Manu also appreciated the slow speed of life in Dakar. Haste comes from the Devil, slowness comes from God, as they say in Morocco. ‘That was something they didn’t teach me in school either,’ Manu says. ‘I had to go to Africa to learn that. I’m a speed addict and that’s one of the terrible things in my life. It’s my culture and I need speed and kicks, but I also know it’s a drug.’ Manu says he also found the same slowness in other countries, but to a lesser extent. ‘In Colombia, they say if you are in a hurry you are already dead.’
In Dakar, in the middle of his Muslim phase, Manu did something which most people would consider a big deal in their lives. He got married.
One of the families that Manu was staying with had an unmarried mother and the community was censuring the entire family because of it. Manu for his part was seen as an anomaly, being single at the advanced age of thirty-eight, and it would hardly be possible for him to become a normal Muslim and remain unmarried.
At the family’s suggestion, Manu offered to marry the mother and happily went through with a Muslim marriage ceremony. He was still battling with depression, but if he could help someone by committing such a selfless act, then why not? At the time, he genuinely felt it would give him the stability he desperately sought. He certainly didn’t hold any resentment against the woman for being an unmarried mother, as others did, and, if anything, the idea of becoming an instant father appealed. It wasn’t as if he had had any great belief in marriage as an institution until then, in any case. And, to really give Islam a try, he would go along with its norms in his own determined, sometimes foolhardy, way.
The Senegalese don’t necessarily view marriage as a romantic union, in the Western sense. Just as in many other countries, it’s considered to be more of an practical solution, an alliance between families. and for Manu, too, the arrangement was something he accepted quite casually, as a part of regular, everyday life. What the legal status of the marriage in Europe would be was not entirely clear. Traditionally, it’s very easy for a man or a woman to get divorced in Islamic countries.
One thing that impressed Manu was the cohesion of family life in Dakar. ‘I discovered family in Africa,’ he claimed. ‘I hope one day I’ll be the father of a family, but in an African way, living in a neighbourhood, not in a European way, which is too narrow. The European way scares me a lot. It’s like a prison, a little flat with your kids. I will never be a family man in an occidental way. I don’t want a European or nuclear family ever. Never say never, of course … I want kids and to be a father, but with other rules.’ In Dakar, the whole notion of family seemed to involve a lot more freedom and space. ‘My kids would be living in the neighbourhood,’ said Manu of his theoretical family, ‘running around and being taken care of. I can take care of the kid of my neighbour; she can take care of mine.’
After his marriage, Manu travelled through the country and stayed in villages, helping when and where he could, handing out money for good causes, perhaps a school roof or a set of new water pumps. But whatever the richness of the musical and other experiences he was having in Senegal, his pockets weren’t infinitely deep, and his one solid project idea – a musical train ride between Bamako and Dakar – was proving hard to organise.
Nonetheless, he decided to give Virgin France, his record company, a call to see if funding might be available for the train idea. He had been out of touch with them for some months, not wanting to learn any more disappointing news about his stalled career, or of any residual recriminations from the rest of Mano Negra. However, when he put the call in to Virgin Paris, he was astonished to learn that rather than fading away into the sunset like the swan song he had anticipated, Clandestino was notching up healthy sales in France and beginning to move in Belgium, Germany, Mexico and elsewhere around the world.
Manu plots his next move.
The news was astounding. Despite the seemingly wild and fanciful predictions of Emmanuel de Buretel, Manu had been convinced that Clandestino’s intimate acoustic sound would confine its appeal to a cult singer-songwriter fan base and Mano Negra diehards. He was wrong. The word-of-mouth excitement generated by the album was extraordinary. The album seemed to gain its first international audience among backpacking and globetrotting types, who were cast in much the same mould as Manu himself, and in that summer of 1998 it became the soundtrack of choice in hip beach destinations from Koh Samui to Puerto Escondido to Ibiza. Travellers would come back with fond memories of their summer adventures and turn their friends on to the music in their heads, namely Clandestino. Its power lay partly in its malegría, that Manu Chao neologism that mixes the words ‘mala’ (‘bad’) and ‘alegría’ (‘happiness’) and expresses a happy-sad bitter-sweet quality in both life and music. It was a soundtrack to the moment when the sun goes down, echoing the transitory nature of life, reflecting the truth that sadness and loneliness exist even in paradise.
By pure chance, Virgin’s modest and low-key marketing approach, with its anti-consumerist aura, proved to be perfect. Clandestino was something that people discovered for themselves, through their network of friends, rather than on an advertising hoarding or in a TV commercial, and it was appreciated all the more for it. The trajectory of the album was most unusual. In 1998, the year of its release, it sold 300,000, the nineteenth best seller of the year in France; in 1999, it sold 500,000 and was the fifth best seller. It was only in March 1999, almost a year after its release, that Clandestino entered the top 10 of the French album charts, where it stayed for the entire summer. But then, rather than slipping away, Clandestino just carried on selling and never left the charts for the next four years. The same pattern played out internationally, and the album ended up selling more than five million copies worldwide. No doubt the real figure was double that, if you include all the pirated copies.
Only in the Anglophone world did the album remain something of a cult success, popular among a smallish audience with an ear tuned in to what was happening in France, Spain and the rest of the world. And this was despite the fact that Manu had signed to the prestigious UK label Palm Pictures, set-up by Chris Blackwell, the man who had previously founded Island Records and ‘discovered’ Bob Marley. In the rest of the world, despite a slow start, Clandestino’s eventual success was simply immense.
Even though Clandestino didn’t fit into any existing genre or format, a relatively new and growing interest in the catch-all cubbyhole of ‘world music’ put some wind in its sails. It’s an artificial marketing category that Manu rejects as absurd, though he has benefited from its existence. There was at the time a growing interest in music from Africa, the Caribbean and South America, fired in part by a search for authenticity among Western audiences fed up with pre-packaged formulaic pop. In the years leading up to the new millennium, there were more and more radio shows, magazines, websites, record-shop space and general coverage dedicated to world music in all its indefinable variety.
Coincidentally, Clandestino was released in the same month as Buena Vista Social Club, that sepia-tinted hymn to the glory days of Cuban son, which sold over eight million copies. That album was also discovered by word of mouth and burned slowly before receiving huge exposure by Wim Wenders’ film of the same name. More than any other albums, Clandestino and Buena Vista Social Club opened the ears of European and North American rock fans to musical styles from outside the West and brought in other listeners in their slipstream, who ended up exploring other musical styles, notably from Cuba and West Africa. Despite Manu’s misgivings about classification, these two albums spearheaded the ‘world music’ boom and they remain the category’s biggest sellers.
By the autumn of 1998, it was becoming clear that in France alone Clandestino would sell at least 300,000 copies. That was a healthy tally for any album, and was enough for Virgin to commit to a follow-up, as well as to invest money in a band to play live shows. After all the snakes of recent years, a ladder had propelled Manu to the top of the board. The rudderless months and years, underneath the radar, desapar
ecido, clan-destino, were coming to an end for Manu. It was time once again to return to the old continent.
BARCELONA 41.4°N 2.1°E
First of all, Manu had to decide where to live. Paris was still a city he felt the need to escape from, with its cold winters and cold heart. If he had to be based in Europe, it would be southern Europe. Barcelona was an obvious choice, with its alternative artistic and musical community and its noble history of republicanism, not to mention the most stylish and brilliant football team in Europe. Manu recalls that he opted for the Catalan capital when a cow appeared before his eyes as he was mulling over the question. That swung it. The cows had been leading him out of his personal and professional nadir. Why break a winning streak?
He felt confident enough about his choice of Barcelona to buy a place near Plaza Real in the heart of the old town, the Barri Gòtic. Apart from anything else, he needed somewhere to store his possessions, which were scattered in Madrid, Paris, Rio and elsewhere. He bought a basic apartment. He didn’t need a patio, because he would eat out and live as much as possible outside, using locals bars like the Mariatchi as his office and a place to jam late into the night.
Then there was the question of a follow-up to Clandestino, which Virgin were beginning to clamour for. Fortunately, Renaud Letang was available to help Manu trawl through all the other songs that he had written on his travels and both agreed that there was enough for the basis of a second album. As a working title, or subtitle, they called this Próxima Estación: Esperanza (Next Station: Hope), words that Manu had heard on the Madrid metro, as the announcement just before a stop called Esperanza. Manu’s recording of this made it on to the album – unwisely, as it turned out, as the train announcer later successfully sued Virgin for payment.
However much Manu disdained the conventional rules, creating a record loved by millions was an immense boost of confidence. Whatever doubts he had that his music career was over were dispelled, and a renewed certainty and purpose urged him on as he grappled with the task of putting together the follow-up. The two co-pilots, Renaud and Manu, whittled down Manu’s songs, knowing, this time, the sound and the direction it would take – and knowing it would work. This confidence and easy atmosphere translated on to disc. Próxima Estación would be a lighter album than Clandestino, with more brass and more humour.
Manu began to dream, too, of a new band – one that might have the impact of Mano Negra, or perhaps even surpass it. Once again, he focused on the task with the devotion of a football manager picking his crack squad. The core of the team was to be the bassist Gambeat, his Parisian friend; Madjid Farhem, the guitar wizard that Manu had met in Madrid; and Philippe Teboul, the percussionist from Les Casse Pieds and Mano Negra, who had been with Manu ever since they busked together on the Paris metro. To this core was added David Bourguignon on drums; B-Roy on accordion; Roy Paci on trumpet; Gianny Salazar on trombone; Gerard Casajús Guaita on drums and percussion; Julio García Lobos on keyboards; and a rapper called Bidji.
As the band starting rehearsing and gelling miraculously fast, however, clouds began to gather on the horizon from Manu’s past. Virgin – as might be expected – wanted to captialise on the success of Clandestino by putting out a Best Of Mano Negra album. Manu was resolutely opposed to the move. Just when he was forging a bright a fresh creative future, this seemed to him to be a very backwards move and a bald attempt to cash in on his unexpected success. But Mano Negra’s implacable democratic system outvoted him. The best he could do was to ensure that a small proportion of the profits from this unwanted release went to charities supporting the indigenous people of Chiapas in Mexico. If the Zapatistas were to benefit, it would at least mollify his pain and embarrassment.
But an even deeper and more emotional shock was in store. Manu’s long friendship with his ex-girlfriend Anouk was sundered, at least partly due to his sudden success. Manu had given her a co-writing credit for the song “Je Ne T’Aime Plus” on Clandestino (and she had appeared on the video for the song), but she wanted a further percentage of the album royalties for the period when she had managed him. The case ended up in the hands of the lawyers. Manu chose not to fight and settled out of court. His father Ramón was among those who thought he should have fought harder but, for Manu, squabbling over money with his former love was just too painful.
These experiences crystallised Manu’s determination to change his whole approach to music and business. The new band, Radio Bemba, would be under his control – creative and organisational democracy had proven too traumatic. Furthermore, to ensure this, he would hire his musicians on a tour-by-tour basis, for the duration of each tour only and with no further commitment. He also realised that attempts to operate either without a manager, or with a friend and ex-lover like Anouk, or a family member like Santi, had all ended disastrously. Instead, he asked Jacques Renault, co-founder of the management and touring company Corida, an old-school showbiz hand who had looked after French alternative pop group Les Rita Mitsouko and promoted tours by Dire Straits and Eric Clapton, to look after his affairs.
The band is assembled – Manu, Madjid (with the glass, centre), Gambeat (in the white T-shirt) and the rest, on the road in Mexico.
MEXICO CITY AND ALL POINTS SOUTH
After several weeks of rehearsals, the new look Radio Bemba was ready for the road. The idea was to do some try-outs in Mexico, the country that had always been good to him and where both Casa Babylon and Clandestino had taken off in a big way. In fact, the band were thrown right in the deep end when they were booked to headline a massive free concert at the Zócalo, the huge square in Mexico City’s historic city centre, encircled by the National Palace, the cathedral and the ruins of an Aztec pyramid.
After the Zócalo concert, Manu realised, with somewhat mixed feelings, that whatever fame he had known with Mano Negra had been ratcheted up several levels. Even though the free concert was not properly publicised, over 150,000 fans rammed the square. The band played both new songs from Clandestino, like “Bienvenido a Tijuana” and “Por El Suelo”, with harder, rock-reggae arrangements, and some older Mano Negra numbers including “King Kong Five” and “Mala Vida”. There was a disparity between the more acoustic album versions of the Clandestino songs and their raucous high-energy live renditions that has been a characteristic of Manu’s live show ever since. The balance between the horns and the sonic dynamics provided by percussion, brass and accordion seemed to work magically well.
Even though Manu was almost crippled with nerves before the show and the band were ‘still in diapers’, as he put it, any fear that he had lost his ability to win over and electrify a large audience melted away during the euphoric set. Camille T. Tiara of the San Francisco Bay Guardian caught the show in Tijuana a few days later: ‘Seething with energy after hours of anticipation, the audience reacts in unison to the music,’ she wrote: ‘impromptu slam pits pop up throughout the auditorium floor, and bodies roll overhead as soon as the band brings up the beat.’ A lower-key benefit in the Chiapas followed, in front of an altogether more impassive Indian and Zapatista crowd, before the band took off to perform elsewhere in South America.
Everywhere, Manu was overwhelmed by the reaction. ‘The album Clandestino has spawned a beautiful thing,’ he told a Mexican journalist. ‘An exchange of hope. It wasn’t so much about selling or not selling, but about having such a response from the people, which I’ve never had in my life. Something strong and tender. It’s fabulous!’
Manu was also developing a new style of agitprop art. At each stop of the tour, he did what he had promised if ever he had the chance to ‘use the microphone’ again and publicised the struggles of the oppressed. Often he plugged into a local struggle or movement and would hold his obligatory press conference at a venue relevant to that struggle. ‘I was lucky, I was used by history,’ he told a reporter from Le Monde, though he was also careful to avoid presenting himself as some kind of political messiah. ‘I’m like you,’ he continued, ‘lost in the century. I always see
k the Tumba de Don Quixote (Tomb of Don Quixote). Here and there, I see little lights, points of fever, like the Chiapas. But I’m a musician, I sing a little, talk a little …’
Like Don Quixote, Manu was a scatterbrained knight-errant, stumbling upon aspects of the truth, tilting against the windmills of world politics. In Mexico City, he had dedicated the concert to local students who had been arrested for protesting against hikes in tuition fees. In Mendoza, Argentina, he declared: ‘I come here because it is a way to break the monopolies of information,’ offering his support to the local barrio of La Gloria and its community radio station Cuyum, as well a library threatened with closure.
In Bolivia, the tour coincided with a protest over water rights in and around the town of Cochabamba, high in the Andes. There were riots, arrests and protests, and a seventeen-year-old youth was shot and killed. With its slogan ‘Agua es un derecho, no una mercancia’ (Water is a right, not a commodity), the protests pitted local people against an American-owned company that had taken over the local utility. Manu was able to use his press conferences to highlight the issue and get international publicity and the company eventually withdrew. Manu could claim, in small part at least, to have helped achieve this outcome.
One stop in Uruguay combined politics with r’n’r. Manu held a press conference at Cabo Polonio, a delightfully bohemian coastal spot that was threatened with development. Cabo Polonio is a famously chilled beach village which back then had neither electricity nor running water, a landscape of shacks and shifting sand dunes, a single lighthouse, with Rasta-coloured flags of red, gold and green serving as wind vanes. To get there you had to take a pick-up truck or go on horseback. Nightlife was lived by candlelight, and animals wandered around freely. It was an eccentric place that Manu loved and he decided to stay there for a couple of weeks. One day there was an eclipse and a whale was washed ashore, as if disoriented by the sun’s occlusion. Then, as he was waking up the next morning, a cow nuzzled its way into Manu’s shack. He knew he was in the right place.
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