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The witlessness of this company, which emphasises physical comedy, only shows theatre-goers who wish mimes would say something once in a while to realise when they’re well off.To 9 Feb (020-8741 2311). “World music” is a vacuous term, but the world music industry, with its African powerhouse, is all too real. Banning Eyre’s foray into the Malian music business may thus seem perfectly ?ropos, but his goal is infinitely more serious than a mere peek into the wings of the hottest show in town.As a guitarist, Eyre has long been entranced by the arid voices and chattering string melodies to be heard in Bamako. An invitation to spend six months in the Malian capital, as an apprentice to the guitar-king Djelimady Tounkara, proves irresistible. Armed with his instruments, plus the guitar-amplifier he has been asked to bring as a token of good faith, Eyre wakes to find himself ensconced in a hot little room in the pullulating Tounkara compound.
By American standards, Eyre is an excellent guitarist, but Djelimady is something else.

Tickling the strings with his forefinger, he produces “impossibly fast and fluid melodies, music of startling clarity, boldness, and innocence”. Eyre is modest about his own musical achievements, but it’s clear that he is able to keep pace with Djelimady’s fabled Rail Band, and to trade American musical secrets for African ones. One surprise is that, despite their virtuosity, the Malians can’t get their fingers round a simple 12-bar blues.But Djelimady has something else to offer – entr?into Mali’s griot society. A griot is a praise singer, a musical bard, a family counsellor, and an official historian. Inherited griot status is at once an honour and a stigma, with its own hierarchy and strict rules governing who may demand obeisance – or money – from whom.As Eyre digs deeper, the nature of this mysterious society comes to haunt him. He realises that the epics which griots pass on are closer to history than myth, with their roots in the exploits of the 13th-century Malian king Sunjata, and in subsequent slavery sagas. But why are poor people so ready to give griots money? Is the whole thing just a scam? These questions recur, the answer appearing and disappearing like a will-o’-the-wisp.Eyre’s account is gripping, partly because one wonders what will become of this vulnerably trusting narrator, and partly because it chronicles the fortunes of a family we’re made to care about.

His evocative prose gives us the look, feel, and smell of everything from suffocating noonday Bamako to the sleaziness of illegal dives, from the ritual dance that accompanies the handover of cash at a griot performance, to the orgy of sheep-sacrifice at the annual Tabaski festival. He examines the insidious effects of the sudden wealth which drops from the local mafioso’s table; he’s deft at delineating character, at pointing the motive behind the ploy.As music history, In Griot Time is no less riveting. Eyre presents a community torn between its love affair with electronics, and its awareness of the beauty of acoustic instruments. We meet the restlessly innovative Habib Koite, the provocative Oumou Sangare, and the Olympian Ali Farka Toure; we get to know Djelimady in all his grandeur, generosity, and moody superstition.