Ten? Are we, when?

Tinariwen were performing at the Norwich Arts Centre, on Tuesday night. I had acquired a ticket early, in order to avoid disappointments, arrived at the venue early, and prepared for the enthralment. "Standing only?" my body objected, "Here, grab this handrail!" I was prepared to die defending my chosen vantage!

Forty minutes in arrears of the scheduled start a sleepwalking roadie sauntered onto the stage. He set about tweaking guitars that had already been tweaked. Had someone offered me a chair at this point, I might have cried with gratitude. I can't have been the only one thinking, "These chaps usually set up stage in The Sahara, leaky car-battery powered amps, sand-blasted instruments, chords ripped away upon the wind!"

Almost precisely an hour into expectations, the lights dimmed, the World Music intro had long since run its course. "I've spun cars off the road, and still been more punctual," I was thinking. It's entirely an age thing... entirely an age and related health thing. Upon a later inspection of the tour dates, I was somewhat humbled.

Many thanks indeed, to Zach Dischner

But, the younger me was already smiling. Tinariwen ghosted in, from backstage, sliding from the shadows. Since my last visit I'd been to other concerts. The Theatre Royal has pretty much nailed the timing issues, the sound is pin-drop perfect, the air invariably laden with expensive perfume, white wine and steam-pressed seams. The Arts Centre is more well-heeled ale, last year's clothes and other people's beards. The sound system competes with the rafters and four rather intrusive concrete pillars. But, recycling the same carbon dioxide as the band is priceless! A toss of a head and sand is bouncing up into the eyes of the eighth row.

There were six of them, and the closest we came to a conversation was, "S'okay? Comment ça va?" repeated at intervals throughout, and, "Sank'ou." The songs were delivered through sand-blasted throats, in a Tuareg tongue (Tamasheq) known only to the band, but most present already knew this. It wasn't why we were there.

Zach Dischner thank you again.

Nearly an hour in I became acutely aware of the bass, the player had drifted to the fore. Perhaps the thrum had snuck up on me, perhaps it was by design. But the dust on the rafters was a dancing, the resultant fug had afforded everything a golden shimmering halo of grungy sound. The driving pulse of the band was surging up through the floor and everybody was swaying in hypnotic rhythm. Centre stage, the visual fulcrum of the group, arms embracing an imagined wind, was weaving a perfect weft to the band's warp. We were virtually there in The Sahara! Old hips and arthritic knees were creaking behind a stiff Sirocco breeze.

Tomorrow morning was preparing to count the cost, but nobody much seemed  to care...