Phew. Well, this week was heavy and filled to the brim with bare-knuckled hard work--and the heaviness was only compounded by acute sleep deprivation, a New York heat wave, and a series of communication hiccups that almost derailed the train. But we did manage to stay on the track even if we’ve needed to hard-left to a kind of Plan B.
I’ll do my best to explain:
Famoro and Missia have been invited to perform next week (in the capacity of jeliw) at a wedding that will take place in Indianapolis, Indiana and I’ve been invited to join them.
At around the time that they told me about Indiana, I was reading an article by Kaba and Charry that discusses the history and cultural context for an event (and piece) called Mamaya. Originally involving singing and the instrumental accompaniment of three balaw and one dunun, Mamaya’s creation and development is widely attributed to a single family--and more specifically to one man and three of his sons. Well, it turns out that this man, Sidi Djéli Dioubaté, is none other than Missia’s father(and the sons, Missia’s elder brothers.) (Missia is the last child by her father and he died when she was very young. Her mother died at Missia’s birth.) In the article, the authors make mention of the earliest known recording of a Mamaya performance, a private recording made in 1949 by the American, Arthur S. Alberts. This is one of twelve bala recordings that Alberts made in Kankan in that year but thus far, only one of the twelve has been released on CD (Alberts 1988). The entire collection, though, is available in Indiana University’s Archives of Traditional Music in Bloomington ("the largest university-based ethnographic sound archives in the United States") so we’ve decided to make the trip from Indianapolis to visit the archives and listen to Mamaya (and the other Dioubaté brothers recordings.) It seemed appropriate, thus, to devote this week to the study of Mamaya in anticipation of that event.
But . . . Famoro and Missia have been unexpectedly called to New Hampshire (to continue work on Abou’s CD) and will be leaving me alone for the three days immediately prior to our Indiana departure. This wouldn’t necessarily mean that I can’t work on Mamaya on my own, mediating through video and audio recordings, but in order to do this, Famoro would need to help me clarify a few key questions--and for various reasons (some, related to our communication hiccups), he was unable to do so. My plan B, then is to continue to work on Soli and Fasson, and to leave Mamaya for our return from Indiana. I’m pretty satisfied with this option as I’ll be happy to have the opportunity to do some solitary practicing for a while--and the Bloomington trip will be interesting either way--but I’m sure that with three days devoted exclusively to Mamaya immediately before that trip, I would be better able to appreciate certain subtleties that will more than likely escape me now. But no problem . . . I can adapt. I’ll do what I can with Mamaya using the material I have already, and who knows? . . . maybe one of the Alberts recordings will be a version of Soli that I can sink my teeth into . . .
Monday, June 28, 2010
Fascinating . . . Just Fascinating . . .
The other day, Famoro invited me to the studio where he was going to be doing some arranging work with his good friend, the superlative balafola Abou Sylla. (Abou had recently recorded some base tracks in a studio in New Hampshire, and now wanted Famoro to help him arrange some vocal parts.) After introductions and a bit of settling-in, I spent the first few hours of the afternoon catching up on some transcribing work, while occasionally glancing up to observe the action. It was phenomenal to see the jelilu doing studio-based praising work. They had a long list written out of potential praise recipients and the singer would improvise praise melodies from a short list of patrons that Famoro had fed him just moments earlier. So from the long list, the “head jeli” would select the most appropriate short list and tell the names to the singer at the appropriate times and on a need-to-know basis. Seems obvious that it would be that way now that I think of it, but it was sure fascinating to see it actually happening . . .
Another really interesting part of that day was when Famoro, frustrated with the singer’s slow progress in creating a vocal harmony, motioned to the computer monitors and said to the technician, “I want to see the tonality. Isn’t there some way that you can show me the tonality?” That Famoro wanted to have a visual representation of the music to be able to pinpoint a particular spot and then experiment with a few harmonic options for that spot is just fantastic for me. Many people I know have made informal claims that writing down African musics somehow robs them of their feeling. I think that Famoro’s question to the studio tech is a clear example of how visually representing music can facilitate both its acquisition and its enrichment. (Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that visual music is somehow richer or easier to learn, just that to assert the opposite is equally silly.)
Anyway, after those few hours behind my laptop, I stepped outside to continue my practicing. It was good to have the opportunity to play with a bit more force. In the apartment, I often have to play unnaturally softly. I think the practice I do in the apartment is still effective, but it was nonetheless good to get out and really do some wailing. Later that afternoon both Famoro AND Abou came out to offer guidance. They have very different playing styles and it was helpful to experience a little of what each one brings to the table.
Another really interesting part of that day was when Famoro, frustrated with the singer’s slow progress in creating a vocal harmony, motioned to the computer monitors and said to the technician, “I want to see the tonality. Isn’t there some way that you can show me the tonality?” That Famoro wanted to have a visual representation of the music to be able to pinpoint a particular spot and then experiment with a few harmonic options for that spot is just fantastic for me. Many people I know have made informal claims that writing down African musics somehow robs them of their feeling. I think that Famoro’s question to the studio tech is a clear example of how visually representing music can facilitate both its acquisition and its enrichment. (Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that visual music is somehow richer or easier to learn, just that to assert the opposite is equally silly.)
Anyway, after those few hours behind my laptop, I stepped outside to continue my practicing. It was good to have the opportunity to play with a bit more force. In the apartment, I often have to play unnaturally softly. I think the practice I do in the apartment is still effective, but it was nonetheless good to get out and really do some wailing. Later that afternoon both Famoro AND Abou came out to offer guidance. They have very different playing styles and it was helpful to experience a little of what each one brings to the table.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sylvain's Lessons
I first wrote to Sylvain Leroux in October of 2009. It was through Sylvain (and through Jumbie Records’ Raul Rothblatt) that I first made contact with Famoro. Sylvain, a Quebecois now based in New York, is a highly accomplished player of the Tambin (or Serdu), the traditional flute of the Fulani people of Guinea’s Fouta Djallon highlands. Sylvain is greatly respected in the New York Mande music scene and his Fula Flute is a much decorated (and wonderful!) ensemble of musicans from the US, Canada, Guinea, and Mali. Although he would downplay his accomplishments, as an "outsider" who has learned to play so well, the music of an "other," Sylvain has long been an inspiration to me.
In the last post, I mentioned that one of the events that Famoro had me attend was an outdoor festival where his afro-fusion group, Kakande gave a few performances. Sylvain is also a part of the Kakande project and so, naturally, was at that festival. After the group’s first performance, while some of us were having a bite to eat, I had the chance to talk with Sylvain about his experiences, and to ask if he might have any advice for someone who is at the beginning of his own musical apprenticeship.
One thing that he mentioned that was very encouraging: He only began his pursuit of tambin performance at the age of 38! (He had studied music and was already an excellent flautist in a Western Art context, but at 38, beginning to study the tambin? That’s astounding!)
Beyond this, he offered that while for now, my priority should be on learning to play perfectly and verbatim, the things that Famoro teaches me, I should also spend at least some of my practice time just playing around, improvising, and experimenting.
This confirms both what John Castellano of New York’s The Drummers Collective has suggested: "Leave some time to be creative . . . being creative is an excellent way to end each practice session" and what Famoro is reiterating time and time again: that Guinean music and the bala are ALL about inspiration and improvised expression. When he teaches me patterns, he'll also give examples (without committing me to them) of the myriad (virtually infinite) directions they could be explored.
Sylvain told me that I shouldn’t worry about "finding my own voice" just yet--especially if I really am just beginning. I should practice the things that Famoro teaches (patterns and variations alike) until I can play them without needing to think about them. When I can do that, my voice and the ability to express myself will just come.
In the article cited above, "How To Improve" (a long-time shaper of my own practicing approach), Castellano describes an excellent teacher thus: "Although the teacher has personal experience, he or she has the ability and confidence to allow students to find their own way." But he adds: "You must become your own primary teacher. Be objective about your strengths and weaknesses, and recognize what is required in order to improve. Never depend solely on the advice of others, no matter how much you may admire them."
In the last post, I mentioned that one of the events that Famoro had me attend was an outdoor festival where his afro-fusion group, Kakande gave a few performances. Sylvain is also a part of the Kakande project and so, naturally, was at that festival. After the group’s first performance, while some of us were having a bite to eat, I had the chance to talk with Sylvain about his experiences, and to ask if he might have any advice for someone who is at the beginning of his own musical apprenticeship.
One thing that he mentioned that was very encouraging: He only began his pursuit of tambin performance at the age of 38! (He had studied music and was already an excellent flautist in a Western Art context, but at 38, beginning to study the tambin? That’s astounding!)
Beyond this, he offered that while for now, my priority should be on learning to play perfectly and verbatim, the things that Famoro teaches me, I should also spend at least some of my practice time just playing around, improvising, and experimenting.
This confirms both what John Castellano of New York’s The Drummers Collective has suggested: "Leave some time to be creative . . . being creative is an excellent way to end each practice session" and what Famoro is reiterating time and time again: that Guinean music and the bala are ALL about inspiration and improvised expression. When he teaches me patterns, he'll also give examples (without committing me to them) of the myriad (virtually infinite) directions they could be explored.
Sylvain told me that I shouldn’t worry about "finding my own voice" just yet--especially if I really am just beginning. I should practice the things that Famoro teaches (patterns and variations alike) until I can play them without needing to think about them. When I can do that, my voice and the ability to express myself will just come.
In the article cited above, "How To Improve" (a long-time shaper of my own practicing approach), Castellano describes an excellent teacher thus: "Although the teacher has personal experience, he or she has the ability and confidence to allow students to find their own way." But he adds: "You must become your own primary teacher. Be objective about your strengths and weaknesses, and recognize what is required in order to improve. Never depend solely on the advice of others, no matter how much you may admire them."
Sunday, June 20, 2010
New York: Week 1
I am currently in New York City. I arrived last week to begin studies with Famoro Dioubaté, a bala jeli from near Boke in the coastal region of Guinea. From this moment until the end of my time here (which I hope will be at least two months), this blog will continue to serve its original purpose (the documenting of my developing understanding of how best to learn to play the Mande xylophone), but will additionally serve as a report to my thesis supervisor in fulfillment of the requirements of a performance option course that I’ve undertaken as part of my degree coursework.
First, let me describe the situation here. I'm living right in Famoro's apartment: two bedrooms, a kind of open concept kitchen/ living room, and one bathroom. We are five in the place. Missia Saran Dioubaté (a well-known and very highly-respected jeli muso) shares a room with Famoro. Soba Kanté (also a wonderful singer) and another young man share the other bedroom. I throw down an air mattress and sleep in the living room. We mostly eat together--usually, the meals that Missia prepares in the evening time--and supplement meals with fruit, juice, and tea.
Sleeping and waking times tend to depend on the days' activities. Because I sleep in the living room, my schedule has to revolve around the comings and goings of the members of the household, but usually I manage around eight hours and am almost always the first one up. I use the early morning for transcribing or other writing work and begin practicing by around 9:30, quietly tapping the bala keys with my fingers. When I've seen that everyone is awake, I reach for the mallets. Famoro joins me once he's showered and gone for his morning coffee. If he has nothing else programmed, he'll stay with me for the better part of the afternoon. If he's busy (and heading out), I'll usually stay home to practice but will sometimes accompany him with whatever he's got to do. (So far, we've gone to a studio in Brooklyn where he spent a few hours mixing down some tracks for a new CD that Missia's recorded, to a wedding [where he performed several of the functions typical of a jeli in such a context--including playing the bala], and to an outdoor festival for a performance with his afro-fusion group, Kakande.)
Practicing sessions can never be as concentrated nor as free from distractions as they might be were I on my own, but I’d say I am averaging about four hours daily of hands-on work with the instrument. Taking transcribing and other bala-related activities into consideration, the average would be more like seven hours. The rest of my time is spent helping Famoro with his English language and computing skills, reading articles about Mande music, studying and practicing Maninka/ Bambara, and generally helping around the house.
We spent this whole week working on just one piece: Soli. Famoro has shown me several patterns (usually called "accompaniments" by the Guinean players) which I learn to play individually at first, eventually learning to move from one pattern to the next, partially improvising a transitional phrase of some kind. Once I’ve learned to play the accompaniment, I transcribe it using a combination of my own notation system and Jaliya, the notation and playback application created by Harald Loquenz. Famoro’s suggestion was to change pieces about every week, making selections according to my own needs and interests. I think next week, we will begin to work on Fasson.
In terms of the overarching question of "how one learns to play the Mande bala," I think the most important development has come in the form of a confirmation of the validity of the skills described in the list published in the February, 2010 "A blog?" entry. (Again, for the long-term I have an eye to develop a series of George Lawrence Stone-style exercises for the instrument--something like scales or rudiments which, if practiced daily would facilitate the acquisition of new material and offer the flexibility to explore a broader range of improvised musical expression.) (Note to self: In light of this confirmation, I wonder if a tweak to my notation system might not be to use the double-line square (which currently distinguishes left hand from right) to instead "draw lines" to follow or explore new melodic possibilities. [And RH/ LH could be distinguished some other way--as through capital and lower-case letters, for example.])
This week I was also reminded that for the readiest pattern-recognition, it can be helpful to think in terms of:
(a) There is what your left hand (LH) is doing, there is what your right hand (RH) is doing, AND there is what the two hands do together.
and (b) There are really only four main types of movement:
LH stays, RH moves "away" or "towards" ("in" or "out")
RH stays, LH moves "away" or "towards" ("in" or "out")
Parallel movement R or L
Hands separate/ hands come together
First, let me describe the situation here. I'm living right in Famoro's apartment: two bedrooms, a kind of open concept kitchen/ living room, and one bathroom. We are five in the place. Missia Saran Dioubaté (a well-known and very highly-respected jeli muso) shares a room with Famoro. Soba Kanté (also a wonderful singer) and another young man share the other bedroom. I throw down an air mattress and sleep in the living room. We mostly eat together--usually, the meals that Missia prepares in the evening time--and supplement meals with fruit, juice, and tea.
Sleeping and waking times tend to depend on the days' activities. Because I sleep in the living room, my schedule has to revolve around the comings and goings of the members of the household, but usually I manage around eight hours and am almost always the first one up. I use the early morning for transcribing or other writing work and begin practicing by around 9:30, quietly tapping the bala keys with my fingers. When I've seen that everyone is awake, I reach for the mallets. Famoro joins me once he's showered and gone for his morning coffee. If he has nothing else programmed, he'll stay with me for the better part of the afternoon. If he's busy (and heading out), I'll usually stay home to practice but will sometimes accompany him with whatever he's got to do. (So far, we've gone to a studio in Brooklyn where he spent a few hours mixing down some tracks for a new CD that Missia's recorded, to a wedding [where he performed several of the functions typical of a jeli in such a context--including playing the bala], and to an outdoor festival for a performance with his afro-fusion group, Kakande.)
Practicing sessions can never be as concentrated nor as free from distractions as they might be were I on my own, but I’d say I am averaging about four hours daily of hands-on work with the instrument. Taking transcribing and other bala-related activities into consideration, the average would be more like seven hours. The rest of my time is spent helping Famoro with his English language and computing skills, reading articles about Mande music, studying and practicing Maninka/ Bambara, and generally helping around the house.
We spent this whole week working on just one piece: Soli. Famoro has shown me several patterns (usually called "accompaniments" by the Guinean players) which I learn to play individually at first, eventually learning to move from one pattern to the next, partially improvising a transitional phrase of some kind. Once I’ve learned to play the accompaniment, I transcribe it using a combination of my own notation system and Jaliya, the notation and playback application created by Harald Loquenz. Famoro’s suggestion was to change pieces about every week, making selections according to my own needs and interests. I think next week, we will begin to work on Fasson.
In terms of the overarching question of "how one learns to play the Mande bala," I think the most important development has come in the form of a confirmation of the validity of the skills described in the list published in the February, 2010 "A blog?" entry. (Again, for the long-term I have an eye to develop a series of George Lawrence Stone-style exercises for the instrument--something like scales or rudiments which, if practiced daily would facilitate the acquisition of new material and offer the flexibility to explore a broader range of improvised musical expression.) (Note to self: In light of this confirmation, I wonder if a tweak to my notation system might not be to use the double-line square (which currently distinguishes left hand from right) to instead "draw lines" to follow or explore new melodic possibilities. [And RH/ LH could be distinguished some other way--as through capital and lower-case letters, for example.])
This week I was also reminded that for the readiest pattern-recognition, it can be helpful to think in terms of:
(a) There is what your left hand (LH) is doing, there is what your right hand (RH) is doing, AND there is what the two hands do together.
and (b) There are really only four main types of movement:
LH stays, RH moves "away" or "towards" ("in" or "out")
RH stays, LH moves "away" or "towards" ("in" or "out")
Parallel movement R or L
Hands separate/ hands come together
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