Mark Hudson's response to CG's review of M'Bemba made me think of a very masculine and irrational attitude that men in particular often have about music. And that is a misguided notion of what authenticity is, and how important it is. Mark perfectly personifies this attitude. He doesn't just like African music, he likes real African music. He needs the dirt road under his feet before his ears will acknowledge that what he's hearing has substance; that what he is hearing is authentic. Any tinkering by western producers, i.e. music which has been Gabrieled or Coodered (Hi Garth!) is a definite no no.
This attitude is of course absurd. Take it to its logical conclution and you end up with a ghettoization of music and musicians which could almost be construed as fascistic: only the purist African music is true African music!
Yes there have been many monstrosities made in the name of crossover or fushion, but the notion that only the rough-edged is the real deal, is an insult to the cultures from where the music comes. The idea that an album could be just as good, carefully constructed under the heat of studio lights, rather than spontaniously generated under the heat of the unforgiving midday sun, is beyond such purist's comprehension - anything which adds sophistication, by their unbendible law of authenticity, subtracts substance. This is a kind of post-colonial inverted snobbery - we want our African, Cuban, or Brazilian music to smell of poverty and struggle, to blaze with the heroic overcoming of circumstances - so please don't add any more reverb to the vocals!
When Salif Keita spends (or his record company spends) a small fortune perfecting his latest creation with his like-minded producer, he is going against the grain of everything Mark Hudson has decided great art is. Keita is no longer playing Mark's game; creating music under adverse circumstances or even, as many world music musicians have had to, under a politically repressive, life-threatening regime.
Arranging music is for Western classical composers or Burt Bacharach. Playing it spontaneously, angrily even, is what we want from our third world rebels. Honest Jon's Records know this only too well, hence the extensive sleeve notes on recent releases by Lobi Traore and the like, where we get to read about the ramshackle farm at the end of a dirt road where the man's rough and tumble band were recorded on a vintage 1972, fifteen quid cassette recorder with a built-in microphone - OK so I made that last bit up - but it's not far from the truth when you consider the joy with which we all fell upon the fact that Konono No 1 made their own microphones from old car parts - we love that stuff!
The problem I have is when this romantic idea of the authentic prevents the appreciation of the brilliantly produced, finely honed, and even western influenced world music album. But as I say, we're all guilty. Our most treasured album is bound to be on vinyl, and probably found in a battered old cardboard box, spotted jutting out from under a junk-laden table in the local Oxfam Shop. Or even better; a fruit or fish-laden table in a market place in Bamako. The quality of the record becomes of secondary importance to the talisman-like aura it emanates whenever you slip it from its sleeve, lovingly study its apparently sandpapered surface (for scratches are another indicator of authenticity!) and place it as carefully as a baby into its pram, onto the turntable. And if you are a DJ, your like-minded audience are going to delight in those scratches as much as you do, because in this slick digital world, they are the best indicator of authenticity you're going to get. Hip-hop musicians have been pinching those snaps and crackles, and popping them, cut-and-paste styly, onto their own sonic collages for years now. To such a degree that it's hippness and stamp of authenticity has long been cancelled out.
Perhaps what this question of authenticity really comes down to, is that the authentic is not only political, it's also moral. It's an indicator of the music fan's soundness of character. If he (for it nearly always is a he) is, for example, an avid collector of vinyl then you can trust him with your first born. What's the worst they can do, bore them to death with thier dub reggae 12" collection?
For this isn't just a world music thing. I remember when almost every Roxy Music fan went off the band in direct relation to the growing sophistication of their records, so that the first two albums are considered the real deal, and thereafter, polish was equated with superficiality. Paradoxically though, as original fans dropped away, many more new fans replaced them, and they had the biggest hits of their career post-Eno. But all Roxy were trying to do was grow up, learn their craft, and get better at realising their musical vision. Expecting them to continue to make semi- naive records like those first two mile stones, is like expecting an artistically talented child to continue making charming crayon pictures with huge smiley suns, when all they want to do is make detailed pencil drawings of stealth bombers.
But we've all grown up now, haven't we? We need to consider 'M'Bemba' on its own terms, or in relation to the best western pop has to offer (as, ironically, Keita would like us to), and come to the conclusion that it's a finely honed, beautifully rendered, work of art, which is timeless whilst also belonging in the moment, and doesn't exist to conform to any expectations we might has as to what is or isn't, authentic.
