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A renowned korist and percussionist from Senegal, Diali moved to the US after years of performing and teaching in Senegal and in Europe. Born into a rich ancestry of Manding griots (jalis), Diali has been playing traditional West African music for as long as he can remember. While his greatest love is the kora, a 21-stringed West African bridge harp, he is also an accomplished singer, songwriter, and percussionist. Historically, each village had its own griot who told tales of births, deaths, marriages, battles, hunts, affairs, and other important events and celebrations. In Mande society the griot, or jeli, served as a historian, advisor, praise singer, and storyteller. These musicians served as walking history books, preserving and sharing the stories and traditions of their culture through song. This inherited tradition, with deep connections to spiritual, social, and political powers, has been passed down through generations. Diali’s mother, MoussuKeba Diebate, and father, Ibrahima Cissokho, both hailed from long lines of griot musicians. Diali’s grandfather was the famed griot korist Lalo Keba Drame, who was among the first griots to tour internationally in the 1960’s, after his recordings became popular both within and outside of Senegal. Diali seeks to honor his ancestors through all of his work as performer, teacher, and collaborator.
LINER NOTES FOR “TERANGA”
1. Amadou Bamba
Sheikh Amadou Bamba (also known as Serigne Touba) was the Sufi saint who founded the Mouride Brotherhood in Senegal in the early 20th century. He was not only a spiritual leader, but also a leader in the campaign of resistance to French colonialism. When I was just fifteen years old, he visited me in a dream. I was taking a nap after returning from the mosque when he called my name. He told me he wanted me to sing for him. “Make sure you sing my name,” he told me. This experience always stuck with me. My relationship with Serigne Touba brings me closer to god. He helps me know who I am and what path I should be on. When I sing about him or play music for him, I feel a sense of peace; I feel strong and whole. Even when I feel lost, Serigne Touba helps me find my way.
2. Yeyengo
Yeyengo is a style of dance music that comes from Casamance, my family’s ancestral home in the south of Senegal. It’s the music of my father’s generation. Today’s generation of kora players doesn’t commonly play in this style, but I love to because it was a style my father and his brothers all loved. In Senegal, every ethnic group has its own rhythm. This version of yeyengo is the Mandinka rhythm played in the style of mbalax. It’s a celebratory rhythm that is often used for weddings, baptisms, and other rites of passage. In this piece, you’ll hear lots of percussive accents and multiple strings ringing out in a rhythmic strumming style.
3. Saya
I wrote this song the day we buried my mother. I couldn’t believe we put her in the ground, covered with sand. When my family was walking away from the cemetery, I stopped and turned my head back. That was the moment the melody for Saya came into my mind. We continued straight home, and suddenly I had the urge to play kora. I borrowed my uncle’s kora, and began to play this song. It was burning to get out. My family came and gathered around me as I played. We were all able to cry and express our emotions in that moment, listening together and remembering my mom.
4. Metti Metti
I wrote this song looking back over my life, remembering the death of both my parents, who meant the world to me. When they died, it was hard for me to figure out a way forward. I was lost when I lost them. Nothing felt right to me. Every day I felt angry, sad, lonely. One day, I went to the beach by myself and stayed there until midnight. I cried into the sand as I sat there. I had my kora with me, and in this moment of grief, I composed my version of this song. It’s a way of reminding myself of my mom’s lesson to me: “life is hard, but you must never give up.” She reminds me to remember all the people in my life who rely on me. Let that be motivation to carry on, to stay strong.
5. Nanga Gore
This song is a reminder to practice gratitude and appreciation. I have a tremendous responsibility to my family back at home in Senegal. Sometimes it can feel like a burden, but I keep this phrase – nanga gore – in mind when I feel like my efforts for my family are not always recognized. We should all offer our gratitude to one another for the work we do.
6. Confusion
I wrote this song looking back at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. When it began, I felt a profound sense of confusion. What does this sickness mean? Why are people dying? Everyone is locked down, and I’m locked up in my house. I couldn’t work to provide for my children. I couldn’t travel home to see my family in Senegal. What kind of world is this? I felt like I could hardly breathe; I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep because I was so disoriented. This song reckons with that difficult time.
7. Blessing For My Child
I wrote this song for my first child, Ablaye. When he was born, my life changed in so many positive ways. Having kids made me feel like “oh, I am somebody!” When I had my second kid, Annabelle, I felt even more affirmed in my purpose. With my children in the world, I recognize who I am. While this song is a blessing for them, it’s also a reflection on all the blessings they’ve offered me.
8. Naamusoo
Among the older generations of Mandinka, giving a woman the nickname Naamusoo is a sign of great respect. It’s like calling them ‘Mom.’ It used to be that women were not called by their name right away. Instead, this sign of respect was used first. Sadly, this part of Mandinka culture is fading away, so I call this song Naamusoo to keep that tradition alive.