A regional music community platform based out of Colombo Sri Lanka, 925 aims to capture select soundwaves from across the globe, and transmit — through our live events — with a sense of immediacy and warmth. In this monthly series, we deep-dive into some of the music that has inspired us, and shaped our goals and tenets.
© Ndagga
Mark Ernestus is a mythic figure. Whilst his more visible counterpart Mauritz Von Oswald appears to have moved one foot beyond the Basic Channel blueprint, Ernestus’ frequency (and choice) of output has seemingly been more reserved, perhaps still rooted in the original universe. Reserved however, not in scope or sound (nor adventure), but in the long-range arc he seems to operate inside of — from founding the seminal record store Hard Wax, to being an architect of the Detroit-Berlin axis, to continuing to champion roots & reggae music.
Debuting in 1992 Berlin (as Maurizio), Ernestus & Oswald delivered a series of tectonic, mysterious techno records as Basic Channel. It sounded like nothing that came before — and shook the dance music underground. “Who were these guys?” Everything from the cryptic artwork to the enigmatic sound design, pointed to an entity intent on making a permanent dent in the universe. Basic Channel married the earthy and spatial character of dub-reggae music with otherworldly techno futurism: wall-of-sound cascades of reverb, timeless chords, and sheer torque. Founded in 1995, the family-label Chain Reaction expanded on that blueprint with a team of brilliant like-minded artists. From 1997 to 2005, the duo returned to the source with Rhythm & Sound, rumbling in explorations of superheavyweight category dub. If Basic Channel was the ocean, Chain Reaction was the misty river, and Rhythm & Sound the fountain. A fountain rooted in primal rhythm that opened a portal towards outer space and the earth’s crust at the same time. All of this, while reshaping underground club musicas we know it.
Together, not only did Ernestus and Oswald build part of the new foundation for future dance music, they built it on new ground. A reimagining of what this music could be, pushing the envelope, bending it in the process. Their influence on the music landscape is something of a ubiquitous yet untold story: Often referenced, the scope of that era’s music feels yet to be truly distilled (and by extension, documented/articulated). This seems to partly stem from the nature in which they moved, including going the extra-mile not to self-reference. They were out of time, out of sight. A legacy with no beginning nor end, only a shadowy passing forward of the torch, but the light now melded, and kaleidoscoped.
Three decades on from “Phylyps”, Ernestus influence seems to still echo across the underground sugar caves of bass music, like that of a dark, hooded man who has silently watched over proceedings, uttering only a few words in the process. Since 2005’s windup of Rhythm & Sound and Burial Mix, he has been busy uncovering obscure reggae music (including with Honest Jon’s) and producing couple of South African and Congo artists. In a rare interview, when asked about the process of his music explorations from Jamaica to Africa, Ernestus’ terse reply is, “you have to know people.” No sign of sensationalism, vivid affectation. It’s pretty basic: you have to know, you have to dig. The answer also hides in plain sight a principal threaded throughout their work: Let the music do the talking.
And the music does: Ndagga, a blazing series of 12 inches that he has spearheaded on the label so named, seems to have stemmed from this “knowing people”, not just in the right places, but tapped into the right frequency: That geography being Senegal, and that frequency being raw polyrhythms born out of ‘sabars’ and ‘talking drums’ swirling around a string of instruments —Mbalax, a music style born in the 1970s that fuses both traditional and modern elements of Senegalese and Gambian music.
Some context: The popular dance music of Senegal and Gambia, Mbalax embodies the national sound of postcolonial Senegal. Unique in its complex structure and instrument(s), it is a fusion of indigenous music (i.e. Wolof sabar drumming) and African popular music. A preserved ancient energy runs though the music, whilst shades of musical influences from especially Congo & Cuba (rumba), as well as South America and the Caribbean (Latin pop), America (blues, jazz, soul, R&B and rock) and France are present too. A melting pot with a pan-ethnic spirit, Urban Senegal has created through Mbalax an inclusive space for both cosmopolitan styles and ethnic sounds of Greater Senegambia. Today, the music has captured the hearts of other regions of Africa such as Mali and Ivory Coast too.
Coined by African music legend Youssou N'Dour, the term ‘mbalax’ translates to 'accompaniment’, or the accompanying rhythms of the sabar, a tall sitting drum played using a stick and one hand. Within a sabar collective, there are different roles assigned to each drum, and mbalax refers to such ‘accompaniment’ of each to create a polyrhythmic whole. This arrangement is led by the Nder (lead drum) and the Sabar (rhythm drum), whilst being complemented by the Tama (talking drum), keyboards, marimba synths, guitar and bass. Evidently heard from 10 miles away in neighboring villages, the sabars are traditionally played as religious or festive music (or to deliver long-distance messages), and the intertwined rhythms often have a hypnotic undercurrent to it.
Ernestus’ growing obsession with Mblax (that he had first heard through a Gambian DJ team in 2007) had necessitated a journey to the source, in search of the original recordings. That visit had resulted in meeting Bakane Seck, one of Senegal’s best sabar drummers, who convinced him to record new music rather than work with existing recordings. And as fate would have it, things culminated with him inside a legendary studio (formerly known as Xippi) in Dakar (capital of Senegal) with a number of Kaolack’s finest musicians, including Bakane Seck, Bada Seck (sabar), Modou Mbaye (tama), Mangone Ndiaye Dieng (drum set), Serigne Mamoune Seck (sabar), Ibou Mbaye (keyboards), Fatou Wore Mboup (dancer) and Mbene Diatta Seck (vocals). Renowned musical icons Youssou N'Dour, Baaba Maal and Doudou Ndiaye Rose (‘the master of the sabar’ and a godfather of traditional West African music) had crossed paths too, and feature as guests. These sessions with a 20-strong group of musicians, were put down to wax in 2011 as Jeri-Jeri (the clan name of this sabar griot that hails from Kaolack). The result is a more stripped-down version of Mbalax that carries the same kinetic energy, with the percussion placed in the foreground (and other instruments not clouding the soundscape, but sitting more gently alongside).
A year later, Jeri-Jeri’s electrifying live show (with Ernestus at the mixing deck), debuted at Wax Treatment in May 2012, and lit up half of Europe – from Milan to Düsseldorf – to end up at the Fuji Rock Festival a year later. Ancient melodies of the future – and a frenetic sabar drum at the center of it. Riveting and spaced-out tracks that go on and on, continually unfolding in the speckled live feedback loop of the band. In 2014, Jeri-Jeri evolved into ‘Ndagga Rhythm Force’ (and apparently named after Wackies Rhythm Force of the Bronx), a more focused and distilled version of the collaboration. More on this (important distinction) later.
As Jeri-Jeri and 800% Ndagga, Ernestus has compiled all the singles (and b-sides) of the 5-part series into one LP. As with the original 12″s, “Xale” is a highlight, the stinging vocals of Mbenna Diatta Seck (who features on 4 of the 8 tracks) taking control of the duel propel of the tama-marimba, to guide a storyline of neglect and heartache. The opener “Gawlo” radiates with Baaba Maal’s soaring voice and tender guitar licks. “Ndeye Gueye” finds the knotted sabar rhythms of grandmaster Ndiaye Rose locked in a patient dual with the strings, a dual that slowly escalates (via repetition) into a hypnotic swirl. “Mbeuguel Dafa Nekh” is the busiest track of all, the drums landing in unison in the foreground whilst gorgeous tangential slices of guitar drift in and out, creeping underneath Diatta’s lovelorn calls. The track takes a slanted ‘n enchanted turn halfway in, as many things come together in accompaniment, and by the time it winds down (and despite the language barrier) has triggered a basket of feelings.
On the flipside, “Casamance” and “Sama Yaye” find the same melody sliced into two different versions: The chugging “Casamance” has the brothers Ale & Khadim Mboup yearning for peace in their homeland, whilst the spacious “Sama Yaye” is a more somber take by Diatta on parental love. The latter version speaks of the raw energy and space hidden inside these tracks, and the skillful range possessed by these musicians to cut contrasting textures from the same cloth, and Ernestus’ deft touch as a producer to piece it together. The flawless groove of “Bamba” brings the three vocalists together for what feels like a spiritual passage, settling things down in a bed of chants and simmered guitar while reverbed voices interplay. Finally, “Daguagne” concludes a rather frenzied journey with a magnetic bassline from Thieno Starr. In the meantime, Ndagga Versions brings together the vocal-less versions of all these tracks along with three other B-sides, placing the focus on the percussion further and magnifying its detail.
Yermande, the stunning 2016 follow-up to 800% Ndagga, is where things get more interesting. The minimalist reduction is in full effect here, with each element isolated and amplified to a pressure point: The air between the rolling drums and the soundscape tightly laced, the arrival of soft hi-hats in that vacuum feeling like voodoo. The Colossus, reverberating kickdrum on “Walo Walo” jolts the track, the sabars and the tripping marimba bassline following after the wreckage like galloping soldiers. “Jigeen” is as techno as this music gets, an intricate hail of percussion compounding and swooping across a 4am throbbing pulse. The multi-tracked vocals are mixed in a more enveloping way, seeping in at times, and ringing out at other times. It can be a fine line (not) to overproduce, but Ernestus manages to bend the source material more to his will here, without losing what makes the music compelling.
The songs of Ndagga feel storied, and although their exact meaning maybe lost in translation (depending on where you are from), the overall mood is one wistful. Dietta’s vocals glide like a ghost around the whole room, anchoring this feeling. Yet underneath there is hurried velocity to it all, a sideways swing, a dramatic release through the chaos, much like the tussles of life. This ying and the yang, pulls the listener deeper in to this world with repeated listens, as the rhythms get inside you. Alongside the sabars, the unheralded hero the tama (or the handheld ‘talking drum’), injects a certain electricity that keeps things marching at all times. The broader acclaim Ndagga has received due to one man’s spirit of discovery, is a testament to that common thread that binds — while music is a universal language, rhythm came before that, and its scope is wider.
In the midst of writing this, I committed to take some time-off, to return to the Basic Channel universe: The almost physical, visceral weight of the music held me down for a couple of weeks, each day drifting past with old memories, and new discoveries. Around the last day, this mini-adventure culminated in “April” (by Obadikah, a brass band from Lagos, Nigeria) and Ndagga: Anchored by Ernestus’s signature depth of field and dense low-end boom, the music sounded of similar texture to the old catalogue. But it felt as if the forces of nature had colluded to unlock a certain lever at this point. What was it?
Five years ago, I had seen Ndagga Rhythm Force and Mbene Diatta Seck close-up, in session (at the Dekmantel Music Festival). They were a powerful live entity, out in full force, freeing the denser tracks on wax into looser exploratory jams: A serious, whimsical, swinging, emotional ride, like the first time you heard Iggy Pop’s Funhouse. In the peak hour of that nippy evening, the band’s lithe dancer fluttered like a cheerful exorcist, shaking us out of the 4-4 prison we had all got ourselves into over the years, but something deeper too. Across the ether, ranging and rising, Diatta’s voice grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, to hold me close, and fling me across half a magical, painful world — across her continent — where it all admittedly began.
By: DJ Infrastructur
November 2022