And speaking of dun duns

I have been playing ballet style for a couple of months now and am absolutely grooving on it. I LOVE the dun duns!

So far I know 5 songs:

Sandia Sumali
Dansa
Maraka
Mendiani
Madan

I am playing a set that includes a dununba and a kenkeni and am having a blast with them.

It's Dun Dun

Ok, I am not sure how this happened. I have heard various accounts. But once and for all I want to clarify that the name of the big Malian (and Guinean) bass drums is dun dun. It is pronounced 'doon doon'. It is not djun djun. It is not pronounced june june.

The story I have heard about the origin of this calamity of mispronunciation is that it started with Babatunde Olatunji, who is Nigerian. Somehow he started spelling dun dun with the 'j' because that is how the French spell djembe. (Which IS a 'j' sound, of course.) His mistake has infiltrated drumming circles around the world and has resulted in generations of Americans mispronouncing the name of the drum. The irony is that Babatunde isn't from a country that even has these bass drums.

Another story I heard was that a West African drummer (could it have been Mamady?) kept calling the bass drums djun djuns and when he was asked about it by someone who knew that the drums are called dun duns in West Africa, he laughed and said that he thought that was the American pronunciation of the drum and didn't want to confuse his students.

So, ask a Malian, Guinean, Burkinabe, or Ivorian how to say the name of the drum and they will tell you:

Dun dun.

dundunfola

Finally, after all this time, I asked Sidy to let me work on the dun duns. He has given me his ballet style set to work with and practice on. It is a huge old dununba and a beautifully carved kenkeni that get lashed together and played vertically.

Playing dun duns is a very different experience. The muscles you use are different because you are holding sticks. The role of the duns duns in the ensemble is to keep time and create a bassline melody that holds the rest of the drums together. It isn't easy for me because after 4 1/2 years of trying to follow the dun duns, I now have to stop listening to the other drums and just keep a steady rhythm myself. It is especially a challenge in class when the djembes are wandering all over the place, LOL.

I love these drums, though. I have been practicing every single day. I set the drums up in the corner of my dining room and every time I walk by, I sit down to play for awhile. My house vibrates, LOL.

Mazé's drum

It was love at first sight, really. Against the backdrop of newly painted walls and pristine tile floors, Mazé's drum was showing it's age. An ancient goatskin. Dust-caked green ropes. A few cracks in the base, repaired with wood glue and sawdust. And yet, even among the lovely new drums, this one stood out. It had a gorgeous round bowl and was made of some incredibly dense hardwood that weighed a ton. And when Mazé Kouyaté picked it up to play, the sound was so sweet and full and rich it carried me away.

I couldn't believe my luck when I asked if I could buy it and Mazé said yes. I wrapped it in towels and stuffed it with clothes and carefully fitted it into a duffel bag for the long trip back to the United States.

Within a week the head popped. I was sitting at my desk and suddenly heard the sickening sound of a skin giving way. No matter, I thought. I wanted to put on a cowskin anyway.

So I ordered new rope for it, and wrapped the rope ring in pale green fabric before looping the black alpine rope around it. I began to look for a cowskin, but my teacher said he would get one. Weeks dragged by. Then months.

Then one day, in class, my teacher got a phone call. I could tell something was wrong, but he wouldn't say what it was. He told me to call him when I got home. Half and hour later I called him and heard the devastating news. My sweet friend in Mali was dead. I was grief stricken. I cried for weeks.

And the drum sat.

A year went by. A year filled with busy, change and challenge. New job, growing children, a flood that nearly destroyed my husband's business.

Then finally, one day in class, my teacher handed me the keys to his car and said there was something for me on the back seat. It was the drum. Skinned. Tuned. Beautiful.

This is a djembefola's drum. This is a solo screeching loud bad-ass drum. It is a man's drum, for sure. Big and wide and heavy, with a callous raising cowskin head and rope strong enough to climb mountains with. And it is my drum. And Mazé's drum. And when I play it, I play better than I really am.

Next time I rehead it, I am wrapping the ring in yellow. The color of the shirt Mazé wore the last time I saw him. The color of his last drum. The color of the bright Mali sun.

No where else

I have been mourning my friend Maze a lot lately. It has been a very private, difficult thing.

Because none of my family ever knew him. They never got to meet him or hear him play his drum, or see the gentle beauty of his soul.

The other day I was driving to work listening to my field recordings from Mali. I have one, in particular, that is a recording of Sidy teaching Maze a song he wrote.

There I was, on a beautiful sunny day, listening to this sweet music, which brought me back, instantly, to the courtyard of our house in Mali, with Maze and his gorgeous new drum. I could not hold back the tears.

Maze died in late May, and by June I was working at an incredibly demanding job. And I didn't get to go to any kind of funeral or memorial event. And I didn't get to really talk about it with anyone. And even when I did, it really didn't help. Because there is no help for a loss like this. And really, no one wants to talk about someone else's grief, do they? This is a sadness that I carry alone.

So I write on this blog, which really no one reads. Because I just have to say that

I miss Maze Kouyate.

My life will never be the same for having met him. And it will never be the same for having lost him so suddenly and unexpectedly.

Tu me manques, mon cher.

Finally

My goatskin djembe is done. After fits and starts, it has a new skin and sounds fantastic.

The first replacement sounded like crap because I didn't put it on well. Sidy tried to fix it for me, but the damage was already done. Then, when he was tuning it for me, the new head popped. What a ton of work gone to waste.

The drum sat for a long time until finally, this week, Sidy had time to do another head. This time he did the whole thing, so it is perfect. He brought it over yesterday and finished tightening the vertical ropes while I practiced sumale. I still can't get over how amazing it is to watch him work on a drum. It is a full body experience, squatting on the drum, which is lying on it's side, pulling the ropes with a hunk of hardwood stick. So much physical energy goes into it. I swear I want to build a pulling stand sometime. It would save so much work.

The drum sounds gorgeous. I tell you this shell is just amazing. And this new, thin, skin, is dry and crisp and oh so sweet, even without a full tuning. I am so happy to have it back.

I missed my drum.

Billy Konate

The son of possibly the most famous djembefola of all, is teaching a workshop this weekend and I have been going and dang, I am having fun.

Billy is a great teacher, I think. He gauges the skills of his students very accurately, then pushes you to your limit in the gentlest possible way.

I will happily write up a full report when it is all over, but in the mean time, if you have the opportunity to study with him while he is here (just three short weeks, sigh.) GO!

Oregon next. Then back to Boston.

Whirlwind gig.

Sound Session

Last week, I went to Black Rep for Afro-Sonic. And how 'bout that Sidy Maiga dragging me onstage and inviting me to play?

I had a great time, and some wonderful new blisters to show for my set. (I was playing someone else's drum. Thanks, Mike, for letting me sit in....)

I tell you what. I have gotten over my fear and all I feel when I play is JOY.

Soaked to the skin

My new goatskin is soaking in the kitchen. I love the smell of it. A gentle, slightly oily, animal smell that reminds me of my days on the farm.

This skin is preshaved, so it has the texture of razor stubble. It is very different from the oh so smooth surface of my old skin. Perhaps I will sand it smooth after it dries. Or maybe I will just play it as is.

In any case, no more spots. This was a black goat with a solid color.

I took off my old skin before it tore completely.... I was able to trim it into a circle and it is now hanging on the wall of my office. That skin taught me everything I know about drumming. I hope this new skin takes me to the next level of my journey. I hope I grow to love it as much as the old one.

The shell, by the way, is an object of such beauty in it's naked state. It, too, has a heady fragrance... the remnants of the old goat along with the strong smell of the wood itself. Inside the bowl, it is carved in an intricate spiral pattern that eases the sound down into the base. It is really a piece of art.

Oh my aching head

After 18 wonderful months, my beautiful spotted goatskin is finally coming undone. Today as I pulled it from my bag, I noticed that it has begun to split right at the bearing edge. It is now a matter of time before it pops.

So I am going to rehead this one with goatskin. I am thinking thicker rather than thinner. And it is such a swell drum I know it will still sound fantastic when I am done. I can only hope I get another 18 months out of the new skin.

It has been such a joy to play this goat. I am sad to see her go.