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BY VALERIE NARANJO As a profession, music is as difficult as it is fun. Practically every nation of many “folks” has musical spokespieces—instruments unique to that nation. Of those spokespieces are percussion instruments. Therefore, being a well-rounded percussionist in today’s popular music scene is a formidable challenge. We have great examples of percussionists who have met that challenge: Max Roach, Tony Williams, Chris Lamb, and Evelyn Glennie to name just four. Understanding the links between percussion instruments all over the world is not only challenging and fun, it’s necessary. My particular interest is solo marimba. I grew up in the American Southwest. My father is Southern Ute and our family played music together during visits for as long as I can remember. The ideal of music is: It’s fun. It’s available to everyone. It’s a respect-worthy way in which people fuse their energy and dispel the delusion of separateness. In a relatively small area of West Africa, a nation called Dagara has been cultivating solo marimbaphone music for centuries. Words like “polyrhythmic” and “polymetric” are not in these soloists’ vocabulary, yet in their rendition of traditional tunes, they set a soulful and spellbinding example of right hand/left hand independence. Improvising over a jazz standard is a practice they probably have not heard about, yet their format of playing created the concept. Alone, a marimbaphonist plays bass, comps chords, and blows over the changes while the drummer (on kuar or ganga drum) keeps time. The gyil (pronounced JEE-l or dEE-lee) is their marimbaphone based on the pentatonic scale. Its fourteen keys span almost three octaves, and it is played with two large beaters held between the first and second fingers to allow for a huge dynamic range. Gyils are played in pairs during funerals, and recreationally as a solo instrument accompanied by kuar, a hand drum made from a calabash gourd. I was introduced to African mallet music at the University of Colorado. A Ghanaian doctoral composition student named Joseph directed a weekly workshop on Ewe drumming for the percussionists in the department. I was taken by his marimba playing, and although Joseph disclaimed “real abilities” as a percussionist, he brought out a different timbre and used the instrument in a unique way. He was directly in touch with a marimba language I’d never heard before. The impression stayed with me. As a graduate student studying with Gordon Stout, I researched various keyboard transcriptions. I consulted members of the piano department with questions like, “How do you approach Bach’s ‘Well-Tempered Clavier’ knowing that Bach never actually wrote for piano?” Purists had a simple answer “You study harpsichord.” That advice begged a question. If I am looking for keyboard music as a source of idiomatic marimba transcriptions, why not look to the predecessor of the marimba itself—the dozens of styles of marimbas found all over the African continent? I was familiar with marimba bands from Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Mozambique, and the balafon ensembles found in Cameroonian Catholic churches. Yet, I wondered, does there exist a style of solo polyphonic marimba music from the African tradition? While combing through record shops in Harlem, I found a recording of Ghanaian gyil master Kakraba Lobi. In order to learn more about this mysterious instrument and the people who created it, I took my first journey to Ghana to seek out Kakraba. Traveling first to Accra, the capital city, I continued on to his homeland—the Upper West of Ghana. While I was not able to locate Kakraba (he was in Japan), I was able to stumble nose-first into the Dagari nation’s largest gyil festival, Kobine. I traveled from Accra to the Upper West capital Wa alone (a grueling eighteen hours on a crowded state transport bus) and was escorted to Lawra, the home of Kobine by one of Ghana’s Arts Council officers, Mr. Donzie, who had performed extensively in the United States. “What is your ethnic background?” he asked. “Native American.” “Where did you grow up?” “In Colorado. The town is 120 miles north of Santa Fe.” “Ah ha!” he exclaimed. “You will like it here. You are just like us here, and our Lawra town is just like your Santa Fe!” “He’s being so kind,” I thought. “Trying to make me feel at home half a globe’s distance away. He was right. My first impressions of Lawra mirrored childhood images of my own home. Reddish dust flew into the air every time a pickup truck drove by (which was infrequent). Most of the houses were mud brick. Older women shucked corn by tossing big shallow basketfuls of dry corn into the air, which allowed the breeze to blow away the chaff. Later that morning I was taken to the compound (extended family home) of the master gyil player and builder of the region, Newin Baaru. A polite yet probing interview ensued. Baaru needs to ensure that anyone who wishes to play gyil is truly dedicated to it and is the kind of spirit that can “carry” the music, since to the Dagari, the spirit and intention of the musician can affect either a healing or destructive energy. I was then given a pair of mallets and a gyil was placed in front of me. I could then show to them the result of five years of struggle and study from recordings without a teacher. I united with my second soul family at that moment. The men whooped. The women and children danced and sang songs that I’d been playing but had never heard sung before. The first lesson, which was with Baaru, began early that evening at the compound of Vida Tenney-Jiunia, who took it upon herself to host me. Baaru walked into the yard, set up the gyil, sat behind it and began to play a basic (yet complicated to me) Dagara dance song. I expected him to stop at some point and say, “Okay, you start this way” No. One learns to play from Baaru (and any other traditional master) by observing, and observing some more. I remember learning stomp songs (Native American recreational songs) that way. When enough time had passed, he pointed to my left hand with his jaw. “Are you ready!” “Yes.” Without stopping the music, I took over the left-hand line, later the right-hand line. Within minutes I was exhausted. I stopped playing. He got up, disturbed, picked up the gyil and turned to leave. “Where are you going?” “You stopped.” “Ah, but I didn’t mean to stop for the evening. I just needed to take a break!” “Tek brek?” he demanded. One of the youngsters translated the American phrase “Take a break.” “No, no, no, no, no,” he said, shaking his head shamingly “When you play gyil here you do not Tek Brek! You must be strong, strong!” He left. Indeed the phrase “Take a break” left my vocabulary. By the next morning I had three teachers: Baaru, Richard Na-LIe and P.K. Derry. We stopped playing only to eat and for me to meet new friends. I was overwhelmed by the depth of their knowledge and the generosity of their spirit. What did they expect from me? Whatever fee that I chose to give, and for me to do my best. Richard explained, “You disrespect the music if you keep it or try to make undue profit from it.” One thing they knew: In order for me to really understand the gyil, I would need to develop the stamina to participate in the overnight sessions during Kobine, where the music is not allowed to stop, and where a gyil player may play for hours at a time. A far cry from my first twenty-minute lesson!
KOBINE The day before the festival’s official opening, a hush of anticipation falls over the town. One by one, music and dance groups arrive (you hear them before you see them), and as they stop in Lawra’s transport yard they jump out of the old flatbed trucks or decrepit busses playing, singing, and wearing their finest traditional dress. In a few hours, Lawra is transformed from a sleepy little village to a noisy, colorful, rich display of joy and beauty. Pito (pronounced PEA-too) is a homemade millet beer. During Kobine, residents’ backyards become huge Pito bars and outdoor food stands serving sumptuous stews and dishes. Merchants set up shop and display their wares—everything from simple tools to lavish works of art. The sound of gyil is constant. The first official event of Kobine is the Greeting of the Chief. Each visiting chief and his court musicians travel in a procession to the palace of Lawra’s Chief Karbo, where greetings are exchanged. Meanwhile, the public assembles on Lawra’s main road for the final Grand Procession to the festival grounds. In an enormous pageant the entire party moves u a song sung by the women. The public takes its place on the west and south sides of the festival field, the chiefs and their courts take their seats on the north side, and the music/dance groups (at least one to represent each village) continue to parade around the perimeter of the field so that everyone can see them “up close.” After the announcement of Kobine by the Hoori-Hoori Man (an elder musician who uses a calabash flute), an hour of speeches, and the dramatic re-telling of the origins of Kobine, the real festival begins. For the next four or five hours the gyil groups are in official competition. One after another they go onto the field for a designated ten minutes and “show their stuff.” The group is generally one or two gyil players and two to six kuar players. The singers/dancers, each playing metal shakers bound to the feet and a cast iron clapper in one hand, move in a circle around them. At dusk, the groups assemble informally and continue, usually all night. The following afternoon, the competition continues, the finalists having been chosen by a panel ofjudges. As the competition becomes fiercer, one experiences a finer and finer display of strength and virtuosity The “throwing of ashes” in honor of ancestors is the solemn ceremony that closes Kobine on Sunday morning. GHANA’S GYIL CONCERT SOLOIST I returned to Ghana the following September after receiving a letter from Kakraba inviting me to study with him. Kakraba Lobi is regarded at home and abroad as the nation’s foremost gyil master. Having grown up with the instrument in his family, he perfected his art while still a teenager. A vibrant, youthful man in his late fifties, Kakraba has taken the art of gyil playing, composing, and improvising to new levels. At times, he improvises both left- and right-hand lines simultaneously, yet in different meters (e.g., 6/8 in the left hand, 4/4 in the right). The music is astounding, as if I am watching one man play yet hearing two. Now a well-in-demand concert soloist who performs all over the world, Kakraba is a Ghanaian living legend, considered in his homeland to be the world’s gyil spokesperson. It took an afternoon and a guide to find Kakraba’s main house. After meeting with this great master we set up an appointment. “Do you wish to learn in the traditional manner?” “Oh, yes, of course,” I replied. He growled in response. Did I know what I would be in for? The next morning, we met for the traditional initiation libation, a short ceremony that honors the masters who have passed. In traditional pedagogy it is a given that those who have died are still with us, and will assist us if we acknowledge them. Kakraba chose the space where I would study and placed the gyil there. He then broke the seal on a bottle of fine gin, which he had instructed me to bring for the occasion, and poured two drops on each of the four corners of the keyboard. He then poured a drop on each of the beaters and poured a generous helping of gin in two glasses: one for himself and one for me. I recited a traditional prayer; he did the same. Then it was “down the hatch.” He immediately began a session on how to “warm the gyil,” which is the playing of introductory phrases that all traditional players do when they first approach an instrument. This music, based on spoken language, connects the musician with his or her musical masters, living and dead. My first teachers avoided this painstaking process. Kakraba began with it. The phrases were lengthy, complicated, and based on a language that I didn’t yet understand. Furthermore, I was very drunk. I had two choices: to embarrass myself by relying on my intellect, or to ask for help from those experienced experts we had just prayed to. I did the latter. To my astonishment and to Kakraba’s smiling nod, I began to warm the gyil. That was the first of many amazing experiences studying with gyil master Kakraba Lobi. We are presently completing a collection of marimba transcriptions of his gyil music in hopes of helping to fill a space in marimba literature for traditional solo music from the African continent. The construction and playing of the gyil are regarded as a single art, the masters of which hold a respected post. Although truly mastering the art can take most of a lifetime, all of the men in a community are expected to be able to play at least a few simple tunes. Women have also recently begun to play. THE MUSIC Gyil is “the voice of the people” and its range incorporates the vocal range of those who sing with it. The tunes themselves are usually short and repeat a parable or observation. The study of gyil music provides a key to idiomatic capabilities specific to mallet instruments. For example, marimba beautifully expresses what drumset master Kenwood Dennard has coined “Metadependence,” which occurs when two or more interdependent lines interlock in dialogue between the right and left hand.
CONCLUSION In Ghana I’ve never been regarded as a stranger or an outsider, and whenever I’ve taken an opportunity to explain my intentions, my listener becomes my comrade willing to help in any way possible. I am indebted to many: To the people of Lawra, especially Paramount Chief Naa Abeifa Karbo III who made his court available to ensure my comfort, and made a decree that women be able to play gyil. To Kakraba for being so strict yet loving, and for rearranging his busy schedule to accommodate me. To Robert Levin, for generous hours of advice, and to all the Ghanaian people, who remind me of something that I learned when I was a child: Richness of the human spirit coupled with the natural richness of the environment create the most valuable things in life. Great music is one of those things. Valerie Dee Naranjo is an instrumentalist, vocalist, and composer who explores the social and spiritual properties of in digenous percussion music. A Native American (Ute) from her father’s heritage, Naranjo has recorded and collaborated with composers and musicians on five continents, including festivals in Grahamstown (South Africa), Edinburgh (Scotland), Katsuka (Japan), and Mexico City. In Ghana in 1988 she effected a chiefly decree that women be allowed for the first time to play Gyil, and in 1996 she took a first-place award in Ghana’s Kobine Festival (the first non-Ghanaian ever to do so). She arranged for and performs in Broadway’s The Lion King, performs in and arranged for NBC’s Saturday Night Live band, and has recorded and performed with The Philip Glass Ensemble, David Byrne, Tori Amos, Selena, Airto, and the international percussion ensemble Megadrums, which includes Milton Cardona, Zakir Hussein, and Glen Velez. |