Boubacar Traoré: Duna Ma Yelema

 

Well, well, well, well, well. Look who decided to open the laptop.

No promises about consistency — we’ve all heard that one before — but I’m here now. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I always come back to this. Writing helps me sort the noise. And god knows, there’s been a lot of it lately.

So, a little catch-up before we get to the good stuff.

I moved. Not far, just a few miles across town, but enough to feel like a reset. First time living alone, and it’s... weirdly wonderful. The quiet creeps in sometimes, sure. But there’s something about having a space that’s fully yours: to cry in, sing in, pace in, not do the dishes in, that hits different.

I’ve flirted with the idea of leaving SoCal. But I’m still here. Maybe it’s the ocean. Maybe it’s the stubbornness. Maybe it’s just not time to go yet.

Music’s been calling again, louder this time. I’m back in the studio, back on stages, back in that sacred chaos of collaborating with people I love and trust. It’s been good. It’s been better than good — it’s felt like coming home to something I forgot I built.

Couple shows coming up if you’re in the area:

• Sunshine Soul – Saturday 6/14 @ 9pm at The Slip in Lomita. Jams. Jelly Jar Jams.

• Berly D and The Nightlights – Sunday 6/22 @ 2:30pm. Jazz combo. Smooth as hell. What?

Oh, and I finished a sketchbook. Which may not sound like much, but if you’ve ever committed to filling 60 blank pages without abandoning ship halfway through... you get it. Tour video incoming. Maybe. No promises.

Anyway, enough about me (for now). Let’s talk about a sound I stumbled into late one night and haven’t quite been able to shake. Boubacar Traoré — How did we scan to this station?

INTRO:

Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of going back to school  —  specifically, to study music history. It’s a path that really excites me… but one I’ve gone back and forth on. School is expensive, and to be honest, my relationship with the education system has been a little complicated. I’ve also imagined other careers over the years — law, the judicial system, even a few left-field ideas that might surprise you. But I won’t go down the full career-spiral here — you just need a little context.

So — music history.
If I were to pursue it formally, it would likely mean attending different schools across countries, across the world; collecting degrees and experiences like little sonic passports, all in the name of becoming a truly well-rounded music historian. The more I learn, the more I get closer to understanding just how much music I don’t know — it’s humbling and kind of thrilling. 

At the heart of it, I think what I really want is to travel the world, not just listening to music, but immersing myself in its roots. I want to sit with it, study it, talk to the people who carry it in their bones. From street corners to symphony halls, dusty archives to downtown holes in the wall — I want to understand where all music comes from, what it means to the people who make it, and how it shapes the soul of a place. And then — I want to share it all. I want to educate the world about the joys, wonders, and richness of the music they might not even know they’re missing. Imagine a travel show, but for music: part documentary, part cultural deep-dive, part jam session. Maybe it’s a Netflix series. Maybe it’s a podcast, a book, a little corner of the internet that turns into something bigger.

Whatever form it takes, I just know this: people deserve to experience the full spectrum of sound this world has to offer. It’s not just about sound. It’s about story, tradition, identity. Music as language, as memory, as resistance and release.

In this age of streaming, the landscape of music has changed forever — in ways that are both complex and fascinating. What I really want to focus on is one beautiful outcome: accessibility.

Like so many people, I’ve been surrounded by music my whole life — it’s woven into the fabric of who I am. I’ve listened to what I feel is a lot of it, yet somehow there's always more. I remember when streaming first hit the scene with platforms like Pandora and YouTube. Sure, streaming has its drawbacks, but today, we’re focusing on the bright side.

We now have access to all the music in the world—or at least, nearly all of it. And yet, there’s still so much that slips through the cracks: songs lost to time, recordings that never happened, music that was never shared, or simply waiting to be discovered. It’s truly unfathomable.

I feel incredibly lucky to experience the music I do—it unfolds like a kaleidoscope, revealing new colors and sounds with every listen. And I can’t forget to give a shoutout to Instagram and TikTok for opening doors to both fresh tracks and “new-to-me” classics.

In fact, the music I want to dive into today came straight from Instagram — a perfect example of how discovery continues to surprise and delight. The music I want to share today and the start to my music blogging journey is: Malian blues aka Mandingo music, often described as African blues. Are you familiar? Oh my gosh, what an incredible journey this has been so far! I am completely obsessed.

I was scrolling on Instagram and a video of Boubacar Traoré popped up. I was immediately in a trance. It's the kind of music feels like warm dusk settling over a quiet landscape — the kind of sound that slows your heartbeat and invites you inward. It evokes a deep, reflective stillness, like you're watching something important pass by, but in slow motion. There's melancholy in it, yes, but also grace — a gentle acceptance of beauty, transience, and longing.

Boubacar Traoré's "Duna Ma Yelema" carries the weight of history and memory in each note — earthy, soulful, tender. It's like you're being sung to by someone who has lived a hundred lives. I am a huge fan of this sort of music in any genre! 

Here's the video I saw: 

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJzUmPmpFij/?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ==

This discovery cracked open an entire world for me — not just Boubacar Traoré, but the rich, hypnotic soundscape of Malian blues and its deep cultural roots. Rather than take you on a full-blown dissertation of everything I’ve uncovered (tempting as that may be), I’ll spare you the scroll.

The guitar work is often repetitive in the best way—looping, hypnotic, almost like a chant. It’s less about chord changes and more about groove, about pulse. There's usually a call-and-response element, vocals that feel like stories passed down, or prayers hummed under the breath. You’ll hear traditional instruments too—like the ngoni (think: ancient banjo) and the calabash used for percussion. Together, they create this trance-like rhythm that just sits in your chest. I have found that much of my music taste the past 5-7 years has been music of other genres with similar qualities. I would love to get into that at another time. Maybe "Music I've been loving...for the last 5-7 years". 

KAR KAR

There’s a kind of music that doesn’t ask for your attention—it just commands it by existing. Boubacar Traoré plays that kind of music.

The guitar stopped me. Add a seasoned voice, and more ache than most people let themselves admit to, and I was experiencing magic. It was like overhearing someone’s private prayer. And I wanted to know everything.

Boubacar Traoré—nicknamed “Kar Kar” from his soccer days—was one of Mali’s first post-independence stars. Think early 1960s: Mali had just broken free from French colonial rule, and here’s this young guy singing about hope and struggle with a guitar slung across his body like it was part of him. His songs became unofficial national anthems. But—here’s the kicker—there were no recordings. No royalties. No fame outside the borders. Just radio airplay and a country that held him close... and then, quietly, let him disappear.

Life dealt him a heavy hand. After his wife died, he vanished for a while—working odd jobs in France, far from the spotlight he never really got in the first place. But when he came back in the '90s, this time with actual recordings, the world finally got to hear what Mali had known all along.

His music is blues, but not the kind that leans on 12 bars. This is desert blues—fluid, fingerpicked, cyclical. Quite hypnotic. It pulls from the griot tradition  (a west African storyteller), from sorrow, from longing. It’s fully transparent and yet full of wonder and mystery. Stripped-down, every note feels carved from something wise and empathetic.

Boubacar Traoré was one of the first to play Mandingo-based music on electric guitar in Mali. He is over 80 years old. Let that sink in. He’s still out there. Still touring. Still picking that guitar like it owes him something. Still breaking hearts softly, one note at a time. It’s not just impressive—it’s holy. His music feels distilled, sharper somehow, like the water’s been boiled off and all that’s left is the truth. No tricks, no studio magic. Just lived experience translated into melody.

It’s a quiet kind of greatness, the kind that sneaks up on you. And honestly, in a world that loves to chew up artists young and discard them before they get wise, watching someone like Boubacar still doing it—still doing it well—feels like witnessing a miracle. Not the loud, firework kind. The kind you almost miss if you’re not paying attention. I often wonder what kind of audience he has here in the states, and wish to know others who are aware of his work. 

I guess that’s part of why I’m here. To pull back the curtain a bit. To remind folks there’s still real magic out there—music with soul, depth, and stories waiting to be heard. Music that nourishes in a way that goes beyond just sound. Stuff you might not have stumbled on yet, but when you do, it changes something inside you. That’s what I want—to help people fall in love with the new and the unexpected. To open the door to those wonders waiting just beyond the familiar.

Can’t wait to take this journey with you all. I’ve put together a playlist featuring Kar Kar and a few others—music to get you started, to get you feeling it. It'll be shared on my YouTube which I'll link...somewhere. Thanks for reading, and for letting me share a little piece of this world with you.

Stay tuned in. -Berly

If you dug this post, feel free to tip the scribbler: Venmo https://venmo.com/u/berlyd

Listen to todays tune here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4-uq8cTF7o&list=RDr4-uq8cTF7o&start_radio=1