Manu Chao Acoustic: Return of the Vanishing Man

When Manu Chao got round to sing ‘Desaparecido’ (The Disappearing One), an autobiographical tale about a man who when you look for him is not there, half the audience knew the words. He is a ‘disappearing man’ of world music – this was his first gig in London for over a decade, performing on the back of his first new album, Viva Tu, so it was kind of a big deal, certainly to a sold out, polyglot audience at Brixton’s O2 Academy.

‘Desaparecido’ was a stand-out track from Manu’s classic debut solo album Clandestino from 1998, released less than a year after Buena Vista Social Club, both selling multi-millions and both being twin peaks heralding a world music boom at the crossfade of the millennium. One of the most unconventional of stars, he remains a pro with a great ability to rouse audiences. He also doesn’t shy away from playing the hits.

Even if playing those hits can be in a, shall we say, cubist manner – cutting them up and coming at them from different directions. ‘La Vida Tómbola’, his song about Maradona was an early example in the set – the track started, paused and started again maybe six times. ‘Clandestino’, ‘Bongo Bong’, ‘Me Gustas Tu’ all got similar treatment and sometimes jumped from song to song and back.

The show was billed as Manu Chao Acoustic, and featured Miguel Rumbao on bongos and a little black box producing archetypal Manu noises such as police sirens, and Lucky Salavadori playing what looked like a Venezuelan cuatro. But this was no gentle singer-songwriter recital. Manu’s first global band Mano Negra was essentially a punk-Latin band, and he got the audience stomping their feet and joining in the often slightly manic singalongs, somewhere between a circus and football chants. An hour after the gig, some people waiting at my bus stop in Seven Sisters were still singing them.

Chao is an adventurer, supporting many causes, but can also be a rather wilful, obstinate character – I should know, I followed him on and off around the world for five years for my biography-travelogue book, also called Clandestino – and is doing zero interviews to promote his new album, released on Because Music, which is a kind of diary of his experiences in Sāo Paulo, Greece and Barcelona. Like a lot of his unconventional decisions, it seems to work, in that his mystique only increases.

The subtitle of my book was ‘In Search of Manu Chao’ and Manu made sure I didn’t entirely find him. By remaining an enigma, we can project on him what we like – a man of the people, voice of the dispossessed, the nearest thing to Bob Marley, his hero and his “professor of simplicity.” The highlight of the show for me was when the audience sang along to ‘Mr Bobby’: ‘Hey Bobby Marley, sing something good to me.’ Manu gave us an evening to feel positive and together in fractured, often dark times, a light moment – before he disappeared again.

This article originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of Songlines. Never miss an issue – subscribe today