Tinariwen - Lords of the Desert

A romantic novelist couldn't have dreamed up a better story than that of Tinariwen: from displaced outcasts to a point of reference and a source of pride for an entire people. Rather than a conventional band, they're better thought of as a musical collective: various artists have come and gone over the years within this cultural project, inextricably bound to the Tuareg people and the upheavals they've endured since African decolonization in the 1960s. The name Tinariwen means "Deserts" in the Tamashek language, and it represents an act of love toward the Tuareg people's own language (they prefer to call themselves kel Tamashek, meaning "those who speak Tamashek") but also, and above all, toward the desert itself, the only place that Saharan nomadic peoples recognize as home.

Their music, Tishoumaren (or assouf), reworks musical influences from Berber tradition alongside American rock. Like the blues, the lyrics favor social themes, exile and suffering, which is why some describe it as "desert blues". But their way of playing transcends any possible classification: over four decades of career – alongside their fellow countryman Bombino (a Nigerien singer-songwriter of Tuareg ethnicity) – they've established themselves among the most important musicians on the African music scene for their longevity, output, charisma and influence.

Ibrahim Ag Alhabib, one of the band's founding leaders, fled to exile in Algeria with his mother at just four years old, after witnessing his father's execution by the Malian army, accused of involvement in the Tuareg rebel movement. Raised in the refugee camp of Tamanrasset, in southern Algeria, he began taking an interest in music in a completely spontaneous way. He learned to play the flute to accompany the family's flock while grazing. Then he started listening to Algerian music by Rabah Driassa and, almost by chance, to American artists such as James Brown, Jimi Hendrix and Elvis Priesley. He had no money at the time and often changed jobs to make a living. Even the musical instruments were built from makeshift materials. He himself recounted building his first guitar out of a jerrycan and some strings.

As a teenager, in the late 1970s, he met the other two future founders of the group, Alhassan Ag Touhami and Inteyeden Ag Ableine, fellow nomadic refugees scraping by however they could, and like him, passionate about music and skilled guitar players. They started spending more and more time together, playing in an amateur way, at weddings or in the street.

They were deeply interested in politics, particularly the difficult situation of the Tuareg, a people who had always preferred the boundless spaces of the desert to the borders of a nation, and who now found themselves subject to the impositions of a state they didn't feel was their own. These themes clearly struck a particular chord with Ibrahim, indelibly traumatized by his father's violent death. They tried to put these themes into verse, not limiting themselves to writing love songs, which generally capture an audience's attention more easily. In order to express themselves freely, without running into trouble with the police, they increasingly went to play in the desert, whose silent starry nights offered them ideal conditions to play undisturbed for as long as they wanted. There they perfected their musical style, built around the sound of guitars, which they all handled with extreme skill.

It was precisely because of their endless desert jam sessions that local people started referring to them as “kel Tinariwen” (literally “those of the deserts”, or more loosely, the desert boys), from which their name was later derived.

In any case, they didn't limit themselves to using music alone as a tool to express their dissent toward Malian government policies, because they also became convinced to turn to armed struggle. They went to Libya to receive military training in camps that Colonel Gaddafi had set up with the idea of creating a military regiment of Saharan fighters made up of Tuareg. There they met three other future members of the group, Abdallah Ag Alhousseini (known as “Catastrophe”), Kedhou Ag Ossad and Mohammed Ag Itlale (known as “Japanese”). The supergroup, made up of no fewer than six guitarists, joined the armed struggle within the Azawad Popular Movement, which helped them fund the purchase of instruments and circulate their music on cassette tapes. This militancy undoubtedly helped them become known among the peoples of the desert, who were captivated by their songs in the Tamashek language. However, they were never mere propaganda mouthpieces for Berber causes, because their approach to music was always grounded in a constant refinement of their musical style. Their lyrics always had to serve musicality, and in their writing, too, they sought to favor the musicality of words.

It was only in 1992, with the peace treaty between the rebels and the government in Bamako, that they definitively renounced violence and decided to devote themselves to music solely for peaceful purposes, to spread their love of the desert and awareness of the issues facing the people who inhabit it.

They thus accepted an invitation to record some of their repertoire in a studio, traveling to Abidjan, in Côte d'Ivoire, where their first two studio albums were born after more than ten years of career: Tenere in 1992 and Bamako the following year. “Catastrophe” later stated in an interview that the band wasn't satisfied with the result: on that occasion, they paid the price for their total inexperience in a recording studio and the fact that they hadn't been consulted during post-production and the subsequent rearrangement, which made excessive use of drum machine backing tracks and piano loops in an attempt to make the sound more appealing to the Ivorian pop market. The result wasn't outstanding, which is probably why they decided never to reissue these records, never released in Europe, of which only a handful of tracks are easily found today, such as the interesting title track of the first album which, despite much more pronounced Arabic-leaning influences, retains the stylistic hallmarks typical of Tishoumaren.

They therefore decided not to pursue album recording any further and to focus instead on the live dimension, which, because of their years as guerrilla fighters, they had never really had the chance to practice. On the other hand, they also had an audience who, over the years, had only heard them through recordings and were eager to finally see them play live. Not all the members were convinced that their music could be reconciled with the legitimate family expectations of greater financial stability, and so some of them decided to accept government jobs and play whenever they could.

The turning point in their career came in 1999, when they accepted an invitation to perform in Angers for the Festival Nuit Toucouleur. On that occasion Kedou, Alhassan and Abdallah, together with the group's new member Foy Foy, joined forces with the French group Lo'Jo in a musical ensemble called Azawad.

During this experience they met English guitarist Justin Adams, who went on to produce their 2002 album The Radio Tisdas Sessions. The record's title comes from the only radio station broadcasting in Tamashek, which they used to record the tracks. Once again, they had to make do with the scant equipment available at the recording studio (even electricity was only available for a very limited time each day). This time, though, they had the support of a highly skilled producer like Adams. All the surviving members of the group took part in the recording (Inteyeden had died), and the original nucleus had been joined by the aforementioned Foy Foy, percussionist Saïd ag Iyad and a trio of backing vocalists. The "Radio Tisdas" sessions marked their first tentative encounter with a European audience, who were certainly captivated by their story and their look—so unusual for rock musicians, clad in flowing Tuareg robes with veils covering their faces. But what truly struck listeners were the hypnotic rhythms of their music, starting with the album's opening track, "Le chant des fauves", which stretches out at great length into music stripped down to its essentials, with voice and guitars accompanied only by the sound of percussion.

Closer to Western tastes are the following tracks, "Imidiwaren" and "Zin Es Gourmeden", on which Ibrahim's guitar launches into solos that steer the listener toward the atmospheres that would go on to become the band's trademark. Also beautiful is the ballad "Mataraden Anexan", one of the most brilliant gems in their catalogue, with percussion lending it an almost martial rhythm, lyrics speaking of peace, and the voices of all the members blending together, almost forming an anthem of brotherhood. The other tracks on the album maintain a solid arrangement but tend to stick to a similar structure, which weighs the listening experience down somewhat.

In 2004 Tinariwen recorded their next album, Amassakoul, and the lineup was radically reshuffled. This time two of the founding members, the charismatic Kedhou and Mohammed, did not take part, having decided to pursue solo projects from that point on. "The Japanese", however, would reunite with the group once more for their next work. The ensemble was instead enriched by specialists in instruments typical of world music, such as the didgeridoo (an Australian wind instrument), the calebasse and the darabouka (percussion instruments from North African tradition). For the first time, they also made use of a bass, played by Eyadou ag Leche, who would from then on become a permanent member of the lineup.

Musically, the record is more accessible to a mainstream audience but less uniform than its predecessor. "Chet Boghassa" and "Aldhechen Manin" have a very bluesy sound; the former was also recently covered by Mdou Moctar. They even venture into rap on "Arawan" and into world music on the tracks that open and close the album, "Amassakoul 'N' Ténéré" and "Assoul", which recall the engaging melodies of Amadou & Mariam.

The frenetic "Oualahila Ar Tesninam" and the more melancholy "Aldhechen Manin" are unmistakably rock, with interlocking layers of guitar blending perfectly with the voices and backing vocals.

Critical reception of these early works was positive, but it wasn't enough to win over a mainstream audience. It was their third album, Aman Iman, released in 2007, that proved to be the true turning point in their career. It earned unanimous praise even from highly demanding peers such as Carlos Santana, Robert Plant, Brian Eno and Thom Yorke, who helped spread their name and gain recognition for their talent. This time, they set aside world-music influences in favor of a sound much closer to their own tastes.

The album opens with the guitar chords of "Cler Achel", set against the melodic singing and guitars of the other members. It's Ibrahim's voice, however, that stands out in the melody of "Mano Dayak", dedicated to a Tuareg leader who died in a plane crash during the peace negotiations of the 1990s. The strength of this track, as with those that follow, lies in the perfect marriage between simple melodies and the elaborate texture created by the interweaving instruments, which converse with one another as in an orchestra.

The songs can seem distant and exotic: "Ahimana" sounds almost like a prayer, in which a migrant addresses his mother and tells her about his hard life. On this song, "The Japanese"'s guitar arpeggios stand out, blending perfectly with the female chorus. It would be a shame, though, to overlook the deeply poetic lyrics, which close with the young woman's words in reply to her exiled son. It's worth pausing over the lyrics of every track, which bear witness to Tinariwen's constant social commitment. Even the album's title, which translates roughly as "Water Is Life", returns to the theme of water supply in sub-Saharan Africa.

As always, though, this group's strength lies fundamentally in the music. The slow rhythms of "Kyardardem", as well as the complex interplay of "Toumast", capture the essence of their style; the hypnotic drive of Ibrahim's guitar on "Assouf" shows, beyond any doubt, that we are in the presence of masters.

Aman Iman elevated them to the status of global stars, invited to play at festivals of the caliber of Glastonbury and Coachella and to forge unexpected connections, such as a short English tour with Tunng, whose musical approach was light years away from their own.

Perhaps in reaction to this sudden fame, Tinariwen decided to return to their roots with their next album, Imidiwan, released in 2009, which they recorded in a village in the Saharan desert, far from the comforts of more modern recording studios.

The approach of this new work remains an Afro-rock crossover, with a touch more spirituality and a little less rawness. Aching blues that seem to have been written by John Lee Hooker alternate with Afrocentric mantras, while modern psychedelic flights of fancy follow one another alongside unpredictable guitar riffs, producing a musicality that makes every Western indie band with a habit of blending exotic sounds into their records look ridiculous by comparison.

You can almost hear the desert sand in the microphones of these lords of the dunes, and closing your eyes, it isn't hard to picture an extraordinary African sunset. In short, Imidiwan is yet another thoroughly successful album in the band's output, from the opening anthem "Imidiwan Afrik Temdam" all the way to the drones that close the ghost track "Ere Tesfata Adounia", so close to Brian Eno's experimentalism that it manages to close the circle entirely, bringing back home those ideas and attitudes that, with a more electro approach, helped define records such as "My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts" back when Tinariwen were taking their first tentative steps.

Buoyed by ever-growing international acclaim, in 2010 they were invited to take part in the opening ceremony of the football World Cup in South Africa, and the following year they released their new album, Tassili. The title comes from the Tassili n'Ajjer plateau on the border with Libya: a striking place, an almost lunar landscape that Tamashek fighters used as a refuge during the uprising against the Mali regime, whose rocks and caves provide just the right acoustic space to host the precious creations of Ibrahim and his bandmates. On this record, Tinariwen set aside electric guitars and played songs suited to being sung around a desert campfire, invoking peace and harmony.

The crisscross of voices that opens and defines “Imidiwan Ma Tennam” has by now become a Tinariwen trademark, while the small electronic touches (courtesy of Nels Cline of Wilco) are a precious frame that doesn't alter the sonic landscape. The album glides along with natural ease and melancholy: having once brought Tinariwen's music into Western culture, now it's the band leading Western listeners through the lonely desert expanses of their world. “Tamiditin Tan Ufrawan” is the track closest in spirit to their previous record, reprising with elegiac magic the enchanting fusion of traditional instruments and electric guitar that has defined the group's journey; conversely, “Tenidagh Hegh Djeredjere” represents the zen of Tinariwen's new sound, a stripped-down, dirty blues that refuses harmonic compromise and exudes poetry in every note.

It's hard to imagine a better soundtrack than “Iswegh Attay” for stepping into the folds of this desert blues: the track's deep, enveloping groove overcomes any lingering doubts and opens the door to this magnificent portrait of pain and solitude. It's sadness, something shared by every people, that makes this music shine so brightly — it's no coincidence that the Dirty Dozen Brass Band features on one of the album's most melancholy moments, as New Orleans blues meets Tinariwen's music in the gripping, visceral “Ya Messinagh”, another triumphant episode on an extraordinary record.

Musically, Tassili is a sublime pleasure, an album that lines up modern loops and flashes of funk alongside the intense poetics of the Tuareg, infusing joy into Tunde Adebimpe (Tv On The Radio), who sings falsetto on the excellent “Tenere Taqqim Tossam”. But it's also an album of love songs from Ibrahim Ag Alhabib, adorned with splendid vocal and rhythmic harmonies (“Aden Osamnat”) and meditative acoustic textures (“Asuf D Alwa”).

The acclaim was international: Tinariwen even won a Grammy for Best World Music Album. Unfortunately, though, this artistic success didn't translate into a period of personal calm for the band's members. The fragile peace in Mali broke down once again, and a group of Tuareg rebels made a fresh attempt at independence. Among them was the Islamist movement Ansar Dine, which turned fiercely against Tinariwen, accusing them of satanism because of their music. All the band's members were forced to flee. For a time, “Catastrophe” was even imprisoned. Once again, exile was their only refuge.

Inevitably, this climate of tension left its mark on the sound of their next album, 2014's Emmaar, recorded in California's Mojave Desert. Despite the solidarity of several American musicians who chose to collaborate with them — Josh Klinghoffer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Matt Sweeney of Chavez, rapper Saul Williams and multi-instrumentalist Fats Kaplin — the tone is darker and more introspective. Tinariwen turn more decisively toward their own people, aiming to awaken consciences and steer them toward a nonviolent revolution. It's no coincidence that the opening track is the album's most forceful and incisive. The guitars catch fire, but the message carries no violence: “Any peace imposed by force is doomed to fail,” sing Tinariwen.

There's no shortage of moments marked by unexpected optimism (“Emajer”) and flashes of rare creative beauty (“Imdiwanin Ahi Tifhamam”), as well as new, elegant and evocative desert blues (“Arhegh Danagh”) and poignant poetry of universal appeal (“Imidiwan Ahi Sigdim”).

It's impossible to resist the vibrating strings of the propulsive “Koud Edhaz Emin” or the acoustic sweetness of “Aghregh Medin (Hassan's Song)”, and if there's one genuine novelty in Tinariwen's music, it's that never before in their discography has such a cohesive, solid creative and musical unity been heard as on Emmaar. The sonic blend of the four guitars, in particular, proves extraordinary.

After the album's release, a tour was organized, but with a reshuffled lineup; even the band's leader, Ibrahim, decided to stay in Africa to follow the unfolding political crisis alongside his family. All the members were forced to move to neighboring countries or to France. This time, though, they decided not to take up rifles to assert their yearning for freedom, but their guitars instead, releasing a new album full of combative, energy-charged music. Elwan is the album of memory (in the Tamasheq language, “Elwan” means “elephants”), a troubled yet powerful record in which the depth of the political turmoil in the lyrics is matched by intense poetic vigor. Fraught and complex in its making, Elwan drew on some outstanding collaborations: Kurt Vile, Alain Johannes, Mark Lanegan and Matt Sweeney all stepped lightly into Tinariwen's glorious collective, leaving a subtle mark while themselves coming away enriched and shaken.

The whole album is built on lyrically simple songs. The keys are almost always minor, with interlocking electric and acoustic guitars that, together with complex rhythms and a multitude of voices, weave a choral sonic fabric. The band's signature desert blues takes on psychedelic touches reminiscent of the Grateful Dead, Afro echoes à la Fela Kuti, and pronounced funk influences in the style of James Brown.

A compact, solid album, Elwan is a puzzle rich with pieces. The crystalline sound of the acoustic guitar on “Assàwt”, the cutting tone of the electric guitar on “Ittus”, the ethno-folk mood of “Talyat”, the powerful arab-rock of “Sastanàqqàm” and the rhythmic loop of “Hayati” are all pieces of one of the group's most exciting performances.

Tinariwen's music has never been so mesmerizing and sinuous; the vastness of the Arab desert feels almost palpable in their songs. Take the splendid “Nànnuflày”, a ballad enriched by Mark Lanegan's deep voice. Tinariwen's political and social commentary also draws on metaphor; once again the elephant becomes a symbol of the struggle for survival in the intense, nostalgic “Ténéré Tàqqàl (What Has Become Of The Ténéré)”, while the music turns combative and energy-charged, with guitar and bass coiling around the powerful looping rhythm.

Critics were unanimous in their praise for Elwan, which earned the band another Grammy nomination for Best World Music Album and allowed them to embark on a lengthy international tour. On their return, now forced to live far from home due to the ongoing threats from Islamist militants, Tinariwen set off on a long journey through the desert between Morocco, Western Sahara and Mauritania, collaborating with local artists such as the celebrated Mauritanian guitarist Jeiche Ould Chigaly and his wife Noura Mint Seymali. Along the way they wrote new songs, recorded outdoors with mobile equipment, which became the raw material for Amadjar, later reworked with the help of Stephen O'Malley, Cass McCombs and Warren Ellis, who added depth and texture to a lyrically intense and inspired album.

“Amadjar” is perhaps one of the roughest, dustiest works of their long career, a harsh yet enveloping record that smells of earth and sand (“Wartilla”), slightly more melancholy and introspective: just listen to the intense prayer of “Zawal”. Bittersweet tones prevail, flowing slowly through the delicate “Anina”, while the poetry can be felt in the violin chords that embellish the poignant “Tenere Maloulat”, right through to new and intriguing shades on the sweeping, adventurous acoustic ballad “Takount”. It's an album that marks a return to the more acoustic atmospheres of Tassili, with sinuous, floating melodies that hold a musically austere, primitive tension firmly in place, barely stirred by the liveliness of “Taqkal Tarha”, which features Micah Nelson's violin (son of Willie Nelson) and the more rock-leaning “Iklam Dglour”. Once again, it's the relationship of collaboration and integration with other musicians that sets Tinariwen's compositions apart: the female choirs and McCombs' guitar on “Kel Tinawen”, the darker tone of O'Malley's guitar on “Amalouna”, the tormented sound of Warren Ellis's violin on “Mhadjar Yassouf Idjan”. But the album's real strength surely lies in its ability to make every member of the group interact perfectly with one another, while still delivering music whose compositional freshness remains completely intact.

In 2023 the band led by Ibrahim Ag Alhabib released their new album Amatssou, a call — in the tamashek language — to keep moving forward, “beyond fear”.

To make it, Tinariwen once again drew on some notable collaborations. Imarhan guitarist Hicham Bouhasse is practically an added member on this record; Fats Kaplin, who had worked with them back on Emmaar, joins them on many tracks. They're joined too by veteran Canadian producer and musician Daniel Lanois, who had independently remixed a track from the same album. It falls instead to the hugely talented banjo player Wes Corbett to accompany the African group on the lively opening track “Kek Alghalm”. The American musician's contributions, seamlessly woven into the ever-present guitars, were added during post-production. The original plan, in fact, was to record the album in Nashville at Jack White's studio. Due to pandemic restrictions, Tinariwen had to make do with a tent in the Algerian desert, later sharing the material they produced with the other artists involved.

Musically, the tracks on Amatssou sound exactly as one would expect from a Tinariwen record: layered guitars stacked on top of one another, voices blending together, guitar solos stretching out beyond the horizon. The encounter with American country music doesn't distort their sound but elevates it. Kaplin's lively fiddle on "Tenere Den" carries the melodic line and sends the voices speaking of revolution soaring into infinity. Lanois's contributions are bolder. Whether adding original pedal steel touches to "Arajghiyne" or lending an unsettling edge to the solemn "Jayche Atarak", the legendary North American producer suggests new directions for the winding sway of the African six-strings. There's no shortage of numbers rooted in the assouf tradition either. Among them, the standout is "Tidjit", built on blues guitar and rhythmic handclaps that give way to rapid percussion, all underpinned by the ever-present convoy of guitars.

On most of the tracks, the group tirelessly denounces the abuses their people are forced to endure, lashes out at those who betrayed them, and calls for unity among the Tuareg. Yet these negative feelings are tempered by the collective's driving energy, which, despite the fear stemming from outside threats, still finds itself united. At the end of the album we find them together once more on "Tinde", letting a woman lead an evocative chant. Only percussion accompanies her while the others stay silent. The track, in its simplicity, could just as easily have been performed centuries ago around a campfire at an encampment, and it shows just how important music is to Tuareg culture and society. All of this, despite the fear, is something Tinariwen defend fiercely.

In 2023 the band led by Ibrahim Ag Alhabib released a new album, "Amatssou", a Tamashek-language invitation to keep moving "beyond the fear."

To make it, Tinariwen once again drew on illustrious collaborators, as is their custom. Imarhan guitarist Hicham Bouhasse is practically an additional member on this record; Fats Kaplin, who had worked with them back in the days of Emmaar, joins them on many tracks. Added to this is veteran Canadian producer and musician Daniel Lanois, who had independently remixed a track from the same album. Meanwhile, it falls to the hugely talented banjo player Wes Corbett to back the African group on the lively opening track "Kek Alghalm". The American musician's contributions, seamlessly woven into the ever-present guitars, were added during post-production. The original plan, in fact, was for the album to be recorded in Nashville at Jack White's studio. Due to pandemic restrictions, Tinariwen had to make do in a tent in the Algerian desert, later sharing the material they produced with the other artists involved.

Musically, the tracks on "Amatssou" sound exactly as one would expect from a Tinariwen record: layered guitars stacked on top of one another, voices blending together, guitar solos stretching out beyond the horizon. The encounter with American country music doesn't distort their sound but elevates it. Kaplin's lively fiddle on "Tenere Den" carries the melodic line and sends the voices speaking of revolution soaring into infinity. Lanois's contributions are bolder. Whether adding original pedal steel touches to "Arajghiyne" or lending an unsettling edge to the solemn "Jayche Atarak", the legendary North American producer suggests new directions for the winding sway of the African six-strings. There's no shortage of numbers rooted in the assouf tradition either. Among them, the standout is "Tidjit", built on blues guitar and rhythmic handclaps that give way to rapid percussion, all underpinned by the ever-present convoy of guitars.

On most of the tracks, the group tirelessly denounces the abuses their people are forced to endure, lashes out at those who betrayed them, and calls for unity among the Tuareg. Yet these negative feelings are tempered by the collective's driving energy, which, despite the fear stemming from outside threats, still finds itself united. At the end of the album we find them together once more on "Tinde", letting a woman lead an evocative chant. Only percussion accompanies her while the others stay silent. The track, in its simplicity, could just as easily have been performed centuries ago around a campfire at an encampment, and it shows just how important music is to Tuareg culture and society. All of this, despite the fear, is something Tinariwen defend fiercely.

The tenth album by the Hoggar group was recorded in Algeria, where the nomadic group has been based following the violent coup in Mali that further armed the murderous hand of al-Qaeda followers, Russian mercenaries and Islamist terrorists. Alongside the three historic members Ibrahim Ag Alhabib, Abdallah Ag Alhousseyni and Touhami Ag Alhassane, the album also features one of the founding members, Diarra, back after more than twenty years away. Hoggar is a record that marks a return to the more tribal nature of their early days, but it's also an occasion for a generational handover, with plenty of new blood involved.

The hypnotic, swaying desert blues driven by guitar arpeggios, syncopated rhythms and vocal harmonies sung in a raspy voice remain the defining elements of a music that has, in the meantime, become as empathetic and familiar as it is evocative and visceral. Tinariwen raise their voice to their brothers, calling on the many Tuareg tribes to unite in the urgent, scorching rock-blues of "Erghad Afewo", while on the tormented "Imidiwan Takyadam" a female chorus speaks out against the many abuses Muslim women are forced to endure. The stripped-down sound of "Khay Erilan" is, by contrast, also the most joyous, though it's not the only moment of hope on the album: it falls to Sudanese singer Sulafa Elyas to briefly chase away the shadows with a beguiling traditional song, "Sagherat Assani". The disorienting dissonances and jagged guitar lines of the dark "N'ak Tenere Lyat", the funky groove of "Amidinin Wadar Nohar", and the apocalyptic desert-blues tone of "Tad Adounya" are further gems on a record of many artistic merits: Hoggar is yet another powerful cry of pain, one impossible to remain indifferent to.

Contributions by Claudio Lancia ("Imidiwan"), Gianfranco Marmoro ("Tassili", "Emmaar", "Elwan", "Amadjar", "Hoggar")

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