Toubab Krewe are a phenomenon, a band of 5 young guys from Ashville, North Carolina, who play a fusion of rock and traditional West African music, with no vocals, and now command a sizeable following among jam band fans who rarely show up in numbers at Afropop concerts.  Most of these guys have traveled to study music in West Africa, but in January, 2007, for the first time, they went as a group, first to Bamako, and then on to Essakane, outside of Timbuktu, to perform at the Festival in the Desert. 

Toubab Krewe are: Luke Quaranta (percussion), Justin Perkins (kamelengoni, guitar, kora, percussion), Drew Heller (guitar), David Pransky (bass), and Teal Brown (drums).  Jake Frankel accompanied them on the journey, keeping careful notes, and David Suskind served as ambient photographer  Here's an edited version of their text and photo journal.

Asheville to Africa: Traveling with Toubab Krewe to Mali and the Festival au Desert
Text by Jake Frankel
Photos by David Suskind (also Jake Frankel and Dave Morelli)

A couple weeks before Toubab Krewe was scheduled to leave for a trip to Mali, they invited me along.  I had never been to West Africa before, but my interest had piqued over years of friendship with members of the band.  I'd fallen in love with the sounds and stories they'd brought back from previous trips to Mali, Guinea and Ivory Coast of playing music with legends like Lamine Soumano, Vieux Kante, Madou Dembele and Koungbanan Conde. And I'd fallen deeply in love with the music my friends were making as Toubab Krewe, a remarkable fusion of those West African influences with the rock, jazz and hip hop sounds we'd all grown up with. This would be their first full-band trip to West Africa, and was to include a performance at the Festival in the Desert in Essakane, north of Timbuktu. There was no resisting this adventure.  The next few days went by in a blur of last-minute visa arrangements and vaccinations.  With very little success, I tried to learn the basics of French. I got a pocket translation book and a ton of blank video tapes and before I knew it, I was on my way to Mali.

At JFK airport, we ended up at the Royal Air Maroc ticket counter in time to deal with the band's oversize instrument cases' initial rejection. After a bit of negotiation and a disbursement of the band's various pedals and batteries among us, we got the weight below 100 lbs each and the cases were approved.  And off we went.

Welcome to Badalabougou

We arrived in Bamako at 4 a.m., tired and groggy, but in good spirits. Getting out of the plane I was actually struck by how perfectly cool the temperature was. I had expected to encounter an overwhelming wave of heat. Instead, I was happy to have on my sweater.  We filled out our customs forms and wondered outside, where Lamine Soumano, Mamatal Ag Dahmane (one of the organizers of the Festival in the Desert), and Sasha Rubel (a friend from the States living in Mali on a Fulbright Scholarship) welcomed us. Lamine was absolutely thrilled with our arrival, enthusiastically hugging and high-fiving everyone. He organized the spontaneous group of baggage handlers that had overtaken us, and they helped tie our stuff on to the back of a couple bashées (truck-taxis). Our procession followed Lamine on his moto down the cracked cement streets towards the city. 

As we pulled in to Badalabougou (Bambara for "neighborhood near the river") the cement streets turned to dusty orange clay. We were staying on Rue 108 at a couple of American musicians' homes--Rusty Eklund, a percussionist in Lamine's band who also operates an educational center (www.malikan.com) and Paul Chandler. Rusty greeted us at the door and showed us around the house, a simple cinderblock structure divided into a few different sections -- a living room complete with a phone and hi-speed internet access, a bathroom with a broken shower faucet that shot out a single, small stream of cold water, a couple of bedrooms, a space that was being used as a drum-making workshop, and a small kitchen with propane burners.  Most of us spread out mats on the floor of the bigger bedroom and laid around trying to fight off mosquitoes and get some sleep. Drew, Justin and Luke stayed up all night playing music on the porch. It was loud but lovely -- their stream-of-consciousness welcoming in the dawn.

We made our first trip to the neighborhood bar, the Bon Couer (Good Heart) that afternoon and drank a few Grand Castels (beers) under the shade of mango trees in the courtyard, our feet in the orange clay sand as if we were at the beach. Burning Spear and Salif Keita songs were distortedly blasting out of a nearby speaker. It was like the equivalent of hanging out in the courtyard of Hannah Flanagan's, a pub in Asheville that Justin refers to as his "office."

On the walk back we earned the first "toubabou dance" of the trip -- several children came running up doing two-steps, singing "toubabou, toubabou!" with sly smiles.  ("Toubabou" or "toubab" translates as "foreigner" or "white person".)  We came back and Luke was playing djembe for a small dance class across the road at Paul's house. He was joined by Lisa Failla, a friend from the States that would be joining us for the Festival in the Desert, and Petit Adama, a djembe player from Ivory Coast who was playing in the Abidjan style, super-humanely fast and clean, with an urban edge. There were some children loitering outside the gate. I walked by and they wanted hi-fives. The percussion sounds poured out on to the street, down the block.  Already there seemed to be a steady stream of folks wandering by, curious as to who all the toubab musicians were, with many joining in for impromptu jam sessions on the porch. Drew played out on the street for about an hour with Ami, a jelimuso (female griot singer) with a characteristically nasal, yet beautiful, voice. Luke joined in, tapping on the krin, a hollow-log like instrument from Guinea. The sun was setting, bringing a soft glow to the woven-reed seats on the porch and the light green palms over-hanging in the courtyard. 

"Pump up the Jam"

Bamako slows down in the early afternoon, maintaining the proper tradition of most countries with tropical climates across the planet. People doze, sip tea, hang out in lounge chairs in shady spots on the street or retreat inside.  Petit Adama, was giving Luke lessons on djembe, playing the pentatonic balafon across the road. This is a type of wooden xylophone native to the Wassoulou region of southern Mali. Its scale corresponds to the black notes on a piano, giving it a deeply funky sound reminiscent of American blues. Adama, cute as hell with his short dreads, looked like he could be a Jamaican dancehall star, tough but friendly. 

We had our first Bamako dance club experience at Privilege, a spot that tries hard to feel like it's in New York or Paris, with $6 beer prices to match, an astronomical sum by Malian standards. At the door we were greeted by two very large bouncers in suits and ties, and large paintings of topless women, which seemed extremely out of place given the context of Islam that permeates so much of peoples' lives here.  We strolled in and took seats at one of the soft, cushioned booths on a riser between two dance floors. Neon green laser lights beamed along with remixes of Celine Dion songs and an awesome version of "Pump up the Jam," which Drew let me know was the first cassette single he ever bought, in 3rd grade. A few western-dressed men milled around near the pool tables and bar. The female bartenders looked like they had spent most of the day primping, dyeing and straightening their hair. The most beautiful lady in the place was sitting alone. I'm guessing most men were intimidated, either by her looks or her price. Generally, I learned, women don't come to places like this unless they're "working." The dance floor was empty and we took off after a couple beers.  We all met back at the Bon Couer. It was a slow night there, a few dudes hanging around in the inside lounge watching television. A prostitute stood around without much to do. A guy sat in the dark, back corner making extremely strange lion-growling noises at us. We tried to ignore him.

Drew, Justin and Luke played morning music on the porch with Bakary Djan, a drum maker, musician, and all around character, on balafon.  He accompanied Drew and I to the market to buy blankets and head wraps for the Festival in the Desert.  The downtown market reminded me of India, overrun with people, diesel-spewing taxis, kiosks displaying everything imaginable, open sewers, graceful women balancing unimaginably oversized packs of food and water on their heads, groups of men huddled together around tea pots on open-coal stove tops. There was the constant risk of being killed by random motos or taxis, which weaved through pedestrians as if we were cones on a race track. Bakary helped us bargain down the "toubab tax" by getting into unknown screaming matches with merchants in Bambara. At one point, a child tried to run up and steal a bottle of water out of my hand, but mostly the market felt safe, if a little unsettling. The air was so dusty on the ride back to Badalabougou that I could barely make out the Niger below as we crossed the bridge.

Toubab Krewe transformed Paul's living room into a practice space. On the afternoon of the market visit, they played electric together for the first time ever in Africa.  The sounds were loud, echoing and projecting out from the cinderblock walls.  The setting gave them of a garage band feel, raw and distorted. They played "Djarabi" with Lamine on guitar, his trademark riffs sounding like a distorted electric flute, his fingers plucking the strings like each fret is a steel drum.  The band had performed gigs in the States with Lamine, but he was in his element over here, constantly running around taking care of business or playing music, a cigarette usually dangling from his mouth, his gruff voice barking out jokes or musical ideas. 

A Big Night in Bamako

The night began with a stop at the Buffet Hotel de la Gare, an old train station where the Super Rail Band was playing a party organized by Chris Blackwell (the founder of Island Records) and, yes, none other than Jimmy Buffet. They were in town with an entourage on the way to the Festival in the Desert, and had planned a dream night in Bamako.  The Super Rail Band is a Malian institution that started over 30 years ago and has built an international reputation by fusing Manding and Afro-Cuban dance music. In the band's early years, its members included two of West Africa's greatest singers, Salif Keita and Mory Kante. The line-up on this night featured long time lead guitarist Djelimady Tounkara, who riffed off another guitarist and built momentum with cyclical rhythms and distorted leads. The drummer had the bassiest snare sound I've ever heard, hitting it tastefully and hard. A percussionist chimed in with cowbell hits as three singing and dancing front men went to town. Their amps were cranked to overdrive in the customary Malian street style, their incredible range masked in feedback bordering on that of Slash's guitar. 

Jimmy Buffet opened the show in the old train station office, the ticket counter having now been converted to a bar. It was every parrothead's wet dream, a group of 30 or 40 Malians and assorted Americans and Europeans sitting in the tropical heat drinking beer and tequila, singing along with Buffet on "Margaritaville." For the encore, he downed a glass of tequila and strummed Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues," improvising lines about trying to avoid jail time in Bamako.  After his few song set, we all danced around ecstatically to the Rail Band. They played for an hour and a half or so and then we caught taxis to Le Hogan, where Toumani Diabate was about to play with his band, the Symmetric Orchestra.

This band was incredible.  Toumani's kora playing was so confident and full of intention, his soaring solos and clever fills dancing over a kit drummer and an army of various hand-drummers who laid down the deepest pocket imaginable, un-mic'ed on the dance floor as we encircled them.  Toumani traded licks with the percussionists and a series of guitarists who came on stage playing in the Malian, distorted-flute style.  Several singers came on and belted out voices that were almost beyond imagination in intensity, including my favorite, Mamoutou Mangala Camara, a tall, larger than life presence in a top-hat and trench coat whose voice sounded like the closest thing I've ever heard to the voice of the living dead -- outrageously haunting, beautiful sadness.  Then came Jimmy Buffet again.  He goofed around on guitar for a song before singing "No Woman, No Cry" with the band.  He didn't have half the voice of the griots, but the absurdity of Toumani and Buffet collaborating on a Marley tune in Bamako was hyper-classic.

"This is truly surreal, truly some cross-cultural shit," mused Drew as we watched from the patio.  The cross-cultural fusion continued throughout the next song, as a local rapper took the mic and tore it up, complete with MTV quality mic-gripping and hand gestures. The rest of the night erupted into a full-on dance party, with us, the Blackwell crew and all sorts of locals getting down. Our friend Lisa ripped through the dance moves she'd been learning at classes the last few days with Luke and Adama. And at one point Dave actually had Jimmy Buffet mirroring his chicken-claw moves, both with big goofy grins on their faces.  

The stage became a revolving door for Bamako's best griot players.  Barou Diallo, Ali Farka Toure's old bassist, turned over a right-hander's bass and went at it lefty (apparently it's common here for left handed musicians to play stringed instruments upside down) and Adama Tounkara (Djelimady's cousin) plucked funky, elastic ngoni lines.  Lamine walked around the bar like he owned the place, chatting and laughing with his musician friends, obviously well known and respected among them. The show ended with Toumani inviting Lamine and Toubab Krewe to the stage, where they made their West African debut with an extended version of "Bamana Niya" to the delight of everyone in attendance.  Toumani smiled as his singers passed around the mic and freestyled, and a dancer incorporating western breakdancing moves took over the floor.

With Barou's help, we ended up next at Oumou Sangare's Hotel Wassulu sometime after 2 a.m. Oumou was there on the outside patio presiding over her band as the ubiquitous Blackwell/Buffet crew danced along with her friends and invited guests.  We joined the party, all of us circling around her like it was a freestyle hip hop cypher, which it kind of was. Oumou would sing a verse and hand off the mic to anyone who wanted it.  Safi, our friend from Badalabougou took it and started praise singing Oumou and it looked like Oumou was so touched by her words that she almost cried. Buffet took his turn, as did our neighbor Ssasi, a reggae singer who had been regularly joining us for jams on the porch (often accompanied by a dog that he had taught to sing/bark along as he played flute). Then a guy who I was told was the Malian Justice Minister, dressed in Outkast-type retro-gangster attire, took a break from grinding to rip what was the best sounding Bambara rap I'd ever heard. Barou jumped up on upside-down bass and Luke took over djembe duties. Ssasi's Ghanaian friend sang in English about how beautiful the moment was, people from across cultures dancing and singing and loving life together, and it all rang true. 

When Oumou finally took a seat at the table, we were all exhausted. She had someone send over snacks -- baguette and goat cheese, and we all chatted. She was interested in Toubab Krewe. Luke gave her a CD and in what Drew would later say was one of the most surreal moments of his life, she insisted everyone sign it. They told her the band didn't have a singer and she offered her services sometime down the line...

Ssasi gave us all a ride home in the Ssasi -mobile, a beat-up old Toyota van, West African reggae blaring as he sipped on a beer and grinded the gears beyond anything possible in Western imagination. 

Festival au Desert:
Bamako  > Timbuktu > Essakane

I was awakened by the sounds of distorted, heavy metal flute soloing. At first I thought it was guitar, possibly the dude from Slayer. It turned out to be an overdriven Tuareg flute. It seems that no matter what the instrument or culture here, they're going for the same sound: distorted flute.   I got up and made my way to the faucet a couple sand dunes away. I splashed my face and put my head under the cool water, a precious respite from the devastating sun overhead.  I keep going back and forth with amazement at how harsh and yet considering our remoteness, how nice our set-up is here. In the middle of the Sahara Desert, I can simply wander across the sand a few minutes and turn a faucet and cool water comes out easily. On the other hand, it's not safe to drink. The truck full of drinking water was stopped by bandits en route to the festival, 80 cases were stolen, and now there is a limited amount on the grounds. Instead of the several cases our party was supposed to have received yesterday, we got one 1.5 liter bottle. Luckily we trucked in a few cases ourselves. And if we really need more we can probably buy some from the bandits, who have set up a few booths re-selling the cases of water they stole.

The journey to get here started with a 3 a.m. ride in Ssasi 's van and a two-hour wait in the Bamako airport. There was absolutely no security. No one checked or X-rayed our carry-on luggage. The stuff we checked went on a conveyor belt into a small room through an X-ray machine while the attendant dozed off (I can hear Sean Paul being played on a boombox across the dunes right now). Someone handed us construction paper tickets and we walked onto the runaway. The Senegal Air plane was a relic from another dimension--propellers, peeling blue paint and bubble windows that gave the impression that we were boarding a submarine.  The sun was rising over the Sahara as we landed at Timbuktu International Airport, which was not much bigger than the size of my apartment.  A jeep was outside for us. We strapped most of the instruments and bags to the roof and all eight of us squeezed into the 4x4. We stopped to fix the spare tire and walked around the dusty downtown.

We headed towards the market, where we encountered a line of young teenagers carrying entire lamb carcasses on their heads, and several craftspeople selling handmade jewelry. An old man tried to sell me the most beautiful sword I'd ever seen. It broke into three parts and included two daggers, all beautiful hand-sculpted silver, wood and camel skin. It occurred to me that only a few years ago locals were actually using these weapons to fight the Malian government for independence. He wanted $100. It was worth every penny, but I passed, hoping I wouldn't ever need it.

We pulled out of town on an orange clay highway for a few miles before being stopped at a series of roadblocks, probably remnants from the civil war.  We sat at each one for what seemed like an eternity as our driver got hassled. He said they were giving him a hard time for the jeep being overcrowded, unlikely considering how locals usually roll. Chances are better that he didn't have a license.  At some point he cut off the tire tracks all together and we were bumping through the dunes and sagebrush, our tires spinning out as we crashed up and down in our seats.  It felt similar to riding in a speed boat in the ocean, our gear and heads rattling with every crease in the sand as if they were choppy waves.  The first couple times we got stuck, it was no problem getting out.  Our driver took the long metal rails off the roof rack and set them under the two back tires to give them traction. The third time however, was serious. The 4-wheel drive  didn't work and our back tires were buried in a dune. We would dig them out, put the rails underneath, and the tires would just spin themselves further in. We somehow even lost one of the rails to the sand. 

After a while of this, local kids ran over from unknown desert huts and giggled at us. I'm sure we were a strange sight--completely disoriented foreigners in hastily wrapped Tuareg turbans and blue jeans. We goofed around with them and gave them some water and power bars, which they immediately chewed up and spat out in disgust. Eventually another jeep of folks drove by in the distance and they came over to help us. Unsuccessful, they basically left us for dead. In the end, on the brink of panic mode, Dave used some kind of ninja-bounce maneuver he had learned snowmobiling in Vermont and we were free.  It wasn't too much longer before we reached the festival grounds -- what at first seemed like a chaotic jumble of jeeps, camels and camel-skin tents pitched on glowing-white sand dunes. People told us various directions to go to check-in, and our driver drove around in a circle before the jeep got stuck in another sandpit. We got out and we were there. 

Day 1

It took most of the first day to figure out what was going on. Our jeep was stuck on one of the site's main pathways. Our driver promptly got out and walked off to who knows where. I got designated to stay and keep an eye on our stuff while the rest of our group wandered around and tried to make sense out of all the chaos surrounding us.  A hundred or so Tuaregs had assembled just down the hill on elaborately decked out camels and were parading around the grounds as people milled about in various tents and sand structures that we later found out were "restaurants." I took a seat under a tree near the jeep and tried not to die. It was probably around 2 or 3 p.m. and the sun felt like it could suck the life out of me at any second.  Teal eventually came back to the tree bearing a plate of couscous and sauce with goat meat. It was oily and sandy and good. I was starving after the early flight and drive. The rest of the crew had been eating and lounging in the "VIP" tent, a large carpeted tent with pillows--nothing luxurious, but a welcome respite from the sun. 

David Suskind (a friend and photographer traveling with us) took over guard duty and Luke and I went to find "artist check-in," an unmarked tent with a few British and French volunteers hanging around. Elizabeth, a British girl who was assigned as our artist liaison, took us to some random tents and told us that our passes and water weren't there yet. On the way back to the jeep, Dave saw us and said he'd found our "real" tents, complete with Toubab Krewe labels. These turned out to be better, a little bigger, next to the VIP tent with all the other artists. We went back to the still-stuck jeep, grabbed our stuff and walked it over. Trekking through the sand was a lot like trudging through snow, hard on the ankles and calves. Luckily our friend Sasha had driven up from Bamako and parked her jeep next to our tent, so we had a safe place to put the instruments.

A couple days earlier in Bamako, Sasha had introduced Dave and Luke to Michael Kang and Jason Hann from the String Cheese Incident. They were traveling with Chris Berry, who we'd all met a while back at the High Sierra Festival in California. Chris lived in Zimbabwe for several years, where he studied mbira (thumb piano) with Monderek Muchena, among others, and has hd great success on his own. Now based back in the States, he's been focusing on his band Panjea, a group that encompasses a revolving cast of musicians in a wide variety of locations. Michael and Jason are recent members, increasingly occupied with side projects now that the String Cheese Incident has announced its break-up later this year. The group needed a bassist for the festival date and Dave was happy to oblige.  They rehearsed a little in their tent while the rest of us took naps and were one of the first acts on the main stage that evening.

The new group's sound lay somewhere between SCI and Chris's more traditional work--Zimbabwe met jam and the crowd loved it.  By the end of their 45 minute set, the local Tuaregs were dancing with abandon. Berry's singing reminded me of Sting, enough hoarseness to give him a sense of vulnerability. He was charismatic as hell, dancing around as he plucked the mbira. Kang added his high-end electric mandolin licks and Dave fit in perfectly, holding it down and feeding off Chris's dance moves and energy.  Next was Malian star Adama Yalomba, a singer and kamelengoni and dan (a rare West African harp) player from southern Mali. His set was fairly straight-ahead Wassoulou --pentatonic, polyrhythmic funk. He also got the crowd on its feet at the end with a dance song that had the same feel as Toubab Krewe's "Lamine's Song."  Le Tigre featuring Mahamane Diabate and Ahmed Fofana then came on and mixed trumpet, sax, balafon, guitar and percussion for a laid back jazz/Mali fusion. A highlight came when they jammed on Medeski Martin & Wood's "Bubble House." Lamine, Drew and I lounged around in the dunes by some coal lamps and enjoyed the cool air and unbelievably clear view of the stars. I felt like a child, everything shrouded in mystery and magic as we settled in for the weekend. 

It didn't matter that the officially scheduled program was already in shambles. The sets were running a few hours late, bands were playing out of order, or in the case of Habib Koite, who was scheduled to headline the night, not at all. Rumor was that he had refused to get on the festival chartered plane.  Keddou Ag Ossad and his Tuareg rock group Terakaft ("The Caravan") took Habib's spot, and the locals stood in enthusiastic approval. Keddou sometimes plays with Tinariwen, and this group was basically an offshoot of that better known band. They had a similar style, although a little mellower--sparse, reverb and grit heavy desert blues.

I had no idea what time it was when we went to sleep or got up the next morning. The mattresses we were supposed to have gotten hadn't arrived, and most of our group had crashed out directly on the sand. I stole a carpet from the VIP tent in the middle of the night and laid it below me. Suskind and I were the only ones lucky enough to have brought sleeping bags (or head lamps). 

Day 2

It was a windy morning and I woke up with sand penetrating every aspect of my being -- a thick layer lined my sleeping bag, scalp, ears and toes. My eye boogers reached previously unknown levels, and much of the weekend was spent with big black dots obscuring my vision. I got up with the feeling that I was being punished. The thought of leaving the camel-skin shade was overwhelming, the brutality of staying in the sand pit I'd slept in the same. I milled around with the rest of the guys confused and hurting, wondering what to do with ourselves, trying to stay positive.

We were saved by the sounds coming from next door. Bassekou Kouyate and his crew of ngoni masters were camped directly beside us, playing the perfect sounds for the moment--a hint of struggle, but driving and hopeful and festive. The gentle plucking of the strings and pounding of the calabash brought us back to life. Drew and Luke joined them in the tent, guitar and krin in-hand, and a few of us watched from the doorway.  All around us, tents were coming alive with music. Some of the guys from Tinariwen were rocking battery-powered amp-driven guitar tunes a couple dunes away behind their compound. More traditional Tuareg songs and chants were drifting over from near the market. Luke was losing his mind over Bassekou, declaring the impromptu sounds were some of the best music he'd ever heard. Justin and I ate more oily rice and sauce, headed to the bar tent, and all was well.  The main event that night was a homage to the late Ali Farka Toure, and the stage served as a revolving door for some of Mali's greatest musicians to pay tribute.

Baba Salah was a highlight, taking full command with Hendrix licks and tricks--playing with his teeth, behind his back and over his head. The crowd went crazy, and Drew pointed out a Tuareg teen near us screaming, fists raised triumphantly, "Salah is the champion!"  His brief performance earned him the festival-buzz award--the rest of the weekend I heard locals and Europeans alike declaring him their favorite act.  Oumou Sangare came out and sang a beautiful version of "Bani" with the house band, led by Barou on a bright red bass, before attempting a solo piece.  Her voice soared for a couple minutes before tears overwhelmed her and she left the stage.  Legendary Nonesuch/World Circuit producer Nick Gold, who had worked with Ali many times, then came out and gave a short, touching speech about what an honor it was to be friends and collaborators with him over the years.  Toumani Diabate came on stage accompanied by Barou on guitar. They did a beautiful acoustic version of "Kala," a highlight of Heart of the Moon, Toumani's wonderful 2005 collaboration with Ali. 

Then Toumani was gone. The fact that Toumani and Oumou made the trek this far for such short performances was a testament to the respect and love that Ali commanded, but it was also slightly disappointing. I would have loved to see them play more.  Instead, they showed a documentary video on Ali's life on a large screen set up on the side of the stage. It was O.K., but it skipped and then stopped all together about half way through. They then started playing clips from the 2003 Festival in the Desert documentary, which was bizarre. Much of the video was of Oumou. So instead of watching her perform live, in the moment, we were watching her on screen from a show three years ago. Thankfully, that video also skipped and froze a little while into it, making way for Afel Bocoum to take control.

Ali's top-hat and shade sporting "cousin" and long time collaborator found a deep pocket that immediately got people dancing, including two midgets who had taken the stage. (apparently midgets are seen here as "special people," and regularly honor special events and concerts with their presence. I couldn't have thought-up a more entertaining addition to the show). Afel channeled the spirits, his blues licks bringing fourth Ali and John Lee Hooker. He closed the night out, and an MC announced the next night's performers, including the "Toubabou Krow."

Day 3

I went on a walk towards the market today and came across a Tuareg guy dancing to a few drummers with long streams of condoms dangling from his hands. He waved them in surprisingly graceful movements, the sun sparkling off the silver packaging and reflecting up from the sand. At some point he started opening them and blowing them up like balloons.  As I started walking back to the tent I saw a guy talking on his cell phone while riding a camel. And then an unbelievably cute little kid came up to me with a camel on a leash like a dog. He offered to let me ride it around for $1000 CFA, about $2. I hopped aboard and galloped triumphantly, if a little awkwardly, (truthfully it was terrifying--I thought I might fall at any second. The saddle seemed like it was leaning too far forward and was going to dump me out on its neck. Camels are generally mean. They spit and make scary grunting noises) back to the tent where the band was gathering to get their instruments together. I got a round of applause as I disembarked. We headed over to the stage...

One of the first acts on an amazing final night of music, Toubab Krewe tore it up. They opened with "Roy Forrester," an original composition featuring dueling percussion breaks and shredding kamel ngoni lines. I was filming the set from the side of the stage, and I could make out heads starting to bop around in the audience from behind the viewfinder. Many of the festival's other performers joined me on the stage to check it out. 

Lamine joined the band for "Maliba." He was in rare form, completely rocking the shit out of his electro-flute-steele-drum-itar, looking back at Teal with faces of pain and ecstasy. This continued throughout "Bamana Niya," the slow build eliciting cheers and fist-pumping at its distorted peak. They closed the 45 minute set with "Buncombe to Badala," fusing surf and slide guitar driven southern rock. It was one of the hardest songs of the weekend, and the crowd roared in approval.  Mamatal, the festival promoter who brought the band over, called Drew over after the set to literally pull his shirt up and show him his goose bumps. Bassekou told Luke it was one of the best shows of the weekend. Lamine said his peers showered the band with compliments, and he was proud. Afterwards, it was the response of the festival's other musicians that seemed to matter the most to the members of the band. They were genuinely touched and honored to be regarded as peers by so many of their idols and influences.

Bassekou started his official festival performance playing back up for New York jazz-folkie Leni Stern.  She sang a good hearted praise song to Bassekou before leaving the stage to him and his band of ngoni dynamos. They played with the grace of the ancient griots, singing the praises of the ancestors and kings.  Local heroes Tinariwen then took control of the late night festivities, playing some of the best music I've ever heard in my life, hands down. Their tasteful licks and deep moans manifested the struggle, hardship and beauty of the far north country, the songs steeped in their experiences as fighters in the civil war. The slightly muted guitar chords called forth the dusty winds, the simple bass lines and percussion the slow determination of the camel, the leads probably the most deeply funky guitar ever played. Straight-up gangster sword fighters danced around the stage the whole time, and all around me folks raised fists and nodded heads in righteous approval. 

It was probably 3 a.m. by the time Habib Koite took the stage, replacing scheduled headliner Salif Keita and making up for his cancelled Thursday performance. I fought off the fatigue of the weekend with unprecedented shot glasses of highly concentrated gun-powder green tea. Vendors walked around all weekend with pots and shot glasses of the sugary stew, the equivalent of the elixir of life. There's no telling how many lips shared in the same glasses I drank from. It was the U.S. equivalent of drinking out of a beer mug being passed around among everyone at Yankee Stadium. But over the weekend the benefits seemed to far outweigh any viral risks. My tea dealer this night was dancing around in a clown costume, passing around tea like a character from a Dr. Seuss book.  The crowd had thinned by this point, leaving only the partyers and diehards. Many of the Tuareg merchants and families lay asleep by the fading heat of the coal lamps on the dunes in back of the crowd. Those of us still awake were dancing victoriously.

Habib's stage presence was captivating, his unorthodox-by-any-tradition command of his custom acoustic-electric astounding. He channeled the charisma of his years of international touring into a concentrated phenomenon in the desert, fusing Bambara blues and Wassoulou rhythms with jazz. His percussionist and talking drum player Mahamadou Kone was a force of nature, probably one of the best talking drum players on the planet. Balafone maestro Kélétigui Diabaté playfully tapped along, and occasionally switched to fiddle.  A spontaneous B-boy session broke out near us among Tuareg teens, and Dave and Luke quickly joined the fray. Dave danced like a man possessed by the ancestors, while at the same time maintaining his goofy American intuitive movements, to the delight of the teenage onlookers. We wore ourselves out, stumbling to the tents just in time to get our stuff together for the 5 a.m. jeep ride through the desert back to Timbuktu...