Solo kora from Malian Mamadou Diabate
Asking a WOMAD novitiate such as I to relate my experience is asking the priest what he saw the first time the sacrificial knife plunged into flesh. At kora player Mamadou Diabate’ feet I sat; rain whirling down light and cool, greenery exhaled up from the creek coiling beside to mingle with notes. Our deepest nightmares walk in Africa no other melodies can be sweeter beauty continues despite all, says the kora. To see Mamadou’ socks stitched with the Aussie flag only made this conviction truer; beauty despite all. Some of us might go to Algeria, or Azerbaijan, and see musicians play. But none of us will go to all the countries represented in this festival and see all the performers, or see Mariem Hassan (traditional diva in the Hassania language of Western Sahara) sing four times in four days. Close enough to see the colour of her eyes when she smiled, and hear the enjoyment in ordinary words passed between her friends during performance. Four times was not by design, each was closer until almost at arms length hearing the unamplified timbre of Mariem’ voice, the slip of calluses on guitar strings, seeing the veins in the pale feet of the dancer. Africa, the dust, cold blue nights, ostriches the dun colour of dirt. Without Mariem I’ve lost home.
Mariem Hassan, traditional Saharawi songstress from Western Sahara
The acts were not the only spectacle. It was the streaming of great herds like arteries of humanity, their sub-decipherable lowing surrounding, water dripping from chins at the drinking trough; running through the rain beating into the thin, dust-shackled Australian earth; beautiful girls; folding down into myself stilling everything, whilst only my ears flew, sitting in reverence. The swollen herd, never so large, was calm. The flags snaked, gondwanan pines from the age when Antarctica was warm slightly nodding in a night sky turned mauve with rain. For this was Ravi, the last time. True deities do not disappoint. What a fool I was to think that his age might be an encumbrance; in fact who could have more experience on the stage? Supple and responsive only now, peace, the calm that soothes nations, comes from his bones not just his soul. Ravi. After that what can or should I say? That wandering past the open dressing room tent of the Kathakali dance ensemble I smiled upon the depth of Indian tradition too deep for even echoes and they smiled back. Their drummers resettled parts of my brain like rice settling in the sack.
The Kathakali dance ensemble perform a two-hour portion of the Indian epic Mahabharata
Framed by pines five times my age the Taiwanese dancers of LAFA & Artists Dance Company took stark modern utilitarianism, and turned a table into a platform for beauty, the lines of the scorpion, the curves of moisture laden grass, took the woman vs. man situation that was way too close to true and said, trim your lives of fat and you may find art, or even, solace in art. Uh oh.
4 modern movements from the LAFA & Artists Dance Company
Too much. Twinge of excitement in Kamel el Harrachi’ face to feel his band pushing their skill as musicians to the edge; mini plastic saxophone taking a razorback punch line over the 5/8 time signatures of Unified Gecko’ modern Turkish grooves; the spontaneous takeover of seated space as VulgarGrad took the stage and clouted the air with insolent horns and eastern bloc backstreet humour wiping away a moderate atmosphere with sweat and shimmy and happy stupid grins. All of it, so much more than this, was scrambled rearranged reforged into a rocket fuel slurry of untagged sounds and emotion; much in a similar way that Nortec, Tijuana collective, are a montage of black texmex hats tilting before bloody Mary orange trumpets of braying fire beats like metal grills accordion tuba; fitting final act of WOMAD 2010.
Kamel el Harrachi, Algerian-born singer and oud player
What does the priest hear when he raises the knife? Sounding cult-ish? It is. I’m going back.
Words: Lindley McKay
Pictures: Adam Skinner
