Bombino

He certainly doesn't have Knopfler's finesse or Clapton's sensitivity, but Bombino knows what it means to love a guitar, to make the bond between man and instrument something unique, an unbreakable link between art and technique.

Milan's Teatro Oscar is an unusual, mixed venue for the occasion, both in its audience and in its unconventional shape for a rock show. Most of the crowd is seated because they've bought a subscription to the entire "MiTO Settembre in Musica" festival, an event bringing artists like Braids, Dente and Appino to Milan and Turin; an unusual and mixed crowd for such an intimate, distinctive space: Teatro Oscar holds roughly a hundred people, packed tightly toward the modestly sized stage.

The Fender Deville sits on standby on stage, while the expected ten o'clock start time has already slipped by twenty, twenty-five minutes. Then the Tuareg musicians emerge, called out rhythmically by the applause of the "grey-haired" crowd in the room: humble Bombino appears with hands clasped together and greets everyone kindly, overwhelmed by the Latin warmth of the audience; he picks up his guitar and, as he will do for every song of the night, performs that gesture of good fortune, stroking his Fender Mustang from the bridge to the neck with the palm of his right hand slightly cupped, breathing a deep sigh before starting.

The slow "Her Tenere" is chosen to loosen everyone's nerves and connect the minds of musicians and spectators, the former rigidly shy, the latter composedly seated; from the back rows you can spot a small group of "Milanese Tuareg", dressed in folk garb and totally swept up by the Nigerien onstage, who soon warms up himself and gets carried away in the melodic breath of the desert.

It's actually a slightly misleading Nomad Tour, since from the latest album "Nomad" we only get the aforementioned "Her Tenere", the splendid "Imuhar" and the album opener "Amidine", leaving a bitter taste for anyone, like the writer, who was hoping for at least the driving "Azamane Tiliade". Still, the hour and a half spread across twelve songs was something exhilarating: the Nigerien guitarist – backed by a well-drilled ensemble of bass, guitar and drums – delighted the crowd with his African-tinged blues, blending it with reggae textures and the colorful patchanka explosions of the best Mano Negra.

The effects soon become obvious: after two or three songs, someone in the audience starts fidgeting on their red velvet seat, unable to keep still, until some wild force pushes them to stand up and hop their way to the back of the room. There they can let loose and connect with the aforementioned Tuareg fans, who have been moving and chatting with Bombino since the very start; yes, that boyish thirty-year-old who after every song says thanks with a merci, with a gracias, and who, when someone points out that the right word would be grazie, nods along but politely goes back to merci, amid the audience's genuine laughter.

Those "furester de Milan", the Tuareg fans, are so caught up in it that halfway through the show, to the fiery notes of a patchanka-blues number from "Agadez" – Bombino's previous album – they first plant themselves in front of the stage to dance, then climb up onto it with total ease, hugging and kissing the man with the "velvet hands" and his fellow musicians; from this moment on, it's clear the show changes face, its calm crumpled up and hurled at full speed toward a whole new way of experiencing things. The entire audience starts moving, and by the end at least three-quarters of them are dancing without inhibition in front of the Tuareg leader, who stays composed but unmistakably shows how much he's enjoying the sight.

The final farewells are genuine goodbyes, with no encore planned, but the Milanese crowd cheers and calls back the wiry, curly-haired man from Agadez, who returns to close out a bright September evening with a driving, off-kilter rock number, a flurry of arabesque fingerwork that leaves the audience in raptures and stamps a sincere smile on the face of the "Shepherd of the desert".

Photo by Davide Micci

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