I retired to the Carrefours des Jeunes for a quiet sundowner and to gather my thoughts after the disappointing day. What happened wasn't my fauilt. I was already in my chair, alone, watching members of the family rattus rattus running up and down the rondavel roof beneath whick a dance lesson was in progress, when the local drinking team descended on me. For once I remained (fairly) abstemious, which is more than could be said for The Three Stooges. The more gin they put away (each beibg a triple) the more they considered the world a hilarious place and the more they thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. This despite the fact I wouldn't give in to their shameless begging for more drinks. As they comiserated with me and cursed the Cote d'Ivoire roundly, one of them had a rare flash of sober sensibility when I asked where I might listen to good music in Bamako. "Wait!" he spluttered, while fumbling with his mobile. Ten minutes after the call a young man appeared on the balcony:
"I am drummer in a rock band. We are performing tomorrow night, why not come along?"
On such casual encouters are plans changed.
With time to kill before the agreed meeting, I wandered the madness of the main market, being hit by a moto but once, before deciding I needed a dose of Western-style junk food. The pattiserie I chose had a street terrace glazed in by one-way-windows and it was hilarious to watch passersby preen themselves in the mirrord glass unaware of the voyeuristic patrons within (I have to report that men proved the more narcissistic). Unfortunately my pizza wasn't worth the wait. A ketchup base loaded with far too much cheese, the whole being sparsely sprinkled with dried grass (no, not the "happy" sort). As Crocodile Dundee said;" You can live on it, but it tastes like s**t".
My drummer friend, Adama, met me and we first popped into a chinese restaurant for him to drool over his girl who works there ("My true love!") - I spent the time watching Barcelona in the Champions League, then it was into a minibus for the ride out of town to the "Club Djembé". As in Spain, a Club here is a bordello, this one complete with both red and blue lighting. It was like a Police/Ambulance Convention except that the girls wore no uniform. For them it was a mix of tight and lurid, multi- coloured clothing (one had on such a restrictive pencil skirt with amazingly high heels that she was forced to totter like the mincing of an old queen).Luckily my new chum had spread the word that I was here for the music and not as a potential punter.
The band began setting up their instruments at one end of the main room using rocks and large stones to wedge the drums. The intended humour in my comment "I see you play rock music, then?" was lost in the translation.
The bass drum had exploded back in the mists of time and bits of cardboard hung out; the cymbal looked as if Desperate Dan had taken two great bites from it, the home made Fender guitar appeared to have been used to shovel coal and the amp was strapped up with yards of masking tape. Only Adama's "bongo" drum seemed up to the job at hand.
At 2200 the place began to fill and the band prepared for their gig. Suddenly, with a scream, a Rubenesque lady started a gig of her own that could have been scripted fo one of the worst of second rate soaps. She launched herself at Adama, grabbing, hitting, yelling. In the ensueing fight they pursued each other knocking tables flying (I deftly rescued my beer in the nick of time) trading punches, kicks and insults, gleefully trailed by rent-a-crowd, until they could be seperated and bundled outside. Adama's girl (my own true lurv!) having just arrived from her job waiting tables, was crestfallen as it turned out the female Sumo had been accusing the drummer of being the father of the child she was apparently carrying, and who was refusing financial assistence. For his part, he blamed her! The "true lurv!" took herself to a corner here she was consoled by some of the girls. A half-heared attempt by the wronged woman to take it all out on the new woman in his life was quickly terminated when the bouncers threw her out, bodily. Such excitement, and the music hadn't even started yet!
When it did - WOW! Beginning low key, the tempo and volume soon increased. Blues and pure Rock were belted out; the drummer xas restrained and controlled, the guitarist doing a "Slowhand", the bassist making one's ribcage vibrate, the rich tenor of the vocalist blending tribal chants with African soul and Adama, eyes tightly closed, hands a blur, was the best I have seen/heard since Osibisa.
The crowd were enthralled too. The main room was heaving, adjacent salons catered for the overspill, in all over 200 sweaty bodies were crammed together in the smoke (all locals bar 5 expats and me), a gyrating amorphous mass. Time meant nothing as the beat of the band became the pulse of the humanity that revelled in its ecstasy. When the constant flow of beer thrust at me by the band's mates ( they happily adopted me as "My Bruddah!") threatened to topple my gyro I slipped away and took a taxi back to the Mission. It was 0330. If you ever get to Bamako you won't have a better night out the at the Club Djembé (oddly, their best nights are Tues and Wed).
Dave
trusted partner
