An industrious weekend

For the first time in a month, since I started my new correspondent’s job, I had enough energy to go out and listen to music this weekend without worrying that it would use up valuable drops of energy that I couldn’t spare. Playing at Dakar’s best live music place, PenArt Jazz, was Diogal Sakho, a Senegalese folk singer who I wrote about for fRoots magazine about three years ago. It was my second ever music article, and I had gone to Paris to write it, managing to spend less than the £67 I got to write the thing, on 2 days including the Eurostar. Seeing Diogal again brought back vivid memories of a time when my life was quite dramatically different, when I dreamt of living in Senegal, and of writing full-time for a living.

PenArt is a small bar, with clusters of comfy seats grouped in U-shapes around the room. It’s always hard to see people when you first go in there because it’s so dark and it takes a while for your eyes to get accustomed. But when you do, there is always someone you know who will shuffle up to let you sit down and watch the band, and even the people on the same seats as you that you don’t know will shake your hand or say a polite “bonsoir”.

The stage is about three by seven metres long. It’s not actually a stage, just one side of the room with a piece of carpet down to define it from the rest of the room. The ceiling is low (one bass player I know has problems not hitting his head on the ceiling while he’s playing) but the atmosphere is magical. When I listen to music at PenArt I always feel lucky to be living in such an extraordinary country, where music is made by real people and where people know how to listen to it properly.

After the concert, which was mellow and quite touching, and after the die-hard Diogal fans had left, Diogal, his manger and friend of mine, Soline, Diogal’s musicians and the bar’s manager, Kisito and I all sat around having a drink. At about 4am, a guy in his mid-twenties ran in to the bar and said, “where’s the concert?”. We all looked at eachother sideways and said, “it finished an hour ago”. The guy stood with his head in his hands and started to explain how he had tried for four nights in a row to come to Diogal’s concert, but each time, for some reason, he’d missed it. This was the final concert before he went back to France and he’d missed it again.

“Give him a thousand francs (£1) and he’ll play you a song,” joked the drummer and started to get out the guitar. Diogal is incredibly shy, almost painfully so, but he tentatively took hold of the guitar and sat waiting for the guy to name the song. The fan sat there with his eyes closed and then named the song he wanted, and Diogal started to play. It was delicate, and moving, a very tender song with Diogal’s exceptional voice quietly spilling out across the table around which we all sat entranced. The fan put his hands over his face to hide his emotion, before singing along for the rest of the song.

In other news, I have spent two days sewing.



I have an apprentice, Now, and he's good although yesterday we had a disagreement because there were four hands trying to work out how to get the lining (pictured) into a patchwork bag. In the end I had to tell him that too many people in the kitchen spoiled the fish and rice. He toyed with the idea of getting up and leaving, but he stayed and was here all day yesterday cutting squares for a patchwork (I can't say Patchwork-What because the person who's Christmas present it is reads this blog). Both presents are now finished and I am very pleased. My sewing machine, newly bought from a man who imports old ones from Switzerland and re-conditions them and sells them out of his shed, works, which is a miracle in itself, and it's good and sturdy. Now all I have to do is finish my patchwork bedspread, which I wish I had now because it has suddenly got cold. It's all very well wishing it was cold, but when it comes, it's best to have blankets and jumpers on hand, not in squares in the sewing basket.