February 27, 2007
Text and photographs by Andrew Aprile

Andrew Aprile was an intern with Afropop Worldwide during the summer of 2006, and he is now in the midst of a five-month stay in Madagascar.  He is funded by Wesleyan University and the Christopher Brodigan Award, and his work is aimed at helping promote indigenous Malagasy culture.  Andrew began his stay in Antananarivo with Antshow, the arts center created by Hanitra of the roots band Tarika.  Andrew sends this dispatch from Fort Dauphin in the south, where he is presently working with a local arts organization called Afadzy.  Andrew is also making recordings, and we hope to make these available soon as fair trade digital downloads in the Afropop Music Shop.  Here’s his first report from the field.

I thought it would be appropriate, rather than telling a chronological story, to start from where I am right now.  I have the privilege of sitting in a room listening to some good, live music, the kind that makes you want to close your eyes and smile, or even dance.  It is a simple and humble set-up:  a couple of guitars and a few enthusiastic voices, some playing percussion. The music has the air of the singer-songwriter genre, but there is something different. The real privilege lies in the fact that this room is on the other side of the world, in Lanirano, just beyond the city limits of Ft. Dauphin, Madagascar. 

I don’t want to sound like a sentimental idiot, but there are only so many things you can do if the soul of the groove strikes a chord in yours. I am here because I decided to embark on a journey to uncover some of the mystery behind the Malagasy music, accepting that much needs to be left mysterious if it is to be truly felt. Specifically, I have found my way to the southeast of Madagascar because of my intrigue in the ever-versatile triplet, inseparable from the sublime melodies, harmonies, and timbres that often accompany it. 

Southeast Madagascar is comprised mainly of two cultural groups: the Antanosy and the Antandroy. Fort Dauphin (Toalagnaro is its Malagasy name) comfortably straddles both, though it is closer to the Antanosy region. The music in this relatively cosmopolitan town exemplifies the type of acculturation that threatens the roots of many cultures and musics around the world. The reggaeton beat that we have come to know so well over the past few years blasts from most places via capable speakers. When it does not, local music blares. It’s a cross section of Antanosy mangaliba and the Antandroy baniaka (the respectively reigning popular genres of each region), which, though very heavily reliant on drum machines and synthesizers, is distinctly Malagasy. Maybe it’s the way the I-IV-V chord progression (and combinations thereof) made popular by the Christian church gets turned on its head by the three-stringed mandoliny. Maybe it’s the kick drum/high hat, 1-2 punch (literally the first and second beats of the triplet pattern) that makes the songs so irresistibly danceable. Maybe it’s the way the vocalists smile while they sing.  Maybe it’s the sheer campy nature of the VCDs, produced for local consumption. This music certainly intrigues me, and though I have come to find a subtle (if not overt) charm in the Yamaha keyboard, I must admit, without making value judgments on any musical sensibilities, that it is the more traditional sounds that brought me to Madagascar, and to the south in particular.

Tradition is such an ambiguous and difficult term. I was aghast when told early on in my travels that Madagascar lacks traditional music. I know that everyone lives in the present and works from the past, but I couldn’t believe that there would be such a complete deficiency in respect for and perpetuation of a common heritage, especially with sounds as unique as these in the air. Moving with trepidation around the statement, I continued to search out new and original traditions, if such a thing is possible.

It is said that the culture of the south was (and is) much more resistant to French influence, and therefore retains its tradition more than other regions of Madagascar. Maybe that’s why I have been so compelled by Antandroy music.  Not to say that there aren’t Western influences, for they are certainly present. But the roots of a culture must be able to adapt, like the way a species of spider, having been around for a million years, seamlessly attaches its web to electrical wires. There is something outright pure about Antandroy music and the spirit that emanates from it.

I arrived in Antananarivo (Tana, for short) in mid-November. Though I had expected a certain level of smog and poverty in the capital, one can never be ready for it. Needless to say, cultural adjustment took a few weeks, especially considering the lack of structure compared to a lifetime that I had spent almost exclusively in school. My mission: to explore Malagasy roots music and the connection between indigenous instruments and the guitar, lending a hand, where possible, to music programs.  It quickly amazed me that I was able to come in contact with so many incredible musicians. I didn’t experience as much live music as expected, but the handful of marovany (box zither with nine strings on two opposite side) and guitar lessons that I received from two Antandroy musicians were enough to convince me where my ears wanted to be.

Monja is the name of the marovany player. My words cannot pay justice to his music. Despite the intense language barrier (our broken versions of French did not facilitate much verbal exchange), the music he shared will stay with me forever. There was not much pedagogy involved in the lesson. Indeed, much of the time was spent with me attempting to groove on a given riff while he flipped through some magazines. Nevertheless, any amount of money would have been well worth the few minutes I had the privilege of hearing him play, not to mention the reassuring smile he would emit once I actually found my way into the pocket, however fleetingly. I was first referred to Monja by Sean Whittaker, the producer of the brilliant Vakoka project. Since, as of this moment, the CD IntroducingVakoka (World Music Network) contains the only music by Monja available outside Madagascar, I must strongly recommend it.

I met Monja at a Salala concert in Tana that was part of an Alliance Française organized tour. The group sings a capella with three strikingly beautiful voices. When singing, the voices are reminiscent of some South African vocal music I’ve heard, save for some of the distinctive polyrhythms as well as other quirks and distinguishing features. Like the bass: it really hits you when it bellows, then shifts to a percussive cross between grunting and beatboxing. It was at this concert that I realized the natural gift Malagasy people have for music. It wasn’t just the three impeccable voices. Monja’s children who performed, both around ten-years-old, would have been enough to convince me with their profound singing (involving some interesting throat twitching), dancing (fluttering hands accompanied by sharp leg lifts), as well as their mature stage presence. But it was the Malagasy crowd that truly convinced me. When prompted to sing along, the audience contributed, most amazingly, to a sound I can only refer to as ‘perfect harmony’. Not perfect in the meticulous way. Nothing’s perfect. Perfect in the fact that it can be so consonant in a physical and natural way. It’s not the kind of harmony you can break down into thirds or any other intervals; it’s more like one indivisible note.

The other musician I must mention was referred to me by D’Gary. First of all, it is unbelievable that I got to meet D’Gary. He is a guitar god to me as well as most other people I know who know his music. And there is no doubt that the marovany is one of his most inspirational muses. The strings dance. Not just that (excuse the frequent analogies comparing music and ecology), it’s as if some crazy colorful, out-of-this-world bug with a gazillion note/tone/pitch-sensitive legs were dancing to some out-of-this-world music, scampering and scurrying at an ever quick and comforting pace. It’s one guitar, not three. (One marovany, not three.) Then add that perfect harmony, and the all-percussive kasaky (shaker made of a split wooden cylinder with a folded tin can filled with seeds). D’Gary spoke to me of a pure music and the musicians who play it, musicians who derive their craft from their surroundings. He also mentioned tromba, the Malagasy word for trance music, music that possesses the spirit. No wonder.

Then he told me to get into contact with Chrysantho, an up-and-coming guitarist who often plays at the seedy, albeit lively, Glacier, one of the only places to hear live Malagasy dance music in Tana. He is part of a newly formed roots group called Nainiko, whose music we should all look forward to hearing if Chrysantho’s playing is any indication. Chrysantho was gracious enough to invite me to his home for a lesson/musical exchange. Not surprisingly, he showed me a riff conspicuously similar to one I had learned from Monja, but on the guitar. That’s tradition. We grooved for about an hour and then I showed him some of the Yaa Amponsah guitar licks I learned in Ghana. There is something universal about the way a guitarist looks at a fellow guitarist when he or she starts playing something new and awesome. You can’t just listen anymore. You have to know how to get that groove under your fingers.

… A downbeat skirted around and about. You can’t force it; you can never force it. Just coasting along – the kind of repetitive pattern to play all day long. Get lost in it… then find yourself… in the wrong place… exactly where you started. My fingers have it… now. The fact that my head bobs and feet tap consistently one-third ahead of reality matters only a little at this point. We’re both feeling it. But my rational head wants to get it right, like he’s feeling it. At 120 BPM, for mathematical convenience, that third of the beat is a mere one-sixth of a second. A world of difference, though consistency is most appreciated. Stop being so mental. And be patient Andrew, you can’t mathematically concoct it. It has to be in your bones, muscles, joints, heart, and soul – least of all your head. 

All this about Antandroy music and I haven’t even been to Androy yet. I’ll be in Fort Dauphin for the next few weeks (hopefully) helping the NGO Azafady (www.madagascar.co.uk) with their upstart music program. Then it’s off to Androy, where I will sink my ears into the source. A dangerously compelling immersion awaits. I hope I’ll be able to put it in words for a second dispatch. Music out of this world, and yet completely of it.

Sincerely (from the other side of the world,

Andrew Aprile