If his compatriot Ali Farka Touré evokes the sun-struck Delta ambiance of John Lee Hooker, Boubacar Traoré’s brand of “African blues” has more in common with Robert Johnson’s fatalistic, dark-side-of-moon sorcery. Like a lone troubadour at the crossroads, his storytelling is veiled in a more complex, occult shade of indigo. His keening voice is at once...
Learn More »If his compatriot Ali Farka Touré evokes the sun-struck Delta ambiance of John Lee Hooker,
Boubacar Traoré’s brand of “African blues” has more in common with Robert Johnson’s fatalistic, dark-side-of-moon sorcery. Like a lone troubadour at the crossroads, his storytelling is veiled in a more complex, occult shade of indigo. His keening voice is at once primal, poignant and sensual, steeped in tragedy but starved for life, and he wields his exquisite, kora-inflected guitar like a talisman against the bitterness of fate. But on
Kongo Magni, Boubacar’s realistic, if pessimistic, view of life and its problems is finally granted a fragile silver lining. Although humanity is stalked by war and famine and daily living is marred by petty jealousies, God is nonetheless in his heaven and beautiful new babies are being born to take up the struggle. Accompanied by an empathetic small combo in which accordion and harmonica swirl around earthily resonant
kamele ngoni (young person’s harp),
balafon (xylophone) and traditional drums, shakers and other percussion, Boubacar is revealed as philosophical, lyrical, resigned, guardedly hopeful and gloriously human.
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