05.07.2024 Miica Balint and photography Jill Bontempo
The pioneers of soul-rectifying desert blues
This is a love letter of sorts, to a band, to a story of rebellion, to a photographer.
After knowing Jill just a week, she took no convincing when I approached her with a vague request. Over a cup we spoke of surfboards, dinged and brand-new, the edgy position with the M word that we shared (Money), jobs we might like to do and where we could find the time. At that time, I was in conversation with Tinariwen’s publicist and an offer had been extended; send through questions to the band, which would be translated and returned. Come to the show, capture photographs of the musicians, write words, enjoy. A job I'd love to do. If you, akin to Jill when this story began, are unaware of this group of Tuareg musicians; know that they buckle my–and a lot of other–knees.
On the back of two shows in New Zealand–the Powerhouse in Tāmaki Makaurau (Auckland), and The Opera House in Te Whanganui-a-Tara (Wellington)--Tinariwen were touring Australia. The Opera House in Eora (Sydney), Kaurna (Adelaide), Walyalup (Fremantle), Meanjin (Brisbane), Naarm (Melbourne), Nipaluna (Hobart). Names Jillian Bontempo–photographer, Miica Balint–plus one–were on the door. What better a way to commemorate a new friendship than sharing three hours in the Sahara?
Let me explain, I thought I had arranged a backstage meeting with the transgenerational blues band of my dreams. Jill knew only what I told her, of course, so she likewise was preparing to meet and capture this six piece band away from a stage guise. This is a band with nine albums that have been receiving global praise since the early eighties. They have truly toured the world, won innumerable awards of the highest acclaim, and often been in exile from their desert home.
This is a band that has supported The Rolling Stones, was instrumental in a decade of the world-renowned Festival au Désert, toured with the Red Hot Chili Peppers, jammed on-stage with Santana, and performed at the opening of the 2010 FIFA World-Cup in Johannesburg. 2010 was the year of Alicia Keys, Shakira, The Black Eyed Peas, and a band that started from a refugee camp in Algeria. With a guitar made from an oil can, a stick, and a bicycle brake wire. Each sharing the same stage.
“The true sounds of freedom and yearning, and the deepest groove on the planet” Flea, Red Hot Chili Peppers.
“To share this stage with Tinariwen is a real joy. When I hear them, I hear the beginning of the music of the Mississippi and of Muddy Waters, Jeff Beck, BB King, Little Walter, Otis Rush, Buddy Guy. This is where it all comes from, they are the originators.” Carlos Santana.
Tinariwen’s tale starts with a ragamuffin child. Ibrahim Ag Alhabib–nicknamed ‘Abaraybone’ for his wandering habits–witnessed his father’s execution at the hands of the government during the 1963 uprising in Mali. Ragamuffin child (Abaraybone) was aged four. His father was a Tuareg rebel. Tuareg, mostly nomadic, have faced many political and religious tensions. From Mali to Algeria, Libya to Niger, Burkina Faso to northern Nigeria, they have rebelled against colonialism, extremist Islam, and an unjust distribution of mining wealth.
What followed for the child was a life in and out of refugee camps. Mused one day by a western film in a makeshift Saharan cinema, Ibrahim replicated the guitar he saw on screen, so he too could strum like the cowboy. Old Tuareg melodies, modern Arabic pop tunes, Malian blues; each practised on a bicyclewiretincanstick instrument.
The year in this story is now 1979. Ragamuffin meets Alhassane Ag Touhami (aka ‘Hassan’), Inteyeden Ag Ableline, and Inteyeden’s brother Liya Ag Ablil (aka ‘Diarra’). Out of a self-made rehearsal studio they wrote and recorded songs, free to anyone who turned up at their door with a blank cassette tape. Through the exchange of cassettes – often dubbed copies, or copies of copies – their songs of homesickness, longing, and exile from their homeland travelled. Nameless, people began to call them Kel Tinariwen; “The People of the Desert”, or “The Desert Boys”. Forty years down the sand-coloured line and they are a blend of veterans and a generation that grew up to their songs. And fuck do they rock.
We loaded my thrashed (but nonetheless loved) 1990 camry wagon with a lot’a kumquats, a little mezcal, camera gear, a thermos of freshly boiled ginger tea, some accommodating layers for the variable weather of early winter, and two longboards for our return journey down the coast. If you remember, I had sent questions to Tinariwen, who speak no–or next to no–english. These questions remained unanswered as we drank one middie of Guinness each (indecent to the Irish, I know). We were in Fortitude Valley, Brisbane. As we walked to the venue, questions still unanswered, we remarked on suspecting massage parlours, and spoke of cityscapes homing wind-tunnels and heat-waves.
Backstage? No, we are touring with a completely closed backstage. Your questions? Yes, sorry we haven’t gotten around to them yet.
We were speaking with Tinariwen’s down-under band manager, a fella who’s accent toes the line closer to American than Australian.
Yes, I lived in the States for ten years. Yes, I’m from here. Do you know Fred Leone? Be sure to listen, he has been touring with us, he’s incredible.
Incredible he was. Fred Leone, a Butchulla songman, storyteller and musician, opened for Tinariwen. Butchulla country lies in the Great Sandy region on the south-east coast of Queensland, Australia. With his didge (kuluru in Garrwa language), a beat pad with recordings from K’gari (Fraser Island), and his playful storytelling, the crowd was in joyful gaw. I recall the beat pad to have sounds of boomerangs (bargan), emu eggs (ngurunj), clapsticks, tree branches rustling, kangaroo skin, and the sifting of sand.
If the crowd wasn’t already entirely rapt by this performace, Fred called upon the earth-rattling Yolngu singer Yirrmal to share a song. I don’t believe I have ever been in the presence of a more impactful voice. I am not one to exaggerate. In that moment, the calamity of what has been done to the traditional people of our land was rife. If you have a chance to see either of these artists, do it.
Drawing parallels to the traditions of his Saharan desert brothers–who, with electric guitars, djembes and poetic choir vocals, retrace similar songlines–Fred welcomed to the stage Tinariwen. I positioned myself by the door to backstage, perusing the composed group of musicians through the sixty centimetre squared window. The photographs my mind had conjured up of each of them–sitting on a velvet lounge and drinking tea backstage–wouldn’t come to fruition. No fret, expectations are dangerous, the show goes on. As the band peeled out, Jill took to her rank.
I had arranged Jill, strapped with three cameras, to be positioned in front of the barricade separating crowd from artist. Tinariwen played directly and intimately to Jill. Myself–sidelined–and the crowd–to the brim– did not exist for our photographer. Her mind wandered the Sahara; she spoke of being a desert princess in a sky crowded with stars, of beautiful Saharan babies and sharing tea.
Euphoria. As I mentioned, I am not one to exaggerate. I did not stop smiling. They danced, swapped instruments, and engaged joyfully with the crowd.
Merci! Merci beaucoup!
Are you happy? Welcome to the Sahara.
Thank you, you’re welcome.
They are touring the album they released last year titled Amatssou, translating to ‘Beyond the Fear’. Listen to it. We did meet two of them, as did anyone who purchased a signed copy of the vinyl. Because, we are no different to anybody else.
As Jill and I returned to our awfully-yellow heritage apartment for the evening, both of our minds imagined taking Tinariwen for a surf the following morning. As I lay on the carpet, jeans off, legs up the wall, heater on high, I emailed the band manager. I expressed gratitude, re-forwarded the questions, and extended an offer.
Jill and I are surfing in the morning near Bris, if that’s something of interest to the team we can teach.
Classic. Us country folk were opportunistic with the heater, and both woke up at the same early-hours-of-the-morning moment, cooking. Band manager and I maintained email correspondence, the questions remained unanswered, and our offer was met with crickets. Our surf checks on the drive home were to no avail, flat. We didn’t get our boards, nor Tinariwen, wet.
To close this story, incase of a someday somehow miracle; the questions.
After knowing Jill just a week, she took no convincing when I approached her with a vague request. Over a cup we spoke of surfboards, dinged and brand-new, the edgy position with the M word that we shared (Money), jobs we might like to do and where we could find the time. At that time, I was in conversation with Tinariwen’s publicist and an offer had been extended; send through questions to the band, which would be translated and returned. Come to the show, capture photographs of the musicians, write words, enjoy. A job I'd love to do. If you, akin to Jill when this story began, are unaware of this group of Tuareg musicians; know that they buckle my–and a lot of other–knees.
On the back of two shows in New Zealand–the Powerhouse in Tāmaki Makaurau (Auckland), and The Opera House in Te Whanganui-a-Tara (Wellington)--Tinariwen were touring Australia. The Opera House in Eora (Sydney), Kaurna (Adelaide), Walyalup (Fremantle), Meanjin (Brisbane), Naarm (Melbourne), Nipaluna (Hobart). Names Jillian Bontempo–photographer, Miica Balint–plus one–were on the door. What better a way to commemorate a new friendship than sharing three hours in the Sahara?
Let me explain, I thought I had arranged a backstage meeting with the transgenerational blues band of my dreams. Jill knew only what I told her, of course, so she likewise was preparing to meet and capture this six piece band away from a stage guise. This is a band with nine albums that have been receiving global praise since the early eighties. They have truly toured the world, won innumerable awards of the highest acclaim, and often been in exile from their desert home.
This is a band that has supported The Rolling Stones, was instrumental in a decade of the world-renowned Festival au Désert, toured with the Red Hot Chili Peppers, jammed on-stage with Santana, and performed at the opening of the 2010 FIFA World-Cup in Johannesburg. 2010 was the year of Alicia Keys, Shakira, The Black Eyed Peas, and a band that started from a refugee camp in Algeria. With a guitar made from an oil can, a stick, and a bicycle brake wire. Each sharing the same stage.
“The true sounds of freedom and yearning, and the deepest groove on the planet” Flea, Red Hot Chili Peppers.
“To share this stage with Tinariwen is a real joy. When I hear them, I hear the beginning of the music of the Mississippi and of Muddy Waters, Jeff Beck, BB King, Little Walter, Otis Rush, Buddy Guy. This is where it all comes from, they are the originators.” Carlos Santana.
Tinariwen’s tale starts with a ragamuffin child. Ibrahim Ag Alhabib–nicknamed ‘Abaraybone’ for his wandering habits–witnessed his father’s execution at the hands of the government during the 1963 uprising in Mali. Ragamuffin child (Abaraybone) was aged four. His father was a Tuareg rebel. Tuareg, mostly nomadic, have faced many political and religious tensions. From Mali to Algeria, Libya to Niger, Burkina Faso to northern Nigeria, they have rebelled against colonialism, extremist Islam, and an unjust distribution of mining wealth.
What followed for the child was a life in and out of refugee camps. Mused one day by a western film in a makeshift Saharan cinema, Ibrahim replicated the guitar he saw on screen, so he too could strum like the cowboy. Old Tuareg melodies, modern Arabic pop tunes, Malian blues; each practised on a bicyclewiretincanstick instrument.
The year in this story is now 1979. Ragamuffin meets Alhassane Ag Touhami (aka ‘Hassan’), Inteyeden Ag Ableline, and Inteyeden’s brother Liya Ag Ablil (aka ‘Diarra’). Out of a self-made rehearsal studio they wrote and recorded songs, free to anyone who turned up at their door with a blank cassette tape. Through the exchange of cassettes – often dubbed copies, or copies of copies – their songs of homesickness, longing, and exile from their homeland travelled. Nameless, people began to call them Kel Tinariwen; “The People of the Desert”, or “The Desert Boys”. Forty years down the sand-coloured line and they are a blend of veterans and a generation that grew up to their songs. And fuck do they rock.
We loaded my thrashed (but nonetheless loved) 1990 camry wagon with a lot’a kumquats, a little mezcal, camera gear, a thermos of freshly boiled ginger tea, some accommodating layers for the variable weather of early winter, and two longboards for our return journey down the coast. If you remember, I had sent questions to Tinariwen, who speak no–or next to no–english. These questions remained unanswered as we drank one middie of Guinness each (indecent to the Irish, I know). We were in Fortitude Valley, Brisbane. As we walked to the venue, questions still unanswered, we remarked on suspecting massage parlours, and spoke of cityscapes homing wind-tunnels and heat-waves.
Backstage? No, we are touring with a completely closed backstage. Your questions? Yes, sorry we haven’t gotten around to them yet.
We were speaking with Tinariwen’s down-under band manager, a fella who’s accent toes the line closer to American than Australian.
Yes, I lived in the States for ten years. Yes, I’m from here. Do you know Fred Leone? Be sure to listen, he has been touring with us, he’s incredible.
Incredible he was. Fred Leone, a Butchulla songman, storyteller and musician, opened for Tinariwen. Butchulla country lies in the Great Sandy region on the south-east coast of Queensland, Australia. With his didge (kuluru in Garrwa language), a beat pad with recordings from K’gari (Fraser Island), and his playful storytelling, the crowd was in joyful gaw. I recall the beat pad to have sounds of boomerangs (bargan), emu eggs (ngurunj), clapsticks, tree branches rustling, kangaroo skin, and the sifting of sand.
If the crowd wasn’t already entirely rapt by this performace, Fred called upon the earth-rattling Yolngu singer Yirrmal to share a song. I don’t believe I have ever been in the presence of a more impactful voice. I am not one to exaggerate. In that moment, the calamity of what has been done to the traditional people of our land was rife. If you have a chance to see either of these artists, do it.
Drawing parallels to the traditions of his Saharan desert brothers–who, with electric guitars, djembes and poetic choir vocals, retrace similar songlines–Fred welcomed to the stage Tinariwen. I positioned myself by the door to backstage, perusing the composed group of musicians through the sixty centimetre squared window. The photographs my mind had conjured up of each of them–sitting on a velvet lounge and drinking tea backstage–wouldn’t come to fruition. No fret, expectations are dangerous, the show goes on. As the band peeled out, Jill took to her rank.
I had arranged Jill, strapped with three cameras, to be positioned in front of the barricade separating crowd from artist. Tinariwen played directly and intimately to Jill. Myself–sidelined–and the crowd–to the brim– did not exist for our photographer. Her mind wandered the Sahara; she spoke of being a desert princess in a sky crowded with stars, of beautiful Saharan babies and sharing tea.
Euphoria. As I mentioned, I am not one to exaggerate. I did not stop smiling. They danced, swapped instruments, and engaged joyfully with the crowd.
Merci! Merci beaucoup!
Are you happy? Welcome to the Sahara.
Thank you, you’re welcome.
They are touring the album they released last year titled Amatssou, translating to ‘Beyond the Fear’. Listen to it. We did meet two of them, as did anyone who purchased a signed copy of the vinyl. Because, we are no different to anybody else.
As Jill and I returned to our awfully-yellow heritage apartment for the evening, both of our minds imagined taking Tinariwen for a surf the following morning. As I lay on the carpet, jeans off, legs up the wall, heater on high, I emailed the band manager. I expressed gratitude, re-forwarded the questions, and extended an offer.
Jill and I are surfing in the morning near Bris, if that’s something of interest to the team we can teach.
Classic. Us country folk were opportunistic with the heater, and both woke up at the same early-hours-of-the-morning moment, cooking. Band manager and I maintained email correspondence, the questions remained unanswered, and our offer was met with crickets. Our surf checks on the drive home were to no avail, flat. We didn’t get our boards, nor Tinariwen, wet.
To close this story, incase of a someday somehow miracle; the questions.
- If you could recommend some of your most listened to bands to an Australian, what would they be?
- What is the last thing you celebrated (as a group or individually)? How did you celebrate?
- What does a dinner for an occasion, from home, taste like? And a celebratory drink?
- What is the first drink of the morning-- other than water (individually)?
- Books that have changed your life?
- Pre-show tradition?
- As a band that has been playing and touring together for a long time, how does this go? Do you have band members that are more organised/ forgetful/ high energy?
- Most impressive live music performance you have seen?
- Who is the loudest in the band? This does not need to be vocally-- clothing, jewellery, sense of humour... and why?
- Do any, or all, of the band members have a story about how they learnt music/ how music came into their life?
- Is there a dance that comes to mind from home that is very popular now, or popular in the past?
References:
I urge you to take a look at this: https://www.tinariwen.com/About
It is a timeline of Tinariwen that spans from the seventies to present day. It is insightful of political and religious contexts in the region, and retraces a damn good story.
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