Rokia Koné review – Malian star’s ragged, diva-ish charm is unstoppable

It was as a member of West African feminist supergroup Les Amazones d’Afrique that Rokia Koné’s name and extraordinary voice first began to ring out far beyond the borders of her native Mali. Among those captivated was Garret ‘Jacknife’ Lee, the Irish producer best known for his work with U2 and Taylor Swift. He collaborated remotely from California with Koné during lockdown on her debut album Bamanan – 10 electronica-dipped, gossamer groovy songs of joy, pain and fury sung in Bambara, the most widely spoken language in Mali.

Lee was originally billed to appear with Koné at this Celtic Connections date but had to pull out due to a scheduling conflict. Accustomed to performing in Bamako’s clubs for hours on end, Koné has more than enough star power and stamina to enchant a crowd without him. Sashaying around the stage in a flowing white dress, flanked by guitarist Thierry Fournel and keys player and beatmaker Manu Lechat plus a pair of perma-dancing female backing vocalists, her ragged vocals rip through the dry ice-clouded air during dreamy opener Bi Ye Tulonba Ye with a tremendous power and presence verging on the unnerving. Even without a microphone she’d probably still be the loudest thing in the room.

Getting one of her backing singers to remove her stilettos after a few songs reveals a diva-ish streak, but moreover how much Koné means business. Shezita (Take a Seat) circles infectiously around Fournel’s psychedelic Mande guitar grooves. A featherlight funk reworking of Les Amazones d’Afrique’s gritty Mansa Soyari insistently reminds women of their worth.

Lee’s vicarious touch as a producer gifted in the anthemic grand gesture is most apparent in the arms-aloft electro-house of Mayougouba (translation “move, dance”, although you needn’t speak Bambara to get the message). The music’s celebratory spirit matches a lyric from Koné revolving around the motif “you’re perfect as you are”. Stretched to a euphoric 15-minute workout that just won’t quit, Kurunba seems a logical place to end, until Koné and Lechat return for the true showstopper N’yanyan – a haunting song about human limitations and mortality, sung to droning electronic piano chords. It feels like a kind of prayer.