The debate over what the pillars of identity are for the phantom "Judeo-Christian West" so dear to the far right continues to creak, but on one point there seems to be agreement: in this (small) portion of the globe, those who rave must be exorcised (and it matters little whether the cure is administered by a priest or a psychiatrist). In the equally shaky "shamanic cultures", by contrast, the preference is for adorcistic practice: possession is a sign of sanctity and must not only be indulged, but pushed to its most extreme consequences, perhaps with the aid of a sufficiently hypnotic backdrop. States of trance that, when needed, can become tools of anticolonial resistance (think of the hauka rituals immortalized in Jean Rouch's masterpiece "Les Maîtres Fous") or therapeutic remedies.
The n'dëp ceremony practiced by the lébous of Senegal falls into this latter category, marked, among other things, by a high rate of female participation. This mysterious custom is the inspiration behind the collective Ndox Èlectrique, a seven-piece in which, alongside the guitar and bass of the celebrated duo François Cambuzat-Gianna Greco, two voices and no fewer than three percussionists also stir things up. It's they who call the shots on these ten, pitch-black voodoo rites, which at times recall the voodoo dances captured by Maya Deren during her legendary stay in Haiti.
If the drum skins hammer out the rhythm under the banner of a sturdy industrial tribalism, it's the guitar's contortions that shift the hue of every track, grafting onto those shifting sands traces of Robert Fripp or Glenn Branca, Jimi Hendrix or Greg Ginn, Josh Homme or Duane Denison, Paris, Texas” or “Dead Man“. Taut and possessed, the two singers add the finishing touch with their frenzied wails, oscillating between the prophetic tone of a griot and the intensity of Skip James.
And so it is that every act of the ritual takes on a distinct musical shape, sliding from the piercing noise of "Lëk Ndau Mba" to the lysergic desert-rock of "Ngor Diouf Ya Demon", from the blues-tinged slashes of "He Yay Nalinë" to the infernal doom of "Sango Mara Riré", with the blurred field recording of "Yaré Rirewé Bakora Ndoye" vouching for the ethnographic integrity of the performance.
Conceived above all for live performance, ideal for bringing out their healing virtues, the 43 minutes of "Tëdd Ak Mame Coumba Lamba Ak Mame Coumba Mbangnon" hold up just as well on record. All that's left is to listen to them, searching within for that cathartic principle which is the very reason such experiences exist: might it not bring a little relief to us too?
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27/11/2023
This article is an English translation of the original Italian text by Ossydiana Speri, published on OndaRock.it. It was translated with the help of artificial intelligence, under the editorial responsibility of OndaRock's editor-in-chief, Claudio Fabretti.