The final third in Lumière’s WOMAD coverage, CATHERINE BISLEY recalls in images and words a weekend of mud, ducks and dancing as well as that wide group of folk who listen to and play “world music” – the most diverse genre out.


PUKEKURA PARK is filled with broad-leaved trees, lush gullies, solitary pathways, and ponds brimming over with lily-pads and ducks. Performer after performer at WOMAD 07 commented on it’s excellence as a venue. Philippe Cohen Solal, the charming frontman of Gotan Project, announced it was the best place they’d performed in – high praise from a suave Parisian. For me, the park calls up memories of ice-creams and trips to feed the duck multitude. Last time I was in New Plymouth I was sixteen and at a debating tournament. Somehow a trip to the park with my billet (a nice enough New Plymouth lad called Neville) turned into a boy racing adventure. I’d never been before and I haven’t been since: burning round and round in circles, listening to bad techno – it just doesn’t do it for me. And we never made the park. My WOMAD experience couldn’t have been further from this monotony. I got to throw a few crusts to those nostalgia-inducing ducks and the music was much much better.

My fear of aesthetic violation at the hands of hippies in tie-dyed outfits and the grim weather forecast were not enough to dampen the unbridled anticipation I felt coming up to my first WOMAD. Gotan Project were playing, Mali’s Salif Keita was playing, American/Mexican songstress Lila Downs would be enchanting the crowd, and legendary Brit DJ Mr Scruff was going mixing tunes three nights in a row. On top of this there was the intriguing prospect of Etran Finatawa playing desert nomad blues and doing a cooking show as well as the throat singing quartet Huun Huur Tu from Tuva, an outer region of Sibera (!)


Gotan Project were first up. The trees around the Bowl of Brooklands were lit up in psychedelic colours, flags were fluttering all around the lip of the gully, and the grey skies cleared just before the music started: the performance reverberated under the bright starts of the Southern Hemisphere. The group performed in white outfits on a multi levelled white stage. Solal and Swiss-born Christoph Mueller worked all things electronic on a raised platform at the back, while Argentine guitarist Eduardo Makaroff was at the front of the stage with Buenos Aires singer Veronika Silva, a pianist and a bandoneón player. To the side on a slightly higher level was a feisty female string quartet: the male journalists enthused about them for the rest of the weekend. The performance was slick: the musicians’ entrance signalled by the excitement inducing syncopated beat of Diferente. This, like many of Gotan’s tracks, has great momentum. The piano came in first, followed by the bandoneón (the bandoneón is an instrument similar to a piano accordion – it now tops my list of the world’s sexiest instruments). By the time Silva’s voice and another beat were layered on, I, like many in the audience, was unable to control my limbs: thus began the first instance of wild dancing in a weekend filled with wild dancing.


Video artist Prisca Lobjoy’s work was projected onto two screens during the performance; as well as the large screen behind the performers, the front of the plinth on which Solal and Mueller were elevated served as a smaller screen. This had a layering effect which integrated the performance and the projections. Having two screens also allowed for nuanced shifts in and out of synchronisation. This worked best in Lunático (the title track of Gotan’s second album) which gets its name from tango legend Carlos Gardel’s racehorse. Appropriately, the clip features grainy images of race horses. At one point the suspended motion of the horses looping on the larger screen was counterpoised by the image on the smaller screen, where the horses gallop by unimpeded. Nuance and subtlety were the name of the game. Lobjoy’s imagining of Diferente was theatrical. In this clip a couple dance the tango, their image is mirrored and split. Spectators, including two pairs of good looking twins watch from the edge of the dance floor. While the clip was colourful and sensual (not to mention clever in the ways it played with the idea of doubling) it was great just to watch the dancing. Lobjoy’s projections provided a kinetic motion that complemented Gotan’s largely static performance style. The pairing of an image of circling rotor blades in a wind farm and the looping guitar riff of La Vigüela was great. In terms of raw response to music, Mi Confesión was the stand out in the set. Rappers Lucas Lapalma and Diego Gaston Ponce (one dressed in blue the other in red) were projected behind the bright whiteness of the performers: their performance was so engaging it was hard to believe they weren’t there. The pause when the rap shifts from one rapper to the other was the best half second WOMAD had on offer.

Gotan Project’s sharp shaping of melody and rhythm, the accumulations, repetitions and contrasts in the music, were slickly rendered in live performance: no mean feat when the music must cut perfectly with images. Coupled with Lobjoy’s video art the atmosphere was palpable. While the musicians were less physically active than many of the acts at WOMAD, they poured intense focus and passion into their playing. Makaroff in particular had a striking sensitivity. The only disappointment was that the performance was over all too quickly.


I had never seen a teal duck swim so fast. Afrobeat clearly wasn’t its bag, and as Nigeria’s Femi Kuti & The Positive Force were kicking off on the main stage it was busting a move. While the brass overpowered at times, Kuti was an engaging performer, cohering the huge band and holding the audience in his thrall. He was occasionally outdone by his three dancers, who were scantily clad in green and yellow and gyrating as no women have gyrated before (what’s more this gyration was synchronised). Kuti’s songs were often political and some of the darker messages didn’t quite gel with the celebratory style. Shifting inland to Mali, world music star Salif Keita was on form. He also had beautiful dancing back-up vocalists. His two wore more than Kuti’s three- beautiful elegant dresses and head scarves. Their dancing was less sweaty and more graceful. During the encore they let rip and did fantastic dance solos, improvised movement that was completely given over to the rhythm. Apart from a lull in energy when he switched to an acoustic set, Keita, a man getting into his late 50s leapt around and did two encore pieces.


On Saturday, Huun Huur Tu provided my first encounter with throat singing. I thought I’d had an unsurpassable harmonic experience while listening to a baroque group singing Monteverdi’s Vespers. However, listening to this quartet was something else. The way the low still drone of the voice split into two lines, the way the high notes pealed off to create a vivid and meandering melody octaves above…. It was surreal and beautiful. At the group’s workshop I learnt about the many variations of style and technique in Tuvan throat singing. The group’s manager spoke passionately about Tuva, a country were one of the main occupations is herding reindeer and sheep. When I got home I unearthed my favourite children’s book Parrak the White Reindeer by Inga Borg. Though set in Lapland, the music evoked similar landscapes. Tuva’s herdsmen must travel vast distances on horseback to find romance: horse riding and its happy connotation comes through strongly in their music. Having spent a lot of my youth in search of remote places to gallop my horse, as well as being an incurable romantic after over reading Wuthering Heights, I was feeling it.

That night I heard Huun Huur Tu again. It was now 11.30 and raining. They sat in their magenta outfits underneath the shafting lights while rain swirled in onto the stage. Being from Siberia, they didn’t flinch. I took a leaf out of their book of resilience and when they finished went and danced with Mr Scruff. The major shift in tone was surprisingly fluid, the calm brought on by the throat singing shattered and I was possessed by some kind of demon dancing spirit. The sense of adventure ran on until 2 when the novelty of being wet and muddy wore off and fatigue set in.


The Kapa Haka group from Whitireia Polytechnic gave a stirring performance: they were my top New Zealand act. At times formidable, and at others playful, their poi dances, songs and haka were vibrant with a deep sense of story and history. They also gave a workshop that incited some enthusiastic audience participation. Another visceral dance group, WETR from New Caledonia, had a punch in the stomach act. Their colourful body painting, textured costumes, circling dances and the ebb and flow of movement to the periphery of the stage and back to the musicians at the centre stage had a mesmerising effect.


The statuesque Mariza drew on the traditional Portuguese form of Fado. She oscillated between still sad music, which was infused with a deep sense of longing, and racy upbeat numbers. She enchanted the crowd and her own musicians and increased my resolve to visit Lisbon. At her press conference she spoke of how much she’d disliked Australia, where punters wanted to drink beer and be rowdy and of how much she appreciated that audiences in New Zealand sat and listened, trying to understand the music. I felt a nationalistic swell of pride before remembering that I was at WOMAD and such sentiment was inappropriate.

While there was an unpleasant sit down/stand up argument up during the All Star Gala, the bad feelings dissipated during a drum off between legend Bill Cobham and the thirteen-year-old Iranian prodigy Naghib Shanbehzadeh. They led an amalgam of WOMAD’s many talented percussionists. Just when I thought the gala had reached its zenith Naghib’s father Saeid whirled on. Playing his Iranian bagpipes while balancing them on his head, he danced and sang and wailed with abandon. Together Saeid and Naghib make up Ensemble Shanbehzadeh. The rapport between the father and son, their invigorating rhythms, hearing the sounds of instruments that I’d never encountered before and the sheer enjoyment of watching them perform was elevating. With many groups exploring the fusion of disparate forms, it was refreshing to hear the traditional music of Iran’s Boschehr province. A group that did mix it up was Etran Finatawa. Dressed in traditional robes they were as electric at the lead guitarist’s bright blue guitar. Lila Downs’ vocal range was remarkable, her performance lively, her lyrics quirky yet meaningful. Backed up by a virtuosic band (especially the harpist and bassist) and with a visual feed that was manipulated and projected live, it was a captivating set.


There were a few groups that didn’t cut it. I enjoyed one of Wai’s manic raps, but on the whole found them a little parochial. Admittedly Hollie Smith isn’t really my kinda thing, but her performance lacked lustre. While South Africa’s Mahatola Queens had impressive spirit, I found it difficult to differentiate between their songs. It was the same story with their dance moves: great the first time but then tedious as they were repeated over and over again. My response to their performance was tainted by the fact I saw snap shots of them throughout the festival before watching their entire set late on Sunday. In general, Sunday lacked the verve of the previous two days. This could be related to the flooding of the camping ground and subsequent reduction of the crowd. Or it could be put down to fatigue after overexertion at Mr Scruff. Or the fact I finally relented to the doughnut girls’ tasty wares and was weighed down by that greasy doughy goodness.


WOMAD attracted a diverse range of punters from a variety of cultures, socioeconomic backgrounds and ages. On most banks groups of kids were playing rolly polly; there was the expected tie-dyed outfit crew who invariably swayed with their eyes closed; there were some rowdy Brazilians; and at Don McGlashan a cow cocky in his airtex shirt, vest and hat was clearly feeling it – he danced and beamed and beamed and danced. It was a cool crowd. Sunday saw an influx of disgruntled Taranaki youth. I don’t know what this one kid was expecting but he felt compelled to yell “WOMAD is gay,” to the entire Bowl of Brooklands during Mariza’s performance. Channelling the stagnation of small city NZ, he took me back five years to that boy racing excursion.

But it doesn’t pay to dwell on minor blips. WOMAD was a fantastic weekend. The people, the food, and the venue of Pukekura Park provided a great backdrop for the charismatic performers and the eclectic styles of music. WOMAD is now going to be an annual event in New Zealand. If you haven’t been already, go. World music isn’t just for hippies.

See also:
» WOMAD 2007: In Images
» WOMAD 2007: World of Music, Arts & Dance
» WOMAD 2007: A Brief Conspectus

» Images by Catherine Bisley © 2007