1.
When I arrive at Vieux Farka Touré’s house, he is rehearsing with his band in a colonnaded courtyard. It’s a kind of residential amphitheater, about thirty yards square, with nothing in it but a couple of mango trees, a handful of vehicles, and the band. The musicians and extended family who live with Vieux are milling around in the sunshine, giving the place the feel of a tropical Graceland or the South of France villa where the Stones recorded Exile on Main St. Vieux does not miss a beat as he gestures for me to sit next to him, nor does he miss a beat when he’s signaling to his uniformed security guard to answer the phone or to brew a round of green tea.
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