Interview: Meet the Psychedelic Gnawa Blues of Bab L' Bluz

We talk to the Moroccan-French quartet about their latest album Nayda! and the new wave of women fronting Gnawa bands.

Bab L' Bluz, translated as "The Door of the Blues," is a Franco-Moroccan group created in 2018 in Marrakech.

At the beginning of 2017, the Moroccan singer-guitarist Yousra Mansour met the French guitarist and producer Brice Bottin. They had been working with Moroccan musicians for several years, at an artistic residency mixing Gnawa music with other styles. Both passionate about Gnawa music, they decided to learn the Guembri together.

In mid-2017, while they were learning how to play Guembri (the primary instrument of the Gnawa music, with a bass sound and three strings) and Awisha (a descendant of the Guembri but smaller with the same strings, and with a high tone that sounds more like a guitar or looks and sounds like a Mauritanian Tidinît), they started composing the foundations of the first Bab L' Bluz album. It was a repertoire of ten songs that respected the analogical universe of the '60s and '70s. The group want to mix their influences tastefully and prefer to be a psychedelic Moroccan rock band, rather than just be labelled as world music.

In mid-2018, long time friends and musicians from Lyon, Jérôme Bartholomé on Qraqeb (Percussion used in Gnawa music)/ flute/vocals), and Hafid Zouaoui (drums/backing vocals), joined the band. They performed their first live concert on Radio Nova. Months after forming the quartet, they began recording their debut album called Nayda!, released by Real World Records in June.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Bab L' Bluz - Ila Mata (Official Video)

We've noticed that the amount of female-fronted Gnawa acts is increasing these days.

Yes, indeed, it's a great pleasure to see more and more women leaders of Gnawa bands or even playing other styles of music, especially in a very patriarchal society. The woman who played music was seen as a negative because maybe she gave off an image of the strong and free woman, something that wasn't very appreciated at the time. After all, it scared the man and the society, especially in the musical environment of Gnawa, which is very male-dominated compared to other traditional Moroccan kinds of music. We're now seeing significant changes on that side in Morocco. In many other societies, fortunately, women are becoming more and more ambitious, many of them choose to live their passions to the fullest, even if they risk rejection by their own families. Thankfully, even the way societies look at these women nowadays has changed, it has become more supportive and admiring.

In the past few years, we've seen a beautiful wave of women musicians, such as Asma Hamzaoui & Bnat Timoktu, Hind Ennaira and Bnat Guinia and many others not known yet, who artistically transmit this message of equality between men and women. Finally, the love we can have for an instrument or a style of music shouldn't be limited by the fact of being a man or a woman.

What are your main inspirations? After all, there seems to be a lot of fusion of other genres with Gnaoua music.

Our main inspirations are broad; we have as many inspirations as there are styles. We grew up listening to very different types of music such as rock, pop, soul, funk, Jazz, Arab-Andalusian music, Moroccan Chaabi, classical oriental music, Indian, and also South American music. In addition to that, we discovered other music thanks to the appearance of the internet, and which also made it easier for us to learn different instruments without having to travel to take lessons. We love and respect all styles of music because it is key to understanding music in its universality. We don't see what we do as fusion. [It's] a logical extension of who we are, because we're not trying to mix the styles, it's just our brains that have assimilated a lot of different music that they unconsciously reflect that when we are in the process of creation. We grew up with rock as much as traditional music, with R&B as much as Afrobeat, we transcribe that into our compositions, putting the music at the service of the lyrics and vice versa. Our instruments, which come from the tradition of West Africa are electrified and this is, therefore, a limit, but in our case, a richness, for the research and creation of our music.

What are your ambitions for this project?

We want to make the best music we can. Music that encourages and motivates people to be better people, but also music that brings people together and pleases a young African as much as a young American. We want young people in societies where it is tough to express themselves freely, to have access to this freedom and to several other fundamental rights. We want the physical or psychological violence against women to stop and want women to be free and empowered, and to be as equal or even superior to men.

We'd love to learn from other people, have access to different cultures and other music, make mistakes and learn from them, move forward in life in a healthy way. We'd love to play all over the world to transmit a message of peace and love and justice, words of solidarity and compassion, to change racist, sexist and repressive mentalities, to help ourselves and others find their way in a tough life, where our brains are conditioned, and happiness is tough to achieve. We would like to reach as many spiritually awakened people as possible and to awaken the sleeping and indoctrinated mentalities.

Can Gnaoua music become a worldwide phenomenon? World Music seems to be gaining in popularity in the last few years.

We think that Gnawa music is already a worldwide phenomenon thanks in particular to the Essaouira Festival, which has been spreading this music worldwide for several years now. Gnawa music can be a precious key to musical understanding for musicians but also for novices. We also think that a lot of people are more and more interested in African culture in general, probably because Africa is the cradle of humanity, or even because of the similarities between different African music and other music from outside, like the simple example of Brazilian Samba rhythm that sounds monstrously similar to the rhythm of Gnawa music played with Qarqabs or Karkabs, even though the melodies of these two styles of music are very different. There are more examples of this kind of similarities that somehow show that the world has always been connected. The term "world music" is gaining in popularity because we also realize that a rock band can be labeled "world music" in the same way as a traditional band. The word "world music" is so vast that it can encompass countless styles of music and reach many different populations. A lot of musical freshness is going to arrive from the young generation, in the Maghreb and other countries, far from the headlights for the moment.

Photo courtesy of Sam Soko.

Interview: Sam Soko is the Kenyan Director Behind Sundance Hit, 'Softie'

We meet filmmaker Sam Soko who has made a stirring documentary about the Kenyan protest leader Boniface Mwangi

Filmmaker Sam Soko didn't intend on making a documentary about Kenyan photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi.

The original idea he had was to make a manual of sorts, a short video guide, on how to protest, the do's and don't's. Soko, himself an activist artist who cut his teeth convincing friends to let him create political music videos for their apolitical songs, knew Mwangi's experience on the streets both photographing protests and staging them meant he had a lot to share with others.

But then came the blood. A thousand litres of it, to be precise. And the pigs. Dozens of them, with words like MPigs written on them. Like the graphic photos Mwangi had become known for taking—it was a sight you couldn't look away from. It was a protest Mwangi organized, in 2013, to decry corrupt members of the Kenyan parliament who had decided to increase their salaries, 2 months after taking office. And at his side, through the thick red liquid of it all, was Mwangi's wife, Njere, ready to be arrested with him.

"Once I was witness to his relationship, I started seeing him as a family man," Soko tells OkayAfrica. "Because he's planning a protest and all, but when you look at the footage, you start seeing the kids and you start seeing Njere. That's when it started hitting me, in the sense, that she was with him in such a crazy space."

Soko formed a creative and activist hub, called PAWA 254, with Mwangi, as they became part of the groundswell demanding democratic reforms in a country still left scarred from the division sewed between Kikuyu and Luo people by British colonizers. "We had a new Constitution at the time, and there was this hope that we finally could picket without being tear-gassed or being beaten, Like, our civil liberties could be held up." Instead, the government strengthened its police force into a notorious organization condemned by human rights activists. "That's very salient in the film," says Soko. "If you see how the police dress, for instance, at the beginning, it's very different; they become more militant towards the end."

Soko's debut feature-length documentary, Softie, which became the first Kenyan film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, earlier this year, is at once a love story between Mwangi and his wife and their three children, but also between Mwangi and his beloved Kenya, under president Uhuru Kenyatta. Central to the film is the tussle between how these different loves bump up against each other: what comes first — love of country or love of family?

We spoke to the Nairobi-based director about making the film, which opens in virtual cinemas, starting this Friday, September 18th.

Boniface Mwangi with his wife Photo courtesy of Sam Soko

OA: Early on in the film, we learn how steadfast Boniface Mwangi is — he talks about being willing to die for the ideals he believes in, which made me think of Nelson Mandela and his Rivonia Treason Trial speech. Boniface is someone in the present day who still shares this belief?

When we were working on the edit, and kind of crafting and thinking about what the story was going to be, something that we found that was really, really interesting is, with a lot of the stories, like the story of Nelson Mandela, you'd never see the other side. That's something we see later, up ahead, as a retrospective. We'd hear about Martin Luther King and then we'd read about Coretta Scott in, I think, 1990, like, 'Oh, this his was her struggle.' That sort of thing. But for me, Boniface and Njere represented a present day reality struggle that showcases what Mandela was going through, what Martin Luther was going through. That was kind of like unravelling the curtain; when you see Martin Luther marching, Coretta's at home, trying to help their kids do their homework. And this is the reality.

OA: And the film poses that question of love for your country versus love for your family, and which one should come first?

Exactly. They see it in different ways. Boniface sees it that if you improve the country, you improve the lives of those who you love. Njere's like, you have to have your family's back first. And that means everything else comes second. And she's right; she's not wrong. And he's not wrong.

OA: The film really is privy to some really private moments in Mwangi's life — how did you gain his trust?

When we started filming the short video, he was really involved with the protests, and we started doing the protests with him. So we were—quote, unquote—in the trenches with him in the protests, and somehow that's how he kind of welcomed us to his home. When you've been with someone in the streets, and you're tear-gassed together more than once, you already have a common bond. But then I started developing a relationship with him that was beyond the streets. Just checking up on him and asking, what's going on, what's taking place? That sort of thing. I think it took a while. And I think even from Njere, we kind of developed a kind of camaraderie that was separate from my relationship with Boniface, because I would actually be like, 'Hey, he said that, how does that make you feel?' And not necessarily on camera. But over time, he kind of accepted us to be there with a camera. At some point, I kind of felt like they were talking to me, and not necessarily the camera; like, the camera is kind of this thing that's there, but not there. That kind of trust, again, was built on a respect that I have for them and their values and what they're doing. I think that's something they saw. It made them trust me with their story and trust me with their family.

You're the director of the film, but you're also producer, writer and cinematographer. Did Boniface's own style as a photojournalist influence you in any way?

The film has three cinematographers, and a lot of my cinematography is within the intimate moments, because that's when they would only engage with someone they trust. But him being a photographer actually, to a point, made the work a bit hard because he's constantly looking at how you're doing it. He's in your face about the angle. He's like, 'Hey, why are you standing there, you should be there.' But in some places he did help 'cause he's been filming in the streets and filming protests for a very long time. So when you're there filming, he'll easily tell you, 'Dude, don't stand there. They're about to start tear-gassing. Go to the other side.' And it's weird, when you're on the other side and you're filming, and all of a sudden you see tear gas, you wonder, 'How the hell did he know?' You do that 234 times and you start knowing yourself, 'Oh, this is how,' and he was really helpful in that sense.

I can imagine that filming during the protests must have been one of the big challenges of making this film but what else did you struggle with? There were death threats for Mwangi, did that happen to you as well?

It's so funny, when you're filming and when you're in the protests, it's adrenaline talking. So you're not really thinking about whether you're going to be okay. This one time, I got arrested because the cop said I was a spy for the protesters. [We had everything] from cameras breaking to sound equipment messing up, but when it became a more political story, with death threats, it became scary even for editing the film. Because you don't know who's watching you. This one time, I was with him in the car, filming, and we were being followed. So we kind of had to be very careful who we are telling about the story. It was a very deep secret that we were making this film and there are people who are watching it now asking, 'How could you keep this from us from all these years?' Because we had to do that. Especially when the family was in the US. We had to do that for the sake of safety for him, Boniface, for his family but also the film team. I remember doing the pitches with different names. But then we were also lucky that we had our co-producing partner in Canada, Eye Steel Film, so they were able to house the edit there. I went to Canada to edit and that kind of also gives you a kind of freedom to think and work and create. That was the reality, and now I think we have PTSD from the film. I can't film another protest. I'm sorry. I'm out. Like, it tapped me out.

There are similarities to the Black Lives Matter protests here in the US, against police brutality and violence but the slogan takes on a different resonance in places like Kenya, where the police force is particularly heavy-handed. How do you see these protests as being similar but also different?

There are two things that you learn with the film. One, our voices can never be silenced. They will try, but I think humanity is like a pressure cooker. The more you boil us, the more you put that heat, the more explosive we become. And through people like Boniface's life, you see that there are human beings who exist, who do extraordinary things.

The other thing is the idea of activism doesn't necessarily just speak to the person who's on the street. It doesn't necessarily speak to the person who's holding the placard. An activist is someone like Njere and her life, and her family. And Khadija [Mohamed, Mwangi's campaign manager]. She's such a strong and powerful activist in her own right. She was Boniface's campaign manager for free. The work they did was so powerful. And you have these other people in the background who are doing such incredible things. The sum total of what they've done is [to] instigate… We have an election next year, but I am so sure that we are going to have so many candidates who are going to be like, 'We want you to donate to our campaign. We have these values and beliefs; this is what we want to do.' That is how we need to go about change or add on to the conversations of change.

The same thing that's happening with the Black Lives Matters movement. Yes, there are people going to the street and we should keep going to the street. But we need to push people to engage in policy and make sure these policy changes are made.

We need to stand for what we believe in, as filmmakers in spaces where we feel oppression exists. Like the rules that have come out with the Academy Awards, these are rules that should be celebrated because they add on to that conversation of diversity and representation. All these things—that sum total—is what makes the difference. It's going beyond the streets and going beyond our Tweets, going beyond our Facebook messages, making films and sharing films. We just need to keep pumping up the volume, keeping the heat up, keep pushing. It's gonna take a while, but we'll get there.

Photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi during a protest in Nairobi, Kenya Photo courtesy of Sam Soko

That's where you as a filmmaker come in—this film was the first Kenyan film to get into Sundance, where it won a special editing prize.

There's another film I'm producing and, and, yes, I had my film at Sundance, that's great. But there's this other filmmaker who's making another film, and it's so cool, and this is the thing—we need to keep bouncing off this energy and this light and this vibe, and just keep pushing and making sure that the wheels keep turning. That's what we're all about.

How do you renew your strength, as a filmmaker but also as a Kenyan and as an African?

Being a Kenyan is hard. I think being an African is hard. Like, it's hard. There's a line I heard Boniface say once: 'I love my country, but I am afraid of my government.' But the way in which, personally, I find energy is when I meet new filmmakers, or you know, people who are like starting out and they want to make films that sound totally crazy. And they believe that they can do it. And I'm like, 'yes, yes, keep going!' We are planning to do a premiere. We have not confirmed the date yet but we're thinking it's around going to be early October in Kenya, because Kenyans haven't watched it. The government gave us an adult rating. They're putting us on the same level as porn.

This is the same government that banned Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki because of its homosexual theme…

Exactly, that's what we're getting but the lemonade that we've made out of all this is, 'Guess what? This is cinema!' We're going to take it to a cinema. People are going to come to watch it in a cinema or watch it at home or watch it in the best way possible. And the people who've watched it have appreciated it as a film and a story, and their story. They've seen a reflection of themselves. That gives me so much joy because the Kenyans who've watched it, when they give you feedback, they say, this is truth; this is our truth. And they don't see just an activist. They see a couple struggling with love. They see our history in the last 10 years. And they're like, 'What the hell, we lived this?' and they see the things that are unresolved — and many things are unresolved. Seeing that reaction gives me so much strength and hope. But it's hard. It's very hard. Because, you know, you have to wake up and see the policeman getting a bribe. And you're like, 'Homie??'

"SOFTIE" Movie Poster

Watch the trailer for Softie here.

Softie | Official Trailer | A film by Sam Soko

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