Rokia

The Barbican is a concrete jungle in the heart of the centre of London. A wide reaching forest of concrete walkways and interconnected city blocks that secretly conceal tube stations, museums and and the Barbican centre. In the belly of this labyrinth of stair cases, sign posts and old Roman city ruins, Rokia Traore was to perform a Mozart influenced live performance.

Loveness was not at the Burger King at London Bridge, as agreed. On the phone she said she was told that there was no Burger King at London Bridge (incorrectly). I swallowed my frustration and met her at her unilaterally chosen meeting place, outside in front of the HSBC bank.
We took a bus to the Barbican.

Lovenss has lived all her life in northern Malawi, except for one short visit to Lundazi, in eastern Zambia when she was five. Two years ago she went to Glasgow to study Quantity Surveying. She is small, neat, shy and speaks with a strong Tumbuka accent.

‘Rokia is an African like us. She is from Mali. She makes black peoples music. Tonight, she is taking white peoples favorite classical music, and making it black’ I preached. I find my self talking to her like she is a child for her quietness. She is 22 though.

‘But there will be plenty of white people there who like black peoples music’ I continued as we skipped over the Thames river on the upper deck of the double decker bus. I pointed out the south bank and St Pauls Cethedral.

Loveness smiled and said nothing.

Indeed there were lots of white people at the Barbican that night that like black peoples music. I could tell because many of them wore printed shirts. Very educated women in their forties donned shawls and kaftan’s and printed head cloths. Caucasian men had sandles and cotton pants. Mixed race couples were present too.

I mean black peoples music like the kind that is sung in native languages and with traditional instruments. Not the over produced chart bashing rhythms forced onto high streets and MTV. It is called African World Music.

Loveness and I had a drink outside and sat on the steps by the fountains. The evening was warm and the soft dusk sunlight dappled the creepers hanging over concrete balconies yonder and all around and above us.

In the auditorium, the lights went out, the convivial crowd died down and two shadowy forms walked on to stage. It was Rokia and a curly haired guitarist. On the screen behind them a short story was told through screen shots of bustling Bamako in black and white and a voice over narrative, in french and english with subtitles. It told of time breaking down and contemporary artists such as Amadou & Mariam, Bjork and Billie Holiday arriving at a banquet to perform at the crowning ceremony of Soundiata Kieta, the first 13th century emperor of the Mande kingdom in Medieval Mali.

The first song was a tentative and calm dirge. Rokia’s throat deep wails augmented by the languid plucks of an acoustic guitar.

Rokia wore loose cotton pants and a chinese style cotton shirt with long sleeves that drooped well past here hands. The cut across her torso was high to reveal some of her taught stomach. She is lean, short and small with a powerful neck, short hair and an eager countenance. Dark skinned and liable to charge with passion at the drop of a dime.

The songs that followed were lacklustre but powerful, with the familiar charges of her singing and chanting. Four violins and a chelo on one familiar number from one of her recorded albums. If you love Rokia’s music then you would of loved this, with classic instruments to back her up.

After three or four such numbers, her usual band took up the remainder of the instruments behind her. They were all men but her back up singer, a more voluptuous specimen whose back bone was not as flexible as Rokia’s to the pounding rythyms.

As the performance went on so did the tempo. The all man band got more assertive. Rokia and her back up singer danced more to their mildly choreographed routines. All this was inter-spliced with more screen shots of Mali and voice over doing a fantasy of the empire of Soundiata Kieta and his journey to be emperor.

Loveness was quiet next to me but not motionless in the gloom. I bopped my head as I saw fit and clapped lots.

The second to last song was ten minutes long and really rocked the house. One of the guitars looked like a wood padel, with strings strung across. The drums smashed and the electric guitarists face contorted with passion. Rokia danced and smiled like she was drugged. Just when you thought the song could not get any more hectic it went up to a higher tempo. When the song finally concluded, with a triumphant bash from the drummer, the applause was almost as long as the song.

Of course there was an encore. Rokia charged back on to the stage with her whole band of African men and back up singer. She demanded every body get up and dance. That included the white males in the front rows with white hair and bold patches. She demanded and, coaxed and cajoled until we were all on our feet, though Loveness and I didn’t need much convincing.

The final song was for all to dance. Loveness danced like she talked, quietly and in a smile way. No loud gestures and not much movement.

Rokia got a standing ovation. I was glad I came. I didn’t notice much Mozart in her performances. There were some classical instruments which worked really well on her ballads to accompany her passionate and indignant wails. But I don’t know Mozart. I do know, however, that I like everything that comes out of Mali when it comes to music.

They say Rokia came back from the western world of her fathers diplomatic circles to learn traditional Griot music and fuse it with modern influences. I love her music. I wish I could do the same with literature as she has done with music. She inspires me.

‘Did you like it?’ I asked Loveness.

‘yeah’ she said with her usual nervous laugh. I doubted the sincerity of this reply but I don’t think she was bored.

We followed the signs posts to the bus station and took two buses home.

Over the Thames river again on the bus, I saw to the east the full moon a strong orange just emerged from the horizon in the twilight. It was ochre yellow and framed squarely by the tower bridge under the moon rose over the river beyond the bright city lights.