Tunng with Tinariwen, Koko, London

By Richard Clayton

Published: March 29 2009 16:14

“This is a song about a legendary Touareg freedom fighter who died in a helicopter crash in 1985,” offers Mike Lindsay, rather sheepishly. He’s more accustomed to introducing, say, a melancholy ballad set in Little Chef, the British motorway caff. It’s even odder to hear such a preamble when he bears a passing resemblance to comedian Russell Brand. Yet five tracks into the biggest show of Tunng’s live collaboration with three members of Mali’s desert-rock nomads, Tinariwen, this unexpected and enthralling alliance is starting to make a crazy sort of sense.

It first arose as a session for BBC Radio 3’s Late Junction. That it has grown into a 10-date tour after less than a week’s rehearsing means goodwill flows from the crowd as plentifully as water at an oasis. The Tinariwen trio, in traditional robes and cowl-like scarves, open on their own, Said Ag Ayad tapping out a ruminative rhythm on his djembe (hand drum). Their two tracks are mellow but a tad soporific.

Tunng come on in hoodies, a nice gesture of headwear solidarity. As the English band begin, the Tinariwen singer-guitarists, Eyadou Ag Leche and Abdallah Ag Alhousseyni, hang around as awkwardly as exchange students but, when the latter sings the lead on the lamenting “Mano Dayak”, they all gel. Tunng’s curious folktronica, with its glitchy loops and samples, had soaked up the North African sounds a bit too easily; but their electronic beats, buzzing like a woozy wasp or crunchily mechanical, add layers to Tinariwen’s material.

The evening’s highlight is “Matadjem Yinmixan”, its guitar line sliding like a rusty serpent while Lindsay and Tunng’s other singer, Becky Jacobs, chant Tamashek backing vocals as convincingly as converts. Distinct in their approaches, both bands are one nation under a groove. “Sware”, a track about tea drinking, and “Tiboudar”, about “the joys of going to school”, are counterpointed by lovely English melodies. On “People Folk”, Tinariwen return the favour with their own vocal embellishments.

One could trot out all the clichés about the unifying power of music but people are having too much fun on and off stage to worry about being worthy. “Z’okaay?” asks the French-accented Abdallah (it’s become his catchphrase). Absolument, mon ami.

Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2009