Pekos/Yoro Diallo
Yaala Yaala is a new imprint on the Drag City label dedicated to releasing unheard world music of the local, non-commercial, do-it-yourself quality. Still in its infancy, the series has produced three records since the beginning of 2007:
Pekos/Yoro Diallo (YY001), va -
Bougoni Yaalali (YY002), and
Daouda Dembele (YY003). Founder and manager Jack Carneal has written the following in his Yaala Yaala
mission statement:
I learned very quickly that there was a huge gulf between what many people out in Bougouni listened to and what was being exported to the West; many local Malians made dismissive sounds with their mouths when I mentioned the above musicians [Oumou Sangare, Ali Farka Toure, Salif Keita, Toumani Diabate, Habib Koite]. Many of the cassette vendors I got to know stared blankly when I asked about certain artists. …
The name Yaala Yaala was taken directly from what many a Bougounian musician would answer when asked “Ca va?” (how’s it going?); “Yaala yaala,” they’d answer. Just wandering. Yaala Yaala Records’ goal is to release this music, in addition to similar music from parts of the world, particularly Mali and West Africa, that you might hear if you were wandering yourself among the cassette stalls in Bougouni, Bamako, Kolondieba, Sikasso, Segou, Fez, Marrakesh, Cairo, Dakar. We’re releasing this music for no other reason than we like it!
Perhaps that last line is part of the problem; much like the Sublime Frequencies label, which releases obscure pop and folk music from neglected areas like Iraq, Sumatra, and Cambodia, Yaala Yaala offers the listener little to no context with which to appreciate these strange and distant sounds packaged for us in nice jewel cases. It betrays an almost childish fascination with the Other; not interpreting, but allowing it to speak for itself in all its strangeness. The records are untitled aside from the performers' names, and the tracks are simply numbered. While unsatisfying to the historicists, the unadorned presentation of this music has its advantages. In some ways, an academic approach would rob this music of its aura, and while I haven't listened to the other releases yet, the
Pekos/Yoro Diallo recording contains some of the rawest and most powerful Malian sounds I've ever heard. According to Carneal's liner notes, the two performers were recorded straight to cassette in the nearby village of Kolondieba; Carneal stumbled upon it by chance while walking through Bougouni's premier tape market. Carneal's tone in relating all of this information to us is a refreshing change from the dry descriptions that normally accompany world music made for export. One gets the sense that the label impresario is as clueless as we are, receiving all of his knowledge secondhand from his trusted cassette vendors. "Abdoulaye was able to tell me..."
As for the music, this is truly fascinating stuff. Pekos and Yoro Diallo stretch out over four lengthy duets, performing on electrified ngonis with others adding minimal percussion. Think Toumani Diabate's albums but much less polished, musically and technically. The two players supposedly rigged mics directly to the insides of their ngonis -- hollowed out gourds -- and connected them to a preamp from which this music was put to tape. Thankfully there aren't many instruments in the mix, because the sound is distorted with hisses, fuzz, and screeches. But unless you're a dedicated audiophile, you'll find yourself overlooking the production values as Pekos and Yoro Diallo duel on their African lutes and trade rough vocal yells; as Carneal remarks, the two are most likely "reciting litanies of names... [like] how great Coulibaly is, Sidibe is, what a strong man Traore is, etc."
Generally, one ngoni takes the place of rhythm guitar, creating a simple vamp off of which the second ngoni can create various harmonies and improvisations, plucking furiously to create an abrupt, staccato effect. One can hear this clearly on track two, as a first lute produces a delicate melody carried along by the second's terse bass line. The clattery, metallic percussion -- sounding like some kind of shekere or cabasa -- causes the music to speed up significantly, to the great joy of the audience. On track three, one of the singers urges on his partner, cajoling him to play cascades of notes, arpeggios and frantic two-chord patterns on the ngoni. The instruments on track four sound out of tune, deliberately or not, and play a bluesy riff that would make John Fahey proud. At times the notes fall like repetitive hammer blows, at others the two relish in making their sounds bend and waver. Sprawling out for twenty minutes, the final selection ends with Pekos' and Yoro Diallo's harsh yelps, the music becoming dirge-like -- perhaps aiming to put the listener into a trance. Just beginning to reach its apex, however, the music ends abruptly, as if the infectious rhythms would continue long after the stereo goes off.