organically meld hip-hop MCs to Macedonian Gypsy brass, booming bass and eerie flute melodies, post-Cold War irony with optimistic uplift. Don’t let the crazy-quilt of descriptors fool you. La Cherga is no hybrid band.
The Austria-based, pan-Balkan crew is the product of natural musical evolution, the defiant, hard-hitting energy of a Yugoslav dub underground that spans from small-town Bosnia to the jazz conservatory of Graz. Revolve (Asphalt Tango Records; June 14, 2011), goes beyond the band’s party-hardy dubbed out past into deep funk, rock, and soul territory, guided by the unquenchable spirit of Sarajevo.
In Bulgarian, cherga is a quaint term for a rag rug, a reflection of the band’s love of sonic recycling. Yet it has other resonances as well: “In Romany, ‘cherga’ means a bunch of people, often wandering around without a purpose or direction,” La Cherga founder and producer Nevenko Bucan explained in an interview. “You could say it describes the Gypsies themselves, but we in the band are now immigrants, too. There are definitely links between the choice of that band name and the course of our lives."
The course of La Cherga runs through a vibrant musical diaspora, a fraught world formed by civil war, economic displacement, and a bubbling sense of irony. La Cherga waltzes and skanks through these complexities like a Roma band kicking out the jams at a Jamaican dancehall. Singer and lyricist Adisa Zvekic whispers poetry one moment, channeling Nina Simone, and raises hell like Ari Up the next.
The sultry sway of “Melaha,” backed by a wild lashing of beats and Gypsy brass, bleeds into hardcore defiance, calling for change (“One”)—or at least another round of drinks—while rocking the mic Yugoslav-style. Hints of Augustus Pablo and Bettye Lavette swirl around pop hooks and introspective jazz horns (“Rise Up”). Tales of immigrant life’s boozy woes (thanks to Croatian MC Killo Killo on “Votka dot kom”) alternate with calls from Zvekic’s rebel soul for peace, love, and an end to nationalism and conflict.
La Cherga came together accidentally on purpose. Bucan became a fixture on the Graz music scene, gaining a reputation for his seamless mix of dub, drum & bass, and rootsy grooves from the former Yugoslavia. But Bucan wasn’t satisfied with the DJ-centric approach of Austrian avant-dub, a scene led by producers like Kruder & Dorfmeister, who put Bucan’s work on their label’s compilations. “There was something missing,” Bucan reflects. “The scene needed live bands.”
Serendipitously, Bucan met Bosnian guitarist Muamer “Muki” Gazibegovic, who was studying music at the university in Graz, a magnet for young musicians from across the former Hapsburg realm. Regular jam sessions, which soon involved Macedonian horn players Kiril Kuzmanov and Trajce Velkov, turned into an album and a live touring band.
But dub and reggae have deep roots for La Cherga that extend beyond the cool Central European club experiments. Zvekic, who got her start as a teenager MCing with her brother and close friends as part of Bosnia’s Dubioza Kolektiv, grew up on dub, thanks to a community of music fans in her small home city of Zenica, Bosnia. People of all generations traded cassettes and exposed each other to anything and everything. “The dub approach is my roots. It’s something very natural that already is inside,” Zvekic notes. “It’s natural and spontaneous because I listened to a lot of music for a very long time.”
Putting odds and ends together has long been the cultural norm for musicians like Zvekic and in cities like Sarajevo, where, despite a decade of war, that spirit remains. That Bosnian vibe—a curious mix of cultural diversity and local distinctiveness—powered much of Revolve: Bucan worked with producer Nino Skiljic at a studio there, and Zvekic recorded with Dubioza’s MCs at a home in nearby Zenica (“One”).
“Sarajevo is a very old town, and its spirit carries on, sometimes despite its people,” Zvekic muses. “Its spirit reflects the efforts of cultured people who wanted to save its true values.”
Bucan summed up these values perfectly: “Nationalism and patriotism are so passé!” he exclaimed with a laugh during a recent interview. “In a way, we're like the orchestra on the Titanic. Everything around us is going to hell, but we keep on playing. We're just trying to create our own micro universe.”
The Austria-based, pan-Balkan crew is the product of natural musical evolution, the defiant, hard-hitting energy of a Yugoslav dub underground that spans from small-town Bosnia to the jazz conservatory of Graz. Revolve (Asphalt Tango Records; June 14, 2011), goes beyond the band’s party-hardy dubbed out past into deep funk, rock, and soul territory, guided by the unquenchable spirit of Sarajevo.
The course of La Cherga runs through a vibrant musical diaspora, a fraught world formed by civil war, economic displacement, and a bubbling sense of irony. La Cherga waltzes and skanks through these complexities like a Roma band kicking out the jams at a Jamaican dancehall. Singer and lyricist Adisa Zvekic whispers poetry one moment, channeling Nina Simone, and raises hell like Ari Up the next.
The sultry sway of “Melaha,” backed by a wild lashing of beats and Gypsy brass, bleeds into hardcore defiance, calling for change (“One”)—or at least another round of drinks—while rocking the mic Yugoslav-style. Hints of Augustus Pablo and Bettye Lavette swirl around pop hooks and introspective jazz horns (“Rise Up”). Tales of immigrant life’s boozy woes (thanks to Croatian MC Killo Killo on “Votka dot kom”) alternate with calls from Zvekic’s rebel soul for peace, love, and an end to nationalism and conflict.
La Cherga came together accidentally on purpose. Bucan became a fixture on the Graz music scene, gaining a reputation for his seamless mix of dub, drum & bass, and rootsy grooves from the former Yugoslavia. But Bucan wasn’t satisfied with the DJ-centric approach of Austrian avant-dub, a scene led by producers like Kruder & Dorfmeister, who put Bucan’s work on their label’s compilations. “There was something missing,” Bucan reflects. “The scene needed live bands.”
Serendipitously, Bucan met Bosnian guitarist Muamer “Muki” Gazibegovic, who was studying music at the university in Graz, a magnet for young musicians from across the former Hapsburg realm. Regular jam sessions, which soon involved Macedonian horn players Kiril Kuzmanov and Trajce Velkov, turned into an album and a live touring band.
But dub and reggae have deep roots for La Cherga that extend beyond the cool Central European club experiments. Zvekic, who got her start as a teenager MCing with her brother and close friends as part of Bosnia’s Dubioza Kolektiv, grew up on dub, thanks to a community of music fans in her small home city of Zenica, Bosnia. People of all generations traded cassettes and exposed each other to anything and everything. “The dub approach is my roots. It’s something very natural that already is inside,” Zvekic notes. “It’s natural and spontaneous because I listened to a lot of music for a very long time.”
Putting odds and ends together has long been the cultural norm for musicians like Zvekic and in cities like Sarajevo, where, despite a decade of war, that spirit remains. That Bosnian vibe—a curious mix of cultural diversity and local distinctiveness—powered much of Revolve: Bucan worked with producer Nino Skiljic at a studio there, and Zvekic recorded with Dubioza’s MCs at a home in nearby Zenica (“One”).
“Sarajevo is a very old town, and its spirit carries on, sometimes despite its people,” Zvekic muses. “Its spirit reflects the efforts of cultured people who wanted to save its true values.”
Bucan summed up these values perfectly: “Nationalism and patriotism are so passé!” he exclaimed with a laugh during a recent interview. “In a way, we're like the orchestra on the Titanic. Everything around us is going to hell, but we keep on playing. We're just trying to create our own micro universe.”
Simply SIx: Ladies of Sport
1. For many artists, they cite a defining moment for themselves when they knew they wanted to be a singer. For many it was the appearance of Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show, to another generation it was the Beatles’ appearance on Sullivan half a decade later. Is there such a defining moment for you?
If there was one, I don’t remember it. It might have been in the time when a kid is sentient but not making memories yet. My parents tell me that when I was 3 and a half I’d play my little toy drums and sing along to their records at the top of my lungs. There was always music on in the house: James Brown, Elton John, Ray Charles, Billy Joel. Good singers to learn with. I was always a singer, I think.
2. When you’re not creating music what are you listening to? Who are some of your favorites?
My listening runs the gambit, but has been very rock-centric these days. My current top five is hard to list, but let me try. In no particular order: The Walkmen, St. Vincent, Ryan Adams, Neko Case, and Andrew Bird. There are also things that I’ve been listening to for years that I keep coming back to. Tribe Called Quest always finds it’s way to my ears once a month. Same goes for Aimee Mann, Refused, Ben Folds Five, and Paramore. As you can see, my taste is hard to pin down.
I’m also a producer and engineer, so many times I’ll love a record just for how it sounds.
And, in general, I listen to five times more comedy than music. I’m a huge fan of stand up. Louis CK, Patton Oswalt, and Patrice Oneal are my current favorites. Marc Maron’s Podcast, WTF, is amazing if you love comedy. It’s almost always an interview with a comedian talking about his or her craft. It inspires me so much to hear how an artistic mind works..
3. What would you say is your greatest moment so far as an artist, either on record or live?
The last song on our Debut Record Empires Fall. “For Mary,” was played completely live on the first take. No edits or overdubs. It’s a very emotional and personal song, and there is nothing like the first take for capturing that kind of emotion. By the time you’ve gotten around to the third take you’ve had too much time to think about what you’re doing, and you start doing the things you THINK you should be doing instead of what your instincts tell you to do.
4. Do you believe music can change the world or is just something to listen to? How much can music influence current events?
If it brings someone joy, enjoyment, release, or any other emotion, then it is changing the world in some small way.
That said, in the 60s, when people actually got up and fought for what they believed in…that time brought music to match the times. Dylan, The Beatles, Joan Baez; these artists weren’t changing the world, they were just writing the soundtrack for the people on the front lines. Does anyone with any real power give a fuck what Bono has to say? I think probably not. The best you can hope for as a musician is to touch an individual. But is a song going to convince a racist to love everybody? Is it going to convince a politician to serve the people instead of himself? That’s not reality.
5. How has technology affected the music industry? How has technology affected your career as a musician?
For me, the music technology revolution has been a wonderful thing. The means of production and distribution are far more accessible than they once were. The Ladies of Sport can have an idea, record it, mix it, master it, put it up and have it in our fans’ ears in 12 hours. As an indie artist, you can’t beat that.
That said, I have years of shitty recordings that precede the releasable ones. It took me a lot of work, study, and practice to learn how to make stuff sound great. The stuff I put out in those early years was stuff I did in a studio with people who knew what they were doing (which is also a great way to learn). If an artist wants to be taken seriously, he should probably practice recording for a few years before he starts trying to self release.
Look at Cake’s latest record. I’m a huge fan, and I’ve always thought their records sounded great. They recorded this one themselves…It is un-listenable. Bland, flat, lifeless. I can’t listen past how unprofessional it sounds. Don’t take a good engineer with good gear for granted.
6. Now for my Barbara Walters question: If you were a pair of shoes what type of shoes would you be?
6. Now for my Barbara Walters question: If you were a pair of shoes what type of shoes would you be?
A beloved and well-worn pair of Adidas. I may not be pretty, but I’m comfortable, classic, and easy to wear.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Simply SIx: Jenn Bostic
1. For many artists, they cite a defining moment for themselves when they knew they wanted to be a singer. For many it was the appearance of Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show, to another generation it was the Beatles’ appearance on Sullivan half a decade later. Is there such a defining moment for you?
Absolutely. I've had a love for music for as long as I can remember. Every night after dinner my family would have a sing a long. :) At ten years old, I lost my dad in a tragic car accident. He was the one who had taught me everything I knew about music up to that point. The first time I sat down at the piano again I shut my eyes and I felt his presence there with me again. From that moment on, I knew that I had to pursue a life in music.
2. When you’re not creating music what are you listening to? Who are some of your favorites?
Bonnie Raitt, Marc Broussard, Sara Bareilles, Jon McLaughlin, Jesse Ruben and so many more!
3. What would you say is your greatest moment so far as an artist, either on record or live?
I opened up for Randy Travis last year in Loveland, Colorado, and I performed "Jealous of the Angels" written for my dad, just me and my keyboard. I shared my very personal story with the crowd of over 2,000people, played the song and before I could finish playing the outro their applause completely overwhelmed me. It wasn't just the fact that they were applauding the performance, it was the way I could feel they were touched by the lyrics. I am so grateful for that moment.
4. Do you believe music can change the world or is just something to listen to? How much can music influence current events?
I absolutely think music can change the world. I know it isn't rocket science or curing cancer, but it gives people hope. It helps people to keep going. It wont single handedly change the world, but I absolutely believe it inspires people who can.
5. How has technology affected the music industry? How has technology affected your career as a musician?
Technology has made music more accessible to people across the globe. As an independent artist, technology has helped me to get my music heard, and in turn touch more lives.
6. Now for my Barbara Walters question: If you were a pair of shoes what type of shoes would you be?
Chucks/Converse. Comfortable, approachable, colorful and something everyone can enjoy. :)
Down Home in Bamako: Boubacar Traoré and the Mischievously Subtle Guitar Blues of Mali Denhou
Boubacar Traoré took his guitar and strode out into the fields outside of Bamako, Mali. There, in the country quiet, he wrote a dozen new songs in a month. “Town is too noisy. And I didn’t go to the bush, but I left my guitar here, on my farm. Because I know here, I’m on a leash,” Traoré told a recent interviewer.
That leash, that connection to land and family, resulted in Mali Denhou. On Traoré’s first studio album in six years, the kindly, gritty voice of the veteran Malian bluesman intertwines with wonderfully idiosyncratic, cascading guitar. Wistful and pensive, Traoré exhorts, gives thanks, and reflects on love, history, and duty, with a deceptive simplicity and a deep, subtle knowledge of Mandingo tradition and West African vintage pop.
A legend in Mali since his groundbreaking hits of the 1960s, Traoré—possibly the eldest internationally-touring guitarist from Mali—has been around. He knows exactly what he wants. He insisted that if he was going to do a studio album, he had to have his longtime friend, the nimble French harmonica player Vincent Bucher, play with him. Bucher’s rich, pure tone moves in and out of Traoré’s succinct phrases and unexpected rhythms effortlessly on tracks like “Mondeou.”
Traoré doesn’t fuss with his music in the studio: He’s known for whipping out one or two stunning takes and then heading back to the farm. Recorded live at Studio Moffou, the cozy recording venue designed by Malian star Salif Keita specifically for acoustic African projects, Mali Denhou beautifully presents the spirit of an African blues master, in the way vintage jazz and blues recordings captured the masters of the Mississippi Delta.
“For Boubacar, it’s not about being a virtuoso. He may only play a few notes, but they are all important,” reflects album producer and friend Christian Mousset. “Like Muddy Waters or Robert Johnson, he has a style all his own. He wasn’t taught by anyone, and doesn’t sound like anyone else in Mali. It’s always been a mystery to me, where Boubacar’s sound came from.”
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An elder statesman of the Malian blues made famous by performers like the late Ali Farka Touré, Traoré is a natural. His songs and musicianship flow from an intimate, intuitive connection with his instrument, as well as with his beloved land.
As a young teenager, he would sneak into the room of his older brother—a music teacher who studied for eight years in Cuba—and play his Italian guitar. The guitar was off limits, but Traoré couldn’t help himself: He had to play. When his brother finally caught him in the act, he was amazed to hear Boubacar playing riffs taken from Mandingo music for the kora (West African traditional harp).
“When my brother found where I was hiding, he asked me, ‘Who taught you that?’” Traoré recalls. “I said, ‘No one.’ And he replied that if that was how I was starting, I was going to be world famous one day.”
Traoré continues to draw on deep roots unselfconsciously, using the legendary stories of Mali’s past, like the conversation between the king and his child retold in “Kankan Baro.” He pays tribute to Mali’s great leaders, stretching back to the great empires of the 12th century, on “Mali Tschebou,” a personal update to a long tradition of praise singing.
Songs like Traoré’s cover of a West African guitar classic, “Minuit,” show how roots and pop-influenced styles meld for the guitarist. As the lyrics contrast the prowling vampires, yowling cats, and sweetly nursing babies of midnight, Traoré navigates between fable and comforting fact, between upbeat guitar licks and a philosophical undertone.
The fame Traoré’s brother foretold came to the young Traoré in a newly independent Mali, where Traoré’s early recordings—songs like “Mali Twist” and “Cha-cha-cha 63”—became big hits and unofficial anthems of a youthful, enthusiastic nation emerging from colonialism. Though drawing on international pop dance crazes, Traoré’s songs were far from frivolous; they called on Malians to work for the good of their transformed homeland. They were played every morning on national radio; almost fulfilling the role of a national anthem. Traoré continues to remind Malians and Africans, especially those in power, to respect and dedicate themselves to their communities, in songs like “Farafina Lolo Lôra” and “Mali Denhou.”
Traoré’s star faded after his burst of pioneering success, as Mali suffered political turmoil. After returning to a quiet life, Traoré soon faced great difficulties himself: the death of his beloved wife and the harsh realities of a stint as a migrant laborer in France. But it was during this period abroad that sympathetic producers encountered the middle-aged Traoré and brought his music into the international limelight.
Traoré remains a charmingly reluctant figure on the global music scene. “He’s a country guy at heart,” muses Mousset. “He loves connecting with audiences and performing—I’ve never seen him have an off night on tour—but he’s very tied to his land and his family,” whom he greets lovingly in “N’Dianamogo.”
Though he spends as much time as possible on his farm with children and grandchildren, Traoré has calmly and confidently carved out a reputation for his straightforward sounding yet mischievously complex guitar work. “Justin Adams, Robert Plant’s guitarist who is a big admirer of African music, told me that when he first heard Boubacar, he imagined his songs would be easy to play, but he couldn’t get the groove,” Mousset recounts. “Bill Frisell also used to perform Boubacar songs, and thought his style of composition was unique. The songs seem naïve, or light, but are actually very difficult to play.”
This mix of long experience, unique style, and quiet complexity have won Traoré the respect of young Malian musicians—several joined him in the studio, adding n’goni (traditional banjo-like instrument) and balafon (traditional wooden xylophone) to Traoré’s songs.
Yet the most striking collaborator is Vincent Bucher, who first met Traoré at a festival in Canada where the two were thrown together in a jam session that blossomed into a decades-long musical friendship. Now treated as a member of the family—“Vincent is like Boubacar’s adopted son,” Mousset notes—Bucher understands how to slip seamlessly into Traoré’s guitar parts, sometimes in counterpoint and sometimes grooving right along.
Though their collaboration sounds rehearsed, it came together, like all of Traoré’s musical endeavors, with startling speed and deftness. “Boubacar is not a huge rehearser. When inspiration comes, he takes his guitar and makes music,” Mousset states. “He has his universe, his own world, and once you connect to it, it all feels incredibly easy.”
That leash, that connection to land and family, resulted in Mali Denhou. On Traoré’s first studio album in six years, the kindly, gritty voice of the veteran Malian bluesman intertwines with wonderfully idiosyncratic, cascading guitar. Wistful and pensive, Traoré exhorts, gives thanks, and reflects on love, history, and duty, with a deceptive simplicity and a deep, subtle knowledge of Mandingo tradition and West African vintage pop.
Traoré doesn’t fuss with his music in the studio: He’s known for whipping out one or two stunning takes and then heading back to the farm. Recorded live at Studio Moffou, the cozy recording venue designed by Malian star Salif Keita specifically for acoustic African projects, Mali Denhou beautifully presents the spirit of an African blues master, in the way vintage jazz and blues recordings captured the masters of the Mississippi Delta.
“For Boubacar, it’s not about being a virtuoso. He may only play a few notes, but they are all important,” reflects album producer and friend Christian Mousset. “Like Muddy Waters or Robert Johnson, he has a style all his own. He wasn’t taught by anyone, and doesn’t sound like anyone else in Mali. It’s always been a mystery to me, where Boubacar’s sound came from.”
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An elder statesman of the Malian blues made famous by performers like the late Ali Farka Touré, Traoré is a natural. His songs and musicianship flow from an intimate, intuitive connection with his instrument, as well as with his beloved land.
As a young teenager, he would sneak into the room of his older brother—a music teacher who studied for eight years in Cuba—and play his Italian guitar. The guitar was off limits, but Traoré couldn’t help himself: He had to play. When his brother finally caught him in the act, he was amazed to hear Boubacar playing riffs taken from Mandingo music for the kora (West African traditional harp).
“When my brother found where I was hiding, he asked me, ‘Who taught you that?’” Traoré recalls. “I said, ‘No one.’ And he replied that if that was how I was starting, I was going to be world famous one day.”
Traoré continues to draw on deep roots unselfconsciously, using the legendary stories of Mali’s past, like the conversation between the king and his child retold in “Kankan Baro.” He pays tribute to Mali’s great leaders, stretching back to the great empires of the 12th century, on “Mali Tschebou,” a personal update to a long tradition of praise singing.
Songs like Traoré’s cover of a West African guitar classic, “Minuit,” show how roots and pop-influenced styles meld for the guitarist. As the lyrics contrast the prowling vampires, yowling cats, and sweetly nursing babies of midnight, Traoré navigates between fable and comforting fact, between upbeat guitar licks and a philosophical undertone.
The fame Traoré’s brother foretold came to the young Traoré in a newly independent Mali, where Traoré’s early recordings—songs like “Mali Twist” and “Cha-cha-cha 63”—became big hits and unofficial anthems of a youthful, enthusiastic nation emerging from colonialism. Though drawing on international pop dance crazes, Traoré’s songs were far from frivolous; they called on Malians to work for the good of their transformed homeland. They were played every morning on national radio; almost fulfilling the role of a national anthem. Traoré continues to remind Malians and Africans, especially those in power, to respect and dedicate themselves to their communities, in songs like “Farafina Lolo Lôra” and “Mali Denhou.”
Traoré’s star faded after his burst of pioneering success, as Mali suffered political turmoil. After returning to a quiet life, Traoré soon faced great difficulties himself: the death of his beloved wife and the harsh realities of a stint as a migrant laborer in France. But it was during this period abroad that sympathetic producers encountered the middle-aged Traoré and brought his music into the international limelight.
Traoré remains a charmingly reluctant figure on the global music scene. “He’s a country guy at heart,” muses Mousset. “He loves connecting with audiences and performing—I’ve never seen him have an off night on tour—but he’s very tied to his land and his family,” whom he greets lovingly in “N’Dianamogo.”
Though he spends as much time as possible on his farm with children and grandchildren, Traoré has calmly and confidently carved out a reputation for his straightforward sounding yet mischievously complex guitar work. “Justin Adams, Robert Plant’s guitarist who is a big admirer of African music, told me that when he first heard Boubacar, he imagined his songs would be easy to play, but he couldn’t get the groove,” Mousset recounts. “Bill Frisell also used to perform Boubacar songs, and thought his style of composition was unique. The songs seem naïve, or light, but are actually very difficult to play.”
This mix of long experience, unique style, and quiet complexity have won Traoré the respect of young Malian musicians—several joined him in the studio, adding n’goni (traditional banjo-like instrument) and balafon (traditional wooden xylophone) to Traoré’s songs.
Yet the most striking collaborator is Vincent Bucher, who first met Traoré at a festival in Canada where the two were thrown together in a jam session that blossomed into a decades-long musical friendship. Now treated as a member of the family—“Vincent is like Boubacar’s adopted son,” Mousset notes—Bucher understands how to slip seamlessly into Traoré’s guitar parts, sometimes in counterpoint and sometimes grooving right along.
Though their collaboration sounds rehearsed, it came together, like all of Traoré’s musical endeavors, with startling speed and deftness. “Boubacar is not a huge rehearser. When inspiration comes, he takes his guitar and makes music,” Mousset states. “He has his universe, his own world, and once you connect to it, it all feels incredibly easy.”
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