Womadelaide 2009
Son of Fela was the reason we drove 9 and a half hours into the night, staring into a greasy windscreen and battling a steady line of trucks that would cause the van to wobble as they hurtled past. We watched the moon rise and set, finally going down blood red to the sounds of Seun Kuti’s opening gambit, six pumping slabs, of angry aggressive Afrobeat with Fela’s Egypt 80 sounding better than they ever have before. Many Things (Cartell Music) was the reason we went to Womadelaide. It’s something special and we wanted to be a part of it.
We arrived just in time for the media briefing and were greeted with orange juice, and a speech from the premier. “It’s the only festival where the premier could fall asleep after a long day watching bands and everyone just leaves him alone.” French band Lo Cor De La Plana played a song for the cameras. They are like a barbers shop quartet on steroids. Not just because there are six of them, but because their hand drums, foot stomping, hand claps and macho harmonies all merged together to create an hypnotic testosterone drenched tribal chant. We filed them away as a band to keep an eye on. Next up was the shy diminutive Rokia Traore, a gorgeous contemporary folk and blues singer from Mali. Her songs were joyful and fragile, there was something incredibly innocent and beautiful about her music and manner. We fell in love immediately.
Then it was meet and greet the artists. I almost knocked into Seun Kuti without realising. When my companion told me I didn’t believe him. He didn’t look the way I imagined. “Look at the way he walks,” my companion offered. And it was true. I’ve never seen such a lazy confidence, such a self assured yet super cool strut. It was the son of Fela, and the first of many encounters.
When we returned for the festival proper it began with Bedouin Jerry Can Band, an Egyptian troupe from the Sinai Desert. Their featured players (read old guys) sat in a tent, playing flutes and reed pipes whilst the others played the Egyptian lyre, and banged tablas, clay pots, frame drums and of course jerry cans and ammunition boxes, before getting up to dance occasionally. Each dancer would smile mischievously and begin wiggling in his own unique style to the rattling throb and hypnotic wailing. “This song is about a Bedouin man,” offers a particularly cheeky dancer pointing at himself, “looking for his beloved in the next tribe. But he cannot find his beloved, maybe he will find his beauty in Adelaide.” As the song progressed his dancing became increasingly suggestive. This way his prospective lady would know what to expect. They are also coffee grinders.
Papua New Guinea born Melbourne based jazz musician and composer and pianist Aaron Choulai with the Vada ensemble teamed up with a sixteen voiced Tatana choir from Papua New Guinea to mixed success. Whilst there were some curious moments of tentative fusion, and the choirs voices sounded rough and beautiful, Vada’s jazz tendencies proved a little too discordant for the choir. A little too much like trying to force a square peg in a round hole. Interesting to watch, but after a while you wonder whether its even possible. Two days later however the inclusion of didgeridoo maestro Mark Atkins is utterly spellbinding.
Aside from the son of Fela, the drummer of Fela was also high on the agenda and we eagerly clamored to see master drummer Tony Allen (he of Africa 70). His band dripped with the smooth and polish of new jazz. It was funky as hell, yet there was little soul. It just didn’t penetrate. It was Afrobeat lite, with jazz fusion tendencies, and Allen murmuring over the top. “Don’t take my kindness for weakness he offered mantra like.” It’s all a little frustrating because we all know what he’s capable of. Though you’d think even at his age he should be aware that slap bass solos are criminal. Later when I walked away, closed my eyes and listened to the percussion I realised that he was doing a lot more than he initially appeared to be, literally dancing around the melodies and creating with these incredible fills, sparring with himself and offering up so much more inspiration and energy than the music deserves. We watched him again the next day out of respect.
French Algerian ensemble Speed Caravan were absolutely explosive, pumping out muscular electronic beats beneath electric middle eastern oud. They were slightly reminiscent of the Dirty Three in the way they all stepped behind the oud player (who refers to his instrument as his Kaliznachov) and allowed him to dictate, also in their ability to develop these swelling crescendos over time, where you’d look around and realise that somehow your fist is pumping the air. We managed see their next set the following day and whilst their cover of the Cure’s Killing an Arab (sung by their minder no less) was a little unexpected, MC Lucky Oceans pretty much summed up the experience afterwards by unintentionally tagging them ‘Smoking Speed Caravan,’ – an entirely apt description of their energy.
Our first realisation of the thought gone into programming at Womadelaide came with Indian classical musicians U Shrinivas & U Rajesh who lulled us out of the festival two nights running with the most gorgeous gentle mandolin improvisations. It was music you didn’t need to see or even be near as it swept across the front of the stage and across the sparsely wooded hill behind it, where many prostrate punters rested. It would start slowly, tentatively, before building into a warped virtuosic frenzy after the tabla kicked in. After the excitement of the first two days it was the perfect way to drift away out of the festival and into the night.
The next day Balkan ensemble Paprika Balkanicus were cheeky and precocious. “Even if you hate us buy a cd and send it to your enemy, because really, we just want your credit card details.” Their mix of gypsy swing and frenetic Balkan grooves with violin, piano accordion, guitar and double bass was incredibly addictive, sending the crowd into a frenzy of tempo clapping and offered up some of the most ridiculous freak dancing seen at the festival thus far.
American/Cambodian ensemble Dengue Fever were hilarious. They’re the ultimate eye candy. I defy you to tear your eyes from the gorgeous five foot nothing lead singer Chhom Nimol, squeezed into a tight pink skirt who obtained these impossibly high pitches with her vocals. The guitarist looked like ZZ Top’s early years, the bass player is a giant, the sax player and the drummer both just stole the booze from a Tom Waits session and the keyboardist looks like a down on his luck pawn shop dealer. They’re a cartoon, with kitsch choreographed stage moves and it all seems like a gimmick, except their music, psychedelic Cambodian pop from the 60’s was incredible, They drew upon their last album Venus on Earth (Real World/Planet Company) and in particular their trans global duet Tiger Phone Card went down a treat. It was Kenny and Dolly for the cool kids, though you couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable after noticing a raincoat brigade congregating in front of Chhom.
Whilst we almost missed the media interviews with Seun Kuti we did manage to offer one question. “How does it feel for you standing up there with Egypt 80?” “Well, ” he offered, ” I’ve been playing with them now since I was 8, they’re like an extra hand, part of me. When I play somewhere new and I’m on stage I always think ‘Oh man I pity this crowd because they have no idea what’s about to happen,” we all laughed nervously with the knowledge that he was talking about us. Later I told him that I drove 10 hours to see him. He looked at me incredulously “I flew 22 hours,” he laughed and bumped my fist. When they took to the stage later that night it quickly became apparent that it wasn’t bravado talking. They weren’t taking any prisoners. It was sharper, more aggressive, sexier than the record. Kuti himself was magnetic and in his black and white striped jumpsuit it was impossible not to see his father. Yet he worked hard. He was part of the band, not the leader. He was possessed by the music, writhing around the stage, waving his arms, ducking, weaving and backing away from the spirits Egypt 80 had conjured up. He was in battle. Picking up his sax and blasting away, then stopping with a huge smile on his face involving the crowd, “they have to hear us in Africa,” he proclaimed and the response was thunderous. The band were a cacophony of taut afro funk, noisy rattling relentless. They played much, if not all of Many Things (Cartell), the album that heralded their rebirth. The title track was a particular highlight, with Kuti using the intro to discuss the credit crisis, ‘aka the rich also cry,’ wondering why when people are dying in Sudan or of aids throughout Africa there’s no money, but when rich people are about to go broke suddenly there’s trillions and trillions of dollars on hand. I’m not sure it can get much better than this. It’s an amazing world where you can build up your expectations to near impossible heights and then drive nine and a half hours to have them surpassed.
The next day we needed something a little lighter, and on a hidden away stage we experienced Mayotte born (an island near Madagascar) Mikidache who’s music was gentle soulful and light. There was a warmth and sweetness to his sounds that strangely enough, possibly due to his acoustic guitar, relaxed percussion and smooth uplifting vocals somehow felt like island life We lay amongst mammoth pines and oaks through which small shards of sunlight peeked through, creating a magical atmosphere for Mikidache’s laid-back charm. He had us twinkling our fingers and and waving our arms, taking us through what amounted to a light aerobic workout and a perfect way to loosen up the kinks of the previous two days.
Later we were walking around not sure where to go. We heard a voice we recognised That man again, Seun Kuti being interviewed by Kate Welsman. We sat down transfixed. “Music is not a sport he offered,” when one eager acolyte suggested that he was better than James Brown and John Coltrane and someone else I couldn’t hear, “you can’t compare, you can’t measure, anyway don’t tell me that in public, tell it to me backstage when we’re sharing a joint.” The acolyte shreiked, clearly in heaven. Kuti was intelligent and articulate, though experienced some difficulty in negotiating between joker, politician and the voice of Africa, but that will come in time. He’s definitely someone you can follow. I tell my companion that I love his cool clothes and want to get his tailor’s number. “You think It’s his clothes?” He asks, “last night he was wearing a jumpsuit, you gonna go out and buy that too?” Mmm point taken. Later everyone crowded around him, and the acolyte lurks creepily. Kuti all class dealt with him with kindness and respect.
Finally it was time for our demure lady Rokia Traore from the media session. Except this time she was not alone, joined by a band with real drums and a bass guitarist who looks like he wants to audition for the Who alongside some traditional instrumentation. Her sound was huge, bombastic and she was riveting, sexy, commanding, strutting around stage, flirting with her band, and her voice was simply sublime. It was impossible to reconcile this sex bomb with the fragile acoustic work of the first day or even her most recent album Tchamantche (planet Company) which is just as low key (and has somehow fallen into our hands becoming a permanent fixture during breakfast). This was the show of a superstar, and whilst she didn’t necessarily need the bombast, with the power emanating from her very soul, this was a powerhouse performance and a real unexpected highlight of the festival.
We came to Womadelaide to tap into greatness, to experience just a small part of Fela’s legacy, and left with the knowledge that the torch had been passed down to the next generation. Afrobeat was everywhere, in Seun Kuti’s political activism and Felaesque performance, in Tony Allen’s polished nu jazz breaks, even at times in Rokia Traore’s bombastic power set. Womadelaide was a festival set in a garden, a melting pot of fusions, genres and ideas all futilely packed into two and half days, that despite your best intentions you could never in your wildest dreams manage to consume in it’s entirety. We tried. Unsuccessfully. And we will try again next year and more than likely the year after that.
Bob Baker Fish and Adam Skinner (including pics)
