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In 2006, Professor Michael Vercelli had expressed unease for the future of gyil (xylophone) music in Ghana’s Upper West region. The lack of interest among younger folks, something of a concern for a number of Sub-Saharan regional musical traditions, appeared to be at least one reason why this music was endangered. How odd it seems to read this now, expressed in Vercelli’s’ doctoral dissertation, when there are at least two gyil-centered releases aimed westward in 2021. There’s the just-about-to-be released recording featuring gyil master Aaron Bebe Sukura, recorded in 2019 and titled DAGARA- Gyil Music of Ghana's Upper West Region on the Sublime Frequencies label. And also the album of this review’s focus, Nong Voru, which features another gyil wizard, Alfred Kpebesanne. However, while the Sublime Frequencies release features a single performance, captured in the field, and almost overwhelming in its complexity and intensity, the Kpebesanne release moves into radically different territory. This is because it’s a collaboration with Brittany Anjou, perhaps best known for her jazz performances on acoustic piano. However, because Anjou has also worked way outside of jazz with the likes of former members of naïve-avant geniuses The Shaggs or the pop-noir of Elysian Fields, it should be no surprise that she has found yet another collaborator in Kpebesaane.
And while her presence appears subtle at first, with minimal electric keyboards underpinning Kpebesaane’s grooves, by the time the track “The Women are Taking Over the Men” appears, Anjou, as well as a bassist and kit drummer are the driving force behind something that seems almost like reggae. Here, the gyil becomes the melodic accompaniment, while Anjou comments on the entire affair from an electric piano, heavy on reverb, as if she’s stalking the track from a distance. Over the course of the song’s nine minutes, there’s a subtly increasing darkness.
A brief solo clip of Kpebesaane from 2009 (see below) shows him to be a player of deep rhythmic intensity. However, on Nong Voru, likely because he is in the company of a rhythm section and Anjou’s keys, his role is subdued. “Nang Nyong Me” finds him and Anjou navigating an inviting pulse. Yet even here, his gyil is a flurry of notes and constant motion as Anjou bobs and weaves.
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The album’s final track, “The Impossible Song,” seems the closest to what Kebesaane might have performed solo in his home village of Wa. Gone is the rhythm section or any need to simplify the groove for a western audience. While Anjou’s keyboard and some computer processing become more apparent half way through the track, they never overtake it. Arguably, this is one way to keep dagara music alive, but then, for the most part, that’s not really what this record is about. Instead it gives both Kpebesaane and Anjou a place to meet, outside of whatever context they might otherwise claim as bandleaders or solo artists. It’s collaborations like that allow musicians to go exploring without necessarily compromising.
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