I first saw Baaba Maal some years ago at the Filllmore. He looked princely in his white Babariga outfit that flowed all the way to the floor. But it was his voice that mesmerized me—dark, strong coffee, tender and earthy. The kora with its relentless and clear, plucking sound; the talking drums, the various gourds and seeds shakers accompanied him and the tender rhythms of Africa carried the audience like waves lapping on the shore.
Last night he sang at Oakland Yoshi’s. This time he wore a very nice tailored suit. Baaba in his early fifties retains the face of a twenty year old. Before he played he spoke about his musical journey. It was unusual to have a lengthy talk before a show, but Baaba was engaging and captivating in his story-telling. The man and the musician came together and when he played I was right there with the griots, the women playing the calabashes, the blues, the classical traditions of Europe and Africa. And Baaba, the chosen one, took me back to the cradle of Africa and rocked me.
Photo by Jon Klemm.
