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The Beauty Part
A giant died in his sleep last week. In his native Mali, there are tears for the guitarist who took his country's music and blended it with the American blues of the Deep South to produce CDs of piercing originality and astonishing beauty.
He called himself a farmer. He wasn't kidding. His neighbors elected him mayor. He spent his music royalties to dredge the river and irrigate the fields; when pressed, he recorded in a slapped-together studio powered by a portable generator. His 40-acre farm, his 11 children, and his community came first. "If I eat, they eat," he said. "What I drink, they drink. What I wear, they wear. And I live with the river all the time."
You can hear the river and the soil in his music, which is at once robust and delicate and, CD after CD, proof that he was one of the greatest guitarists on the planet. I mean, of course, Ali Farka Toure.
He called himself a farmer. He wasn't kidding. His neighbors elected him mayor. He spent his music royalties to dredge the river and irrigate the fields; when pressed, he recorded in a slapped-together studio powered by a portable generator. His 40-acre farm, his 11 children, and his community came first. "If I eat, they eat," he said. "What I drink, they drink. What I wear, they wear. And I live with the river all the time."
You can hear the river and the soil in his music, which is at once robust and delicate and, CD after CD, proof that he was one of the greatest guitarists on the planet. I mean, of course, Ali Farka Toure.
