Madagascar may lack a Starbucks. But there’s one thing it has no shortage of: incredible musicians. I encountered the latest example on Saturday night. We were downtown at a trendy place called No Comment. So trendy that when Monique tried to order a beer with a side mixer of “limonade” (think of a sickly-sweet Sprite with chemical overtones) she was told, no, but she could order a pre-mixed cocktail called a Panache, essentially the same thing but four times more expensive.

We were there to hear Teta. He was once, and possibly still is, a candidate to fill the acoustic guitar chair in our band. But wait, there’s more.

His older brother Tsihaky was Monique’s guitarist back in the day. Until, that is, the night in a hotel room in Fort Dauphin on the southern tip of the island, when in hopeless unrequited love he tied Monique to a chair and then drew a knife with every intention of slitting her throat. The rest of the group was sound asleep in their rooms. It was sheer chance, Monique says, that one of them happened to be awake, heard her screams, came running into the room and fought off her assailant.

A murderous wingnut Tsihaky may have been (he died a while ago). But he was also the originator of the guitar style, adapted from the traditional marovany, that put Madagascar on the world music map. Most notably as practiced by D'Gary, but also by Monique’s brother, Dozzy, a brilliant guitarist, the founder of Njava and unfortunately a sociopath. 

To give the man his due I’m here because of him. In 1999 I got a call from his then girlfriend, a Norwegian. To this day I don’t know how she got my number. But she needed a copywriter to produce a website text about Njava’s first album, Vetse, which was about to be released on EMI. Not knowing the least thing about Madagascar or its music I went over to their apartment. Listening to an advance copy of the CD I was totally blown away, not least of all by the singer. They liked my webtext so much they hired me to write the album liner notes. The rest is history.

* * *

Teta was great. Listening to him play it sure sounded like Dozzy, but with blues licks thrown in. (Click “Ecouter” and “Renitra”.) But the real discovery was his drummer, Ndriana. He was the polar opposite of Jimmy, our show-off power drummer. A little guy (expressed in his nickname “Kely”) and unprepossessing, Ndriana looked like he was moonlighting from his day job at Radio Shack. His kit consisted of a big bass drum, a very loose shallow snare, a hi-hat and one ride cymbal with a chunk missing.  He began really softly, almost inaudibly, which needless to say is very unusual for a drummer. He used brushes a lot at first.

The more he played, the more impressed Monique and I got. Not only could he perfectly handle high-speed tsapiky and the complicated two-against-three polyrhythm you hear in a lot of southern Malagasy music. He had an astounding funk groove that picked up where Clyde Stubblefield left off, not to mention something suspiciously close to New Orleans second line. He could also really, really rock. Yet he had that Joey Baron trick of making the drums sing – even on that crappy kit. Most amazingly, he was somehow able to blend all these elements together into a seamless flowing whole. Weirdly, the whole time he was doing this he was sitting slumped back against the wall, something I’ve only seen drummers do in between songs.

At the end of the long set when he was summoned to our table (which is how it works when you're big in Madagascar), I raved about his playing, pumping his hand up and down like a maniac. He said, “You’re Monika Njava’s producer, aren’t you?” I suddenly felt bad. He was thinking, “This dude could be my ticket to fame, fortune and a decent drum set,” when in fact I had nothing to offer him.

* * *

I unburdened myself to Monique on the drive home. She said, “I get three of these a day on Facebook, people wanting me to launch their career.” I don’t know what it will be, but if I can think of anything to do to launch Ndriana’s career, I will.

Our Friday night show on a cramped, makeshift stage at the Karibohotel – the location of last week’s after party – was nothing to write home about. Where we ended up afterwards, however, is another story.

* * *

It is already well after midnight when we set out. We traverse the capital, driving along streets that are anonymous and forlorn-looking at this time of night. At what feels like the edge of the city we discover a crowded parking area. Light and low frequencies pump out of a long low building. “The sound system won’t be very good,” Monique warns me.

Indeed upon entering, our ears are assaulted by powerful waves of distorted bass. At the same moment our eyes are dazzled by the sparkle of silver and the glitter of gold lamé. For once Monique seems underdressed. The style is body hugging, short and shiny. Fish skin framed by bare legs and shoulders. Dangerously high heels with hair-dos to match. Men are decked out in suits of exuberant cut and color.

Vast, low-ceilinged and hanger-like, the place holds perhaps 800 people at a wild guess. At one end is a high stage with musicians and singers. The immense central dance floor is packed. Ringed around it are white-clothed tables. They hold a profusion of bottles of every shape and glasses containing liquids in rainbow colors. Bow-tied waiters in white jackets ferry over additional drink and plates of food.

I am gently ushered – being ushered is pretty much how I’ve gotten around since arriving in this country – to a table next to the dance floor with a good view of the stage. We are greeted by its smiling occupants – Monique’s introductions are inaudible – who graciously make room for us. I look out at the dancers. A gaggle of nieces and nephews are already gyrating furiously.

It turns out this is the annual get-together of people from the southern coast, where Monique hails from, who for professional or personal reasons live here in the capital. They represent different ethnic groups: Antanosy, Antandroy, Vezo, Bara and Sakalava. What they all have in common is a love of tsapiky, the high-octane dance music blasting from the stage.

* * *

Back when a teenage Monique was starting her musical career in the Wild West port of Tulear (Toliara), tsapiky, which means spicy-hot, began migrating from village to city in time-honored fashion. The musicians around her, including her older brothers, took this traditional rhythm, amplified it with electric instruments and added South African influences picked up on the radio from across the Mozambique Channel. It eventually replaced the staid, bourgeois party music of Tulear and became the craze that it is today.

Tsapiky tempos are terribly fast, never falling below 152 bpm. Live performances are all-night, non-stop affairs. Fresh drummers replace exhausted ones in mid-song, passing drumsticks between them without missing a beat, like runners in a relay race. Tsapiky singers are dancers too, interspersing their lyrics with call-and-response exhortations urging the crowd to an ever-higher frenzy.

* * *

At our table Monique receives a constant stream of tsapiky celebrities taking a break from their stage duties. There’s Tsiliva, the handsome and flamboyant popularizer of kilalaky, a dance of cow thieves (says Monique) that has swept the nation. He’s followed by Kalheba, by Theo Mikea and by Mamy Gotso, the brother of Hanta, our daughter-in-law. Looking bored at the nearby politicians’ table is the stunning Onja. Sister of Surgi, our back-up singer and lokanga player, she’s the product of a startling transformation from simple Antandroy village girl to S&M-flavored pop goddess.

But my biggest thrill comes when Monique introduces me to Rasoa Kininike. Her name translates into something like "Beautiful Shimmier”. She is known for her high, ethereal voice, which has become a staple of parties across Madagascar and throughout the diaspora. Yet she’s also responsible for turning a hip-shaking village dance into the highly provocative butt-quivering that now dominates the island’s music videos. Age and alcohol have not been kind to her. (Have they been to any of us?) But even garbed as she was for a trip to the supermarket, defiantly violating the dress code, when I squeeze my way up to the front of the stage she does not disappoint. 

The Beautiful Shimmier & me

Here are some photos from our show last Friday. Click on the images to enlarge.

Monique

Fanja

Beby

Monique

Surgi

Nicholas & Dô

Fefy

Jimmy

 

Joël & Monique

      

Miary

Daniel

Most people who know me know how much I like to walk. That’s because I’m always droning on about its many benefits. To be fair I’m in good company, with the Mayo Clinic and the French philosopher Alain Finkielkraut, who declared, “Walking is a sensitive, spiritual act.” So I was eager – after a period of enforced inactivity caused by flu, torrential rains and the Herculean effort of helping Monique get even bigger in Madagascar – to finally venture out of my gilded cage on my first walkabout.

* * *

Among the things that strike you upon arriving in Antananarivo are the high walls topped with vicious spikes or evil-looking broken glass. And as a finishing touch, coils of razor wire that would not look out of place at Gitmo.

Where we live is no exception. Driving in or out, a guardian opens the double metal doors. Like most houses in the neighborhood we have a dog on a hair-trigger. “It’s for when the guardian is asleep,” Monique explained. (She does a lot of explaining.) In any developed country the nocturnal canine chorus would be intolerable. Yet here I somehow don’t mind. Along with the birdsong, roosters, crickets, voices and other sounds of human activity, it forms part of a well-mixed soundscape that drifts in through the open windows. Very different from the traffic sounds and lawnmowers back home.

A nighttime drive always involves one or more stops at checkpoints. Armed men in full or partial military garb flag the car down and shine a flashlight in the window. Underpaid, they try to get a little something. Or they’re just bored and want to talk. With us they hit the jackpot. A celebrity behind the wheel means a good story to tell the folks at home. Normally lackadaisical, last Friday night when we were returning from Mojo they seemed unusually methodical with their flashlights. We later heard that some prisoners had escaped.

All this might become more familiar to us in the developed world as the gap between haves and have-nots widens and public services are cut.

* * *

I took Monique at her word when she described how she had tamed the local band of street criminals with some low-denomination bills and a stern warning that if they touched us or any our visitors they’d be sorry. Thus it was with only mild trepidation that, dressed in shorts and sneakers, I left our sanctuary on my own for the first time.

Avoiding the deep puddles of red-silted rainwater I walked down the lumpy cobbled alley to the main road, Rue Tsimanindry. It was filled with pedestrians, scrawny dogs and belching vehicles. I turned left, trying to stay on the narrow uneven surface that serving as a sidewalk frequently petered out. This obliged me and everyone else to step out into the stream of traffic, where the drivers’ margin of error was considerably less than what I was used to.

A line of rickety wooden stands displayed their wares. Fruits and vegetables, both familiar and strange. A dozen baskets, each holding a different kind of rice. Socks. Spicy fritters scooped from bubbling oil. Telephone credit. Unidentifiable mechanical parts. Equally unidentifiable animal parts.

After a few minutes of weaving in and out and dodging motorcycles, taxis and minibuses, on the right I spotted Rue Kotavy running past some rice paddies. I had already identified this on the map as a possible walking route. In fact, it was perfect: well paved and quiet with only the occasional vehicle. A smattering of pedestrians for company. Shady with colorfully flowering plants and trees.

The road curved around a hill above a lake, which I sometimes spied. On both sides of the street I caught tantalizing glimpses of lush gardens hidden behind high walls. Signs announcing Villa Such-and-Such were accompanied by others warning of mean dogs. Some of the huge metal doors were manned by uniformed security personnel armed with walkie-talkies. It was clear that the pedestrians I saw were just passing through. The real residents of this lakefront property were the very rich.

Over the next few days I explored some side streets running steeply up the hill. After short, heart-pounding climbs I was rewarded by expansive views of the many hills and valleys across which Antanananrivo sprawls.

* * *

Yesterday, though, I was a little too sure of myself. For some time I’d been attracted by a dirt path leading down from the road to a narrow-gauge railroad track next to the lake. Monique claims it sometimes carries a train to the eastern port city of Tamatave. But it looked to me like the track served exclusively as a pedestrian walkway. Joining the flow of people I headed in the direction I thought would take me back to the start of my route. I soon realized that the track was curving around the other side of the lake. When it passed under a viaduct I climbed up to the road, figuring that if I kept the lake on my right I would circumnavigate it back to my starting place.

Before long I was lost. To make matters worse, the early morning sun was mounting higher in the sky. Without headgear or sunscreen I would soon be toast. I had my phone. But Monique was on the other side of the city doing a radio interview with her phone probably turned off. Even if I could reach her, I wouldn’t be able to tell her where to find me. I saw an encouraging sign pointing to the World Food Program office. I knew our nephew Yaya worked there. But I also knew he’d left on a two-week road trip that very morning.

Backtracking a ways I came to a road that, while unfamiliar, looked like it might head in the right direction. With no sidewalk to speak of the speeding cars were particularly dangerous. One lightly clipped me with its mirror. Why hadn’t I paid more attention during the drives back from town? At my most despondent, I suddenly saw a landmark: the Clinique St-Paul. Soon afterwards I spied the familiar-looking sign touting Arnaud’s pizza, cooked over a wood fire. When the friendly blue-and-green Belle Vue Hotel sign on the corner of our lane came into view, I knew I was home free. 

I bet Finkielkraut never has to contend with this on his strolls down the Champs-Élysées.

Waking from a well-deserved nap I was surprised to find the entire band hanging out in the garden, turned golden in the slanting rays of the tropical Saturday afternoon sun. Monique explained they were there to get paid – she hadn’t had time to take care of this detail the previous night, which had been a long one.

From my somewhat myopic perspective as musical director, the show at the CCESCA went much better than our debut. There was only one structural mishap, a minor one. And we had completely eliminated the dead intervals between songs.


I even got some very pleasant surprises. To give herself more time for a costume change, Monique had strategically inserted short percussion and bass solos. Unlike Jimmy, our always-on drummer, Dô and Fefy are quiet types. They showed up for the first rehearsal, played perfectly and from then on, like gravity, went largely unnoticed. Dô’s role especially is quite basic, often just shaking a tambourine. This is pop music, after all. I hadn’t realized what a great player he was until Friday night when I heard his conga solo, a jewel of understated precision.

Fefy, too, shown. In a context like ours, bass solos are essentially exhibitions of prowess and are therefore to my mind largely a waste of notes. But given that, Fefy’s showcase was truly impressive, stringing together in a coherent way the entire repertoire of dazzling technical tricks that define today’s hotshot players. Best of all were the Malagasy touches: beautiful melodies and impenetrably complex rhythms based on marovany playing – all the more amazing on bass. In the same traditional style, Miary’s extended guitar intro to Ravola (another costume-change moment), showed what an artist he really is, despite his problem with booze.

The only disconcerting aspect, and one that kept me from fully enjoying the performance, were the many empty seats. After all that media coverage? I found later out what the deal was. The mezzanine, which I couldn’t make out from my deep-stage vantage point, was full. These were the cheap seats, around $3.60. The much larger section of orchestra seats below was for the narrow top of the social pyramid, those who could cough up the princely sum of $5.35. With annual per capita income barely reaching $400, getting big in Madagascar is one thing, getting rich another.

* * *

Packing up our instruments after the final encore, we rushed over to the after-party at the Karibotel (not the Caribou Hotel as I had originally heard it – the nearest specimen of that ungulate being half a world away). Quickly setting up in a cramped corner we ran through some of our repertoire. Warmed up, with no pressure and fuelled by beer and samosas, it was a lot of fun. Even funner was the jam session that followed, where our players really showed off their chops. (Representing the home team, I did my best to be credible.) They were joined by a cavalcade of Malagasy musicians, including a couple performing this curiosity based on traditional operetta (bassists take note).

When things finally wound down and I should have been slumping off home to bed, I instead gave in to the nieces’ entreaties to make the scene at Mojo (see March 12). Hence the Saturday afternoon siesta.

At Mojo

* * *

What started as payday soon became a party, as beer was sent for. It was a nice way to finish off several intense weeks of work. Those who stayed on as night fell – Jimmy, Nicholas and Joël – enjoyed a wild barbecue/dance party animated by the nieces, their numbers swollen by a gaggle of cousins, a girlfriend or two thrown in for good measure. Ten youngsters in all. 

At home

http://www.dannycarnahan.com/writing/music_g_1197_01.html

Wednesday noon. Monique is asked to appear on a musical TV show where all performances are lip-synched. With no exceptions. Ever. Until now, that is. That’s why Joël and I find ourselves dressed in stage garb at Jao’s Pub, where they’re filming the show. While the other acts pretend their instruments and mics are plugged in, ours really are. So the pressure's on. First we play the powerfully spooky new version of Monique’s old hit, Mausolée, so popular it has basically replaced the national anthem. Then she and Joël do a killer performance of Belina, a song from Njava’s first album Vetse. After the Monday broadcast I’ll try to get a copy. The director is so pleased he says he wants to move to a live format.

* * *

Thursday evening. Set-up and sound-check for our second concert. The venue is an 800-seater here in the capital called CCESCA. Apart from “Centre Culturel” I’m not sure what the acronym stands for. But it’s in the auditorium of a Catholic school founded in 1928, so the caretaker told me, by a trio of Canadian priests. The school is a large, solid-looking establishment, if somewhat down-at-the-heel. I think of all those Sunday school kids back in frigid Montreal dropping their Canadian nickels and pennies through the slot of the collection box.

Jimmy is walloping his kick drum through the clunky, scarred mains - possible relics of the Grateful Dead show I saw at the Paramount in 1972. I gaze left at a faux-Matisse mural of a naked Adam riding a local zebu cow, and right towards a surprisingly full-frontal Eve combing her hair next to a banana tree. No fig leaves. On the wall between Eve’s bare feet and the right speaker stack is an Aryan Jesus looking out benignly from a lurid poster, complete with flaming, thorn-bound heart.

If the stage looks a little emptier it’s because Monique and I fired the trumpeter, who it turns out was recruited by error. Back in November when Monique was shooting the Reolo clip and needed a stand-in, someone recommended Faby, who certainly looked the part. It didn’t occur to us that he couldn’t play. And none of the other musicians said anything, although they surely knew. Maybe it's because the community here is so tightly knit – it’s an island after all – that they hesitate to knock each other. Especially in front of a foreigner.

After rejecting a replacement I decided I would double the lines of the sax player, Nicholas, with a Hammond B3 sound. (He’s testing his mic at the moment with Charles Lloyd-esque arpeggios.) It’ll sound a little less Afrobeat and a little more early 70s funk. Tower without the Power. Anyone want a counterfeit Yamaha Zeno Artist Series Bb trumpet (see March 7)?

At yesterday’s fix-all-the-mistakes-of-last-Friday rehearsal Monique and I both noticed a new level of seriousness among the band. She thinks it’s because they saw how we fired Faby. Take Miary (who’s sound-checking his four opened-tuned guitars now). Uncharacteristically, he didn’t argue when I told him he’d have to abandon his cherished preamps and effects, and plug straight into the DI boxes I presciently brought along. All his knob-turning was slowing us down between songs.

Now it’s Surgi’s turn. He saws away on the lokanga, a homemade violin played by the Antandroy people of the arid south. Imagine Orange Blossom Special if the Cumberland Gap were located in Africa. He’s followed by vocalist Beby, his sister-in-law, who comes from the same region. Bass, percussion, electric guitar already done. Now Monique. Eleven on stage is easier than twelve.

* * *

Earlier, crammed with our musical instruments inside a rattletrap taxi on our way to the venue, we're sitting in a traffic jam when we hear a siren. Soon a police escort and convoy of 4x4s with black-tinted windows whizzes past. “Maybe it’s the president,” I joke. Miary and the cab the driver both look at me. “It is,” they say. The former DJ took power in a largely supported coup during my last visit in 2009.

For over a year now I’d been hearing about Mojo, the nightspot Monique took the nieces to when she was in town. Chaffing under protective parents, the girls clamored for these sorties with their bad aunt. I was exhausted after our first concert and should have stayed home. But it was Saturday night and I couldn’t resist this chance to see for myself what Monique and the girls got up to when the parents weren’t looking.

The pre-Mojo warm-up started at home in in the garden with a big bowl of Monique’s cocktail recipe (rum, orange & lemon juice, sugar, grated ginger, cinnamon stick, vanilla bean). Beef brochettes sizzled on the grill while a spicy tomato sauce waited on the table.

Joël, our incipient guitar genius, arrived. I don’t know who arranged this. But I had already suspected that Corine – the big sister, the “smart” one – was interested in him. I learned that Joël was ostensibly enrolled in business studies at the university. When I stated the obvious, that he should quit school and concentrate on music, he was genuinely surprised. “You’re the first one who’s ever said that.”

* * *

We took our time eating. You don’t want to arrive at Mojo much before midnight.

Heading downtown, our party consisted of Monique and me, Corine, Sarah, Joël and Gerald (Monique’s youngest son, in case you forgot). Needless to say, the girls and Monique were dressed to kill. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street in front of Mojo. But a few words from Monique and the bouncers found us a parking spot. “Doo Doo Doo” was pouring out of the open second-floor windows.

We filed along a claustrophobic, blood-red corridor and up a narrow concrete staircase. At the top it was all flashing lights and industrial chic. We pushed our way into the crowd, half Malagasy, half foreign (i.e. French). I went into my default mode, smiling and shaking hands with people I didn’t know, nodding meaningfully when they said things I couldn’t hear through all the din. Monique introduced me to a guy sitting at the bar, explaining, “It’s Baba.” I certainly knew his music. His album, produced by Monique’s brothers, is fantastic. Unfortunately, his follow-up live shows, promotion and organization didn’t match the level of the recording, and his career has since stalled.

We found seating near an open window as drinks arrived. The youngsters immediately hit the dance floor, propelled by a Congolese beat. Along with gazing at the dancers – the gauche French and the more adroit natives – I focused on the music. An African flavor slightly dominated. But there was also Indian bangra, Jamaican dub and salsa. Walk this Way, (the heavy 70s guitar made Joël ecstatic), early Michael Jackson, classic Outkast. In a place like Madagascar, you hear how porous geographical and temporal boundaries are. I wished our other boys, Thierry, Emeric, Milo and Oliver, could be there.

As I feared, it quickly became clear that Joël was fascinated by Sarah. It was easy to see why. With her tall, slim model appearance she drew the most attention. Yet I found Corine a more interesting dancer. Once she gets away from her sister (graduate studies in France next year) she’ll have no trouble attracting all the men she wants. Monique and I were pleased to see, however, that Joël and Gerald danced with both girls in gentlemanly fashion. Watching Joël’s bizarre moves Monique queried, “Why are musicians always such bad dancers?” Maybe a reader can answer this.

* * *

On their Mojo outings Monique enforces a strict “look but don’t touch” rule. On another occasion she had a guy thrown out when he got a little too hands-on. To give him the benefit of the doubt, there are prostitutes among the Mojo clientele. But he had already been warned. Since then the owner has always kept a close eye on the nieces. That, and the presence of Gerald, meant we could leave the place for a while to get some air and see something different.

We cruised through the streets while Monique decided where to go. We ended up at the Carlton, the main hotel. The bar attracted a different clientele, more bourgeois, all Malagasy. I was introduced to yet another famous musician. “A has-been,” Monique whispered. We didn’t linger.

Not long after returning to Mojo Monique decided it was time to go. On the way home we passed through streets along which prostitutes in ones and twos, evenly spaced at twenty-meter intervals, stood idly. “Poor girls,” said Sarah.

Friday night, 11 pm. It’s just the moon, Monique and me. Plus a bottle of aged litchi-flavored rum we got from Vovo (see Feb. 26). When we arrived at the house accompanied by a convoy of clapped-out-but-cute Citroen taxis crammed with musical equipment, nieces and nephews we found a power cut. While everyone else rummages around for candles inside, Monique and I sit in the garden in the balmy night air under a searchlight full moon. Buzzing with sleep deprivation, I gaze up at the unfamiliar southern constellations.

We had just finished our first concert at the CGM. It must have been a success. The enthusiastic crowd in the small, sold-out theater cheered wildly. Friends and family swarmed backstage to congratulate us. The Center’s director for the past 30 years leapt onstage at show’s end to exclaim in German-accented French that this was the best concert the venue had ever hosted, and hailed Monique the Queen of Malagasy music.

But pouring out another glass of rum I feel uncomfortably aware of all the onstage fuck-ups, major and minor, that occurred – my own included. Fortunately, most went unnoticed by the public.

A few hours ago, crowded together in an improvised dressing room as a stench wafted in from the toilets, the band – a dozen of us plus nieces on hair and make-up – waited for curtain time (a surprisingly early 7 pm here). Nerves were tauter than usual among the highly experienced musicians. The more I talk to people – musicians, media, family, fans – the more I realize what an exceptional project this is. The air thick with superlatives. The cream of the country’s musicians vying to be in the band. Radio, TV and newspapers clamoring for interviews and appearances. There’s a lot at stake.

* * *

The day before the concert, March 8, Monique left the house early in the morning to attend an IWD event at the culture ministry. Among the couple of hundred invitees were government grandees, representatives of all the various art forms and, of course, the media.

Dressed in sober black and white, speaking on behalf of the country’s female musical artists, Monique harangued the great and the good about the ubiquitous and pernicious system of payola that determines what music videos get broadcast. Not only on private stations but on government ones too. In her view it encourages production of the lascivious booty-on-the-beach clips that are the staple of Malagasy TV. This in turn, she warned, contributes to the island’s reputation as a prime sex tourism destination. (Cue applause.)

Surgi

Beby

Jimmy

Fanja

In my very first band, aged 16, I doubled on trumpet. I haven’t picked one up since. Forty years later I now find myself the proud owner of a Yamaha Xeno Artist Series Bb trumpet. Because it’s worth over ten times what I paid, it must be either stolen or counterfeit.

It’s not like I had much choice. I’ve been scouring the city for a trumpet since Sunday, when I learned that our trumpet player’s instrument was defective and wouldn’t play high notes. We even made enquiries at the army to see if we could rent a band instrument. Along the way I learned that most players  make (!) their trumpets.

The only one we could find was at a music store and for sale only. By the time I’d checked it out (you never know when grade-school band practise will come in handy) the store was ready to close, we had no cash and they had no way to deal with plastic. After some negotiation we left the store with the trumpet and followed by a shop assistant on a motor scooter we drove around looking for a cash machine. It felt like a drug deal. We sat in the car as Monique counted out a huge wad of local currency to give to the courier. But in the end we had our instrument with a full 48 hours to spare before showtime.

* * *

This is just one example in a long litany of similar tales. To keep minor splintering from becoming major, our drummer wraps his sticks with the duct tape I brought. He totes his bass drum around in a cardboard box. The percussionist is playing on borrowed everything. Our saxophonist told of his top-of-the-line Selmer tenor,  returning by post from Paris after a complete renovation. When it arrived he found that someone had stolen the neck piece (help me out with the correct terminology, readers). Until he can come up with 500 bucks – which in Madagascar means an awfully long time – the instrument will remain unplayable.

Speaking of instrumental theft, after a gig out in the provinces our electric guitarist dozed off while waiting for sunrise and the taxi brousse (12-seat minivan) to take him back to the capital. When he awoke his guitar was gone. He has never owned his own amp and marvelled at the inexpensive guitar cable with gold-plated connectors I gave him to replace his crappy, noisy one. Rehearsal ground to a halt one day when his high e-string broke at the bridge. Everyone got down on the floor to search for the little metal rivet that had flown off (guitarists will know what I’m talking about). Reattached it would give the string a second life.

What makes the stories really tragic is that these are amazingly good players, perfectly capable of holding their own on any stage in LA, New York or Paris. It's heartbreaking.

Last week there was so much rain that parts of the country are still underwater. And this isn’t counting the cyclone that hit last month. Monique’s nephew Yaya, in charge of logistics for the local office of the World Food Program, has been kept very busy as a result. He says the French embassy here exaggerates disaster statistics in an attempt to appear more important. Last week he was at a meeting with embassies and NGOs where the French were caught out.

But this morning began auspiciously with clear blue skies and sunshine. Lots of it. We had our first breakfast alfresco. What bliss.

* * *

At 9 am the musicians straggled in for our last rehearsal. Attending was Backom, Madagascar’s most celebrated Rastafarian. (I guess there must be one in every country.) He was here for a quick run-through of Mausolée, a duet he’ll sing with Monique. The two had a monster hit with this tune back in the day. When the ousted dictator Didier Ratsiraka was allowed back into the country for a brief visit recenlty, the first thing he did was kneel on the runway and sing this song. Remarkable, since he had originally banned it.

And speaking of politics, here’s the new video clip Reolo. It’s pretty self-explanatory. Although it makes an implicit omparison between the current regime and Emperor Bokassa, an alleged cannibal, it hasn't got us arrested yet.

Although the rehearsal went pretty well, I wouldn’t have minded having another week to practice. But when people start making noises about being “over-rehearsed”, which I don’t think really exists, it’s a sign they’ve had enough. Afterwards everyone stuck around for a really nice lunch.

* * *

In the afternoon we drove to a downtown hotel for the album-release press conference. Monique, who for media appearances is always dressed to the nines, was dressed to the tens. Over half the band was there too, decked out in branded t-shirts and enjoying the free beer provided by one of our sponsors.

People commented on the exceptional number of media people who showed up. Newspapers, radio, TV – they were all there. At one point Monique called me up in my role as producer to answer questions. Afterwards I was even buttonholed by a couple of young, pretty journalists. I admit it all went to my head. While there, we received word that the Friday night show was sold out. The blog ain’t called “Big in Madagascar” for nothing.

After a tough couple of weeks (packing, travel, arrival, flu, daily rehearsal, rain), we needed a little break. Thus Friday evening found the entire household stepping gingerly by phone light along the potholed, red mud street. A twenty-minute walk to the top of a hill took us to the neighborhood of Ambohipo. Populated by coastal people (in contrast to the stodgy high plateau inhabitants), the quarter was lively. On both sides of the street bars and restaurants beckoned to us with the smell of grilling meat.

But our goal was Jao’s Pub, where we have a gig at the end of the month. As chairs were found for our group on the terrace next to the sizzling barbecue, I peaked inside the club. I saw a nice, large table-filled space augmented by a mezzanine above. Looking towards the dance floor and the band onstage who should I spy but our drummer, Jimmy.

By chance or design Monique was sitting in the prime position near the club entrance. This made it easy for arriving musicians to pay court to her (not too strong a phrase). Among them was the club’s proprietor, Jaojoby, the best-known Malagasy musician in the outside world.

I ordered a large cool bottle of Three Horses Beer, my first of the trip, with which I washed down beef and chicken brochettes doused in fiery sakay sauce. From time to time I stood up for the required handshake-plus-three-air-kiss greeting, as I was introduced to yet someone else whose name I promptly forgot.

* * *

Through the walls of the club I could hear the band, prompting musings which took up most of my attention. They played what to me was a strangely heterogeneous repertoire. Most interesting was the incessantly driving, triplet-based salegy from the north of the island. This was augmented by Bob Marley (of course), American R&B, and saccharine French pop.

Strangest of all was when I heard a quite credible version of Louis Armstrong singing Mack the Knife. This, it turned out, was Jaojoby. When I expressed surprise I was informed that long before he hit the World Music big time, Jao was famous in Madagascar as a radio DJ and performer of American popular music. So much for my notions of cultural authenticity.

For two days the main back-up singer, Fanja, took over the lead vocals. But with her voice returning, today Monique picked up the mic again – partly for the benefit of a TV crew that was here filming – though she kept off the high notes.

Meanwhile, we’ve had other setbacks. The saxophonist showed up a couple of days ago with a cast on his arm (motorcycle accident) and doctor’s instructions not to hold an instrument. The replacement we lined up came by today. He’ll be fine. True, he only has a soprano sax. But he says he can borrow a tenor. And he showed he could cover a critical alto part with the soprano. In the quest for perfection sometimes you have to compromise.

More seriously, during today’s rehearsal Miary, one of the guitarists, was drunk. To make matters worse, he’s Monique’s nephew. It was uncomfortable when she told him off in front of everyone. But she had no choice. When he tried to appeal to my kindly nature, calling me “Tonton” (Uncle), I also played the heavy. I felt bad for Monique and the rest of the band. Especially for Miary’s girlfriend, the hard-working Fanja.

On the other hand we’re starting to sound really good. Even me. We’re building that band camaraderie, starting to have a history together, developing rudimentary in-jokes. Or maybe it just seems that way to me. After all, the musical world here is small and close-knit. These guys have played together in various combinations for years. I’m way the outsider. But despite being the butt of occasional jokes – or maybe because of this – I’m feeling accepted. Which for a musician might be the most important thing of all.

* * *

Rain again today. We might as well be in Belgium. Or Portland. But at least we’ve recovered from the flu.