Cheikh Lo, The Scala

As part of my homework before last night’s gig at the Scala I played Senegalese singer Cheikh Lo’s latest album Jamm over and over again, waiting for some of its tunes to lodge in my mind - waiting to be compelled rather than feel duty bound to play it again. But no, I just couldn't connect with it. There’s nothing ostensibly wrong with the thing: it’s brimming over with easy-going cheer and passion, it's beautifully played and sung, and it’s all wrapped up in that familiar crystal-clear production that producer Nick Gold is so adept at delivering (his recent work with AfroCubism being another perfect example). But something was missing.

In the end I realised there’s a Buena Vista Social Club user-friendliness about Lo’s studio work, particularly - needless to say - on the songs which have a strong Cuban influence. So my only hope was that this gig would trigger some kind of understanding as to what he’s really about, which in turn would compel me to go back to the albums to hear them in a completely fresh context. Well, that’s not exactly how things turned out, even if I do now have more of a sense of who Cheikh Lo is, and why he’s achieved the degree of success that he has.

Strolling on stage sporting extra-large shades and a beret along with his usual colourful clothing, Lo looked not unlike a dreadlocked, rootsier Flavor Flav. But no sooner had I taken in his striking appearance, than he disappeared behind the drum kit to perform the opening number, “Sant maam” - and that was where he remained for the next few songs. Obviously it’s not the first time a band has been lead by a singing drummer, but it never feels quite right. With the microphone abandoned centre stage, it was as if the vocals were being delivered by a public-address system from some remote location, while the band played live before us.

The vocalist is both the musical and the visual focus of a group, and when Lo did eventually move centre stage it only lent weight to this perception. The man was a natural performer who exuded easy charm and charisma, and it made all the difference to suddenly be able to see him without having to peer around a cluster of cymbals at an ill-lit figure. But having said that, the man can drum, and clearly enjoys drumming. And after a while one simply had to get used to the fact he was going to spend most of the evening working away at the back (due, I would later discover, to a fall-out with the original drummer just before the tour began).

But on to the positives, of which there were many. The rest of the band were all superb, particularly the versatile guitarist, Baye Diop, who could move from angular American-style funk to laid-back reggae, and occasionally played with such admirable restraint that his clipped, muted notes became just another element in the dense wall of percussion provided by the congas and drums. “Il n’est jamais trop tard” (which featured Tony Allen on drums on the album) shrugged off all its studio-version politeness, to become a far tougher and more sinuous animal. In fact this could be said of most of the tunes played last night.

And let’s not forget the man’s vocals. It was in the only moment of stillness and quiet, during the ballad “Sankara”, when his remarkable vocal prowess really came into its own. Breath-soft yet frayed at the edges, Lo’s voice moved seamlessly from the intimate to the epic, soaring above the audience as the song reached its heady climax. But it wasn’t long before he was back behind the drum kit, so that the gripping dialogue between drums, congas and the shotgun ratter-tat-tat interjections of sabar (talking drum) could continue until the lights went up.

In conclusion – for me anyway - Lo (pictured above) and his band made a far more engaging sound last night than I’ve heard on any of his albums, however accomplished they might be. A bass-biased mix perhaps helped, adding gravitas and muscle to his material and functioning as a perfect ballast to Lo’s soaring vocals. But I’ve just never been a fan of world music as a coffee-table genre, much preferring to hear the grit of the unfiltered, and imagine the cloud raised by the stamp of a bare foot on the dusty ground. Against all expectations that’s what the crowd at the Scala got last night: grit, dust and thunder. On this occasion it didn't get me going back to the albums with fresh ears, but it has left me optimistic of hearing a tougher, less mediated Cheikh Lo on his next album.

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