Baaba Maal: Music of Senegal

(1/18/02, Cleveland, OH) The western sun knelt on the horizon like a fiery red magnet, beckoning the metal in our car and tugging us closer by the minute to Cleveland, our blessed destination.  To me, it was reminiscent of an African sunset out there, beaming in the lonely distance.  Between its welcoming warmth and the soothing sound of Baaba Maal's "Yoolelle Maman" filling the car, I felt as if I could forget the surrounding winter land and open my window to an imagined warmth.

Though I would have chosen the soothing reverie, I remained in the Eastern United States, gliding across the brown scenery on salt bleached roads; but through its power, even cold reality could not find the strength to hold back the tide of excitement we felt as we drew closer to our destination. Upon our arrival, we parked the car and entered the Cleveland Museum of Art to eagerly look for our seats.  The auditorium was quaint and softly lit, the stage dotted with an array of acoustic guitars.

I take notice of someone behind us whispering, 'I heard this is his first all acoustic show.'

After hearing this, I looked in the program notes and sure enough it stated, 'for this rare acoustic performance...'

This elevated our excitement.

After a brief video presentation from Palm Pictures, the lights dimmed and Baaba Maal, clothed in shimmering white, made his humble entrance.  He waved to the audience and proceeded to perform his first number, which he played solo.  Lightly strumming his Ovation Guitar, he rang out in his native tongue, the soothing "Yoolelle Maman."  The recorded version I had heard earlier, though fulfilling, could not hold its ground here in the live setting.

The others soon joined him on the stage:  Mansour Seck (on vocals, guitar), Mama Gaye (on guitar), Barou Sall (on hoddu), Kauding Cissoko (on kora), and El Hadji Niang (on bass).  The stage was filled with electricity, which flowed into the audience.  To my disappointment, there were no drums, but the rhythm came through like an ocean squall, strong and unhindered; I looked around and saw that no one could keep perfectly still--young and old tapped their feet and hands, or simply moved their head.

I soon found peace with the absence of drums.

At one point, Baaba Maal and Mansour Seck put down their instruments and danced about the stage.  Baaba Maal's movements were energetic and dramatic, transforming the stage into live theater. The music moved him as it was moving us.  It was as if we were witnessing these men playing for their own enjoyment, beside a quiet fire in their homeland.  Only here, the fire was in them.

My heart seemed to soar above the audience on an invisible platform.  Music had always touched me deeply, but there are rare and beautiful occasions when an artist strikes such a chord that I nearly come to tears.

This was one of those occasions.

Time passed and the final number, "Allah Addu Jam (Prayers For Peace)," continued to carry the rhythm.  By now, the tempo had greatly increased.  Eager participants danced up to the stage and threw money in honor of his cause.  At one point, a fan actually climbed onto the stage and danced for several minutes; Baaba Maal and Mansour Seck, again dancing themselves, simply looked his way and waved appreciatively.

A standing ovation, one encore and an excited departure later, we found ourselves in the car again, heading eastward.  I thought how the sun would be raising in Africa soon--the same sun I had seen earlier, but it was time for others to be warmed by its rays.

As with the sun, I thought, Baaba Maal's music should be shared; to not share such a wonderful thing would be a terrible shame.  These sounds, straight from Africa's musical heart, welcome all to take part in its radiance.

While we faded into the darkness, I quietly thanked Baaba Maal for sharing with me his own personal sunshine--even more so for delivering it to my homeland.

(Shane Meyer is a freelance writer)