On that day, the deadline was breathing down my neck. While deadlines bring results, they don't have a favourable effect on creativity. Inventiveness requires a relaxed, idle mindset and ample time to mess around, fail, and discover. In my head, the plan was clear: the piece to be composed should contain nimbly flowing musical thoughts in an arhythmic, semi-improvisational stream – in other words, it should represent a daring leap towards a style I had never used on stage before.
Walking over to my balafon, I checked that all ten cables were correctly connected, scanned quickly through the microphones to ensure that none of them had visibly moved, switched on the computer, channel splitter and audio interface, and buckled down to work. Warming up took more time than usual.
M (me) : I know. But please be patient, and let me try for a little longer. Please.
Muffling all doubts, I continued experimenting, re-adjusting and fine-tuning the live audio effects filling my headphones. Brow in a frown, I struggled to find a way for the basic idea, my hands and sonic outcome to somehow collaborate.
M: No. I mean, I do remember him, but not his name.
He was not anyone I knew, merely a passing-by member of a local musician family. Kouyate… Or Diabate? A solid jali2 surname anyway, as solid as his instrumental virtuosity. We only met that one time. The wedding party where I was supposed to play had been delayed, so together with a few other musicians we waited, on a dusty alley by the party courtyard, killing time in an impromptu jam session. The soft-eyed balafola joined in, and we had a short but intense musical dialogue with two balafons. When we felt the time was ripe, we agreed on a mutual exclamation mark, leaned back and laughed.
He tilted his head and gazed at me as if trying to read my mind, seemingly puzzled.
B + M: "You are never alone when you play the balafon!"
Sometimes the shortest moments leave the longest-lasting memories. The problem is that you may not recognise their value instantly, as you can’t foresee how they end up carving permanent runes in your mind. His sincerity was evident: he clearly confided in me, trusting I would be worthy of the secret and that I would understand. His Wolof was way worse than mine, English and French nearly as scarce as my Mandinka, so he had to use his hands to fill in gaps in our shared vocabulary. Still, he was able to make his point very clear. It was not the physical world he was referring to, with barefoot children sitting on the fence giggling, but the intangible dimension one may sometimes feel but never see. The spiritual, some say the magical aspect of life.
M: He was talking about his ancestors, wasn’t he? Those past generations of balafon jalis, his very bloodline. The pride and joy of keeping the family tradition alive fills his music with meaning, messages, memories, and stories from times gone by. His music.
B: Well, yes. That may well be so. But if he meant his ancestors only, then why would he pose the question to you the way he did? You’re not a jalimuso3 . Some may call you that as a compliment, but you’ll always be an outsider. A toubab4 .
M: What are you saying? That the spirits enriching your melodies have nothing to do with bloodline and upbringing? When I carried you here, were they hiding inside the bag as well? That doesn’t make any sense! Why would they bother to come here? Finland, of all places! We’re too far from your birth region. The culture here is completely different, and the music speaks another language.
To emphasise my words, I geared up into a conversation-halting crescendo. From there, I plunged into a capriciously meandering solo, attempting to introduce new ways of expression into my playing instead of always falling back to that back-pocket toolkit of safe escapes that every performing musician develops over time. For a good while, my concentration was intense, completely free of words, self-doubts, and calculated, burdensome aims. Then, as my zeal gradually withered, thoughts began resurfacing.
B: Don’t you think he could have meant your dedication, passion, and respect for the tradition? It is plain for anyone to see that you have devoted years of your life to this art, studying and practising. You’re no exoticism-seeking, cream–cropping tourist. Wouldn’t such an attitude validate you as a rightful balafola despite your non-native origin?
M: But on that day, we were playing acoustically, in a traditional style. Now look at yourself! I’ve plugged you into all these machines, toying with live audio effects until your in-built voice gets completely distorted. No wonder you keep complaining! You’re an instrument loaded with tradition, each key practically oozing sociocultural significance. Am I trespassing in a private zone here, overstepping the appropriate limits for an outsider? Wouldn’t my maverick experimentation have all such ancient spirits fleeing with horror and distaste – that is, if they even exist, given that you’re nothing but chunks of wood and a few odd pumpkin gourds?
A heavy silence fell. Silence implies consent, doesn’t it, so I took it as a sign that I had won the debate. Not feeling triumphant, though.
1) Balafola = Balafon player in Mandinka
2) Jali = Member of a musician family, a caste in the ancient Mande social hierarchy
3) Jalimuso = A jali woman
4) Toubab, also written tubaab, tubap etc. = A non-offensive name for the foreigners in West-Africa
