-by A.D. Amorosi 

Tinariwen:
Gui-Touareg Heroes

At heart, Tinariwen is an Algerian desert-born ensemble of Touaregs who, rather than dwell in the traditions of native instrumentation, chose electric guitars to fuel their revolution in sound. This has been so since the beginning of the group’s existence, in the late ’70s in Tamanrasset, Algeria.

“There was a group of us who used to hang together, and go off into the desert to build a fire, cook some food, make tea and play music,” says Ibrahim Ag Alhabib. “In fact, ‘Tinariwen’ is the plural of ‘ténéré,’ which means desert, bush, countryside or ‘empty space,’ that’s to say, a deep desert with very little vegetation. People knew us as that.”

How we have come to know them is through the rare, raw stripped-down gallop of its guitars—think a minimalist Keith Richards joining Television at their most hypnotic. Add a mix of creeping call-and-response vocals, ancient wails and ageless lyrical concerns. That’s the sound of 2000’s Radio Tisdas, 2004’s Amassakoul and their roomiest, gnarliest record yet, Aman Iman (World Village). It’s a corny notion—but a pertinent question: In a land where electric guitars are rare, how did holding one change the immediate force of the music?

“Way before I touched a guitar, it represented something which wasn’t tied to old traditions and restrictions,” says Alhabib. Of traditional Touareg instruments, the tindé drum is only played by women, as is the imzad fiddle; the teherdent lute is only played by artisan griots. But the guitar was free of all these restrictions. “I had already played on ‘bush’ guitars that I built myself out of an oil can, a pole and bicycle brake-wire,” he notes. “But the electric guitar gave me a special thrill—the music became louder, better to dance to.”

Aman Iman may feel softer than its taut predecessors, which were often recorded in gruff, threadbare confines. But Alhabib claims it’s a more accurate reflection of the different ways in which Tinariwen play, from intimate fireside sounds (“Ikyadarh Dim,” for example, was recorded out in the bush near Bamako, around the campfire) to the pulpy immediacy they found in upbeat grooves. “That’s the desert sound,“ says Alhabib, of unifying tales like “Matadjem Yinmixan” and exile songs like “Cler Achel.”

“We want people to know that we come from one of the most beautiful places on earth,” says Alhabib. “But we also want them to know that the problems we have are still very much alive—poverty, lack of development in terms of education, health and water supply.”