By Jan Vranken 
On 8 September 2024, during the closing ceremony of the Paralympic Games in Paris, Amadou & Mariam performed Serge Gainsbourg’s “Je suis venu te dire que je m’en vais” (“I came to tell you that I am leaving”). No one knew at the time that these words would prove prophetic. Seven months later, on 4 April 2025, Amadou Bagayoko passed away at the age of 70. It would turn out to be their last performance together. Three days before his death, he had approved the final details of their ninth album. That album, “L’amour à la Folie,” was released on 24 October and is both a declaration of love and a testament, a final musical conversation between two people who had been each other’s voice and companion for nearly fifty years.
It is also something else: a demonstration of the apparent ease with which Mariam Doumbia carries on. No mourning period that halts the music, no doubt about whether she can continue. ‘What has changed is that my husband is no longer by my left side,’ she said in a recent interview. From October, she tours with their son Sam Bagayoko and the regular musicians across North America and Europe, playing from a certainty that is not a question but a given. This is what they do. This is who they are. The music continues because the music has always continued.
Redefining half a century of world music
To understand what “L’amour à la Folie” means, you first have to understand what Amadou & Mariam meant by music. When Manu Chao produced their breakthrough album “Dimanche à Bamako” in 2004, he opened a gate that had been closed for decades. The album went triple platinum in France, sold half a million copies worldwide, and introduced the duo to an audience hungry for something authentic, something bursting with joy of life without denying its roots.
What followed was a career that blew the boundaries of “world music.” They did not just play festivals, they headlined Glastonbury’s Main Stage, Coachella, and Lollapalooza. They were not just opening acts, they toured for months with U2, Coldplay, and Blur. In 2009, David Gilmour, Amadou’s childhood hero, came on stage to play a full 80-minute concert as a second guitarist.
That engagement did not come from pity or exoticism. It came from the music itself—a sound Mariam consistently described as ‘blues and rock ‘n’ roll,’ not ‘Malian blues’ or any other label the Western music industry likes to attach. ‘We grew up with the radio,’ she explained in interviews around the album release. ‘Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Pink Floyd, Bad Company. We shared the same musical culture.’ That universality, combined with Amadou’s clattering guitar playing and the hypnotic rhythms of Mali, made them something unique: a bridge that never felt like a compromise.
Their live reputation was legendary. Fans describe their concerts as ‘an explosion of joy,’ performances in which dancing was not optional but mandatory. In 2012, they made history with their Eclipse concerts, entirely in the dark for both audience and musicians, an immersive experience where everyone experienced music as Amadou and Mariam always had. It was characteristic of their artistic courage, never afraid to push boundaries, never satisfied with the obvious.
Seven years, one last conversation
“L’amour à la Folie” is the result of seven years of work, captured in fragments between tours. Producer Pierre Juarez, called ‘the astronaut’ by Toumani Diabaté for his ability to float above the music and hear what others miss, had already collaborated with the duo in 2017 on Matthieu Chédid’s “Lamomali” project. For this album, he received a clear brief: combine Amadou’s desire for blues guitar solos with Mariam’s need for dance and celebration.
Juarez found his reference point in “Kobe Ye Watiye,” a track from their earliest cassette releases as “Le Couple aveugle du Mali,” only Mariam’s voice and Amadou’s guitar. ‘That’s what I wanted to find again,’ he said in interviews, ‘but with a modern production around it while keeping the core intact.’ The result is what he describes as a “Malian lo-fi blues album,” traditional instruments alongside 808 basses from contemporary hip hop, auto-tune subtly treating Mariam’s voice without ever losing the emotion.
Three tracks were entrusted to Busy Twist, the British underground dance producer who travelled to Mali to work with the duo. His Afro-Latin-Caribbean influences form a perfect complement to Juarez’s spatial sounds. Together they create an album that breathes, sometimes tight and minimalist, sometimes exuberant and full, but always with Amadou’s guitar as the compass.
The recording process was unique. No traditional studio demos, but jams—sometimes ten-minute-long Malian trances later distilled into songs. Amadou loved long intros, taking time to build an atmosphere. That preference sometimes clashed with the demands of streaming formats, but Juarez remained true to the artistic vision: ‘If the artists are happy with their music, commercial success does not matter.’
The last listening session with the couple delivered the greatest compliment: they stood up and danced in front of the speakers. Three days later, Amadou validated the final details. He would never hear the completed album.
Track by track through love
The album opens with “Bienvenue à la maison,” welcome home. It is a programmatic choice: this is not a farewell but a return, a return to the essence of what Amadou & Mariam always were. Amadou’s guitar clatters through the speakers with that characteristic clarity his playing always had, supported by Mariam’s voice, carrying you without ever pushing.
“Sonfo,” featuring Congolese rumba prince Fally Ipupa, is a highlight: modern lo-fi blues that resists the poison of gossip. The extended version that closes the album, track 13, gives the song room to breathe fully, with Ipupa’s vocals weaving like silk through the Malian rhythms. It is a perfect demonstration of Amadou & Mariam’s ability to make collaborations feel organic, never forced.
Then comes the return fans had hoped for: “Mogulu,” composed by Manu Chao. Twenty years after “Dimanche à Bamako,” the Spanish-French troubadour rediscovers the chemistry with the duo. It is a joyful reunion, a track inviting you to sing along, dance along, and become part of the celebration. The word means ‘people’ in Bambara, and the song honours exactly that: encounters, journeys, diversity that Amadou & Mariam always embraced.
The title track “L’amour à la folie” now carries a weight that could not have been anticipated at the time of recording. ‘Chéri, je t’aime jusqu’à la mort!’ sings Mariam, ‘Darling, I love you to death!’ It is a line she had previously hummed on “M’Bife Blues,” but now it feels prophetic. The chorus, ‘L’amour sans frontières, c’est l’amour à la folie,’ love without borders is mad love, perfectly defines what this album is: love that disregards limits, even those between life and death.
“La vie est belle,” produced by Busy Twist, is pure danceable joy, a hypnotic syncopated rhythm that moves your feet before your brain catches up. It is Amadou & Mariam at their most exuberant, a reminder of why their live shows were legendary.
But the album is not only about joy. “Généralisé” has a Pink Floyd-like atmosphere—unsurprising, given that Amadou & Mariam grew up with Gilmour and Wright—and reflects on the fragile situation in Mali and, by extension, the world. “On veut la paix,” we want peace, has a 60s sound-system aesthetic and recalls a time when protest and hope went hand in hand. These are moments of reflection between the dance, reminders that Amadou & Mariam were never just entertainers but witnesses of their time.
The album closes with “Tanu,” a spellbinding song of solidarity ending with the words ‘I am grateful to you, I salute you.’ It is hard not to hear it now as Mariam’s tribute to Amadou, even if that was not the original intention. But that is the magic of posthumous releases—they acquire meanings their creators could not foresee.
The aesthetic remains, the meaning grows
What “L’amour à la Folie” is not: a radical break, an experimental statement, an attempt to do everything differently. What it is: Amadou & Mariam at their most refined, a distillation of everything they excelled at. The production is modern but never intrusive. The songs are accessible but never simplistic. The emotion is present but never sentimental.
For some listeners, this may be a shortcoming. After nearly fifty years, Amadou & Mariam still make Amadou & Mariam music: spare, guitar-led Malian pop shaped by the cyclical phrasing of desert blues. There are no surprising stylistic twists, no genre-defying collaborations turning the established order on its head. But that overlooks what the duo has always done: not innovate for innovation’s sake, but perfect what works.
And what works, works remarkably well. Amadou’s guitar playing remains unique, that clattering, clear sound drawing from both rock and Malian tradition. Mariam’s voice still combines strength and vulnerability, the ability to carry you without theatrics. The rhythms remain irresistibly danceable. The production gives it all the space to breathe.
The return of Manu Chao fits perfectly into this story. He was there at the beginning of their international breakthrough, and now he is there at the end of their collaboration as a duo. His contribution to “Mogulu” feels not nostalgic but continuous, a reminder that good musical chemistry has no expiration date.
What elevates the album above ‘simply good’ is the context. This is not just the ninth album of an established act. This is the final conversation between two people who met in 1977 at the Bamako Institute for the Young Blind, married in 1980, began performing, and made music for five decades that crossed cultural boundaries without ever denying their identity. Every track gains extra weight from that knowledge. Every interaction between Amadou’s guitar and Mariam’s voice becomes a memory of what was.
Mariam’s strength, Amadou’s legacy
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about this album is what it lacks: doubt. There is no search for a new sound without Amadou, no tentative attempts to define what Amadou & Mariam means in singular. Mariam simply continues, with the same musicians, the same energy, the same conviction. She tours, plays festivals, and releases this album. It is not a statement but a given.
This attitude reflects something essential about Amadou & Mariam: they were never an act that defined itself as tragic. Yes, they were blind. Yes, they came from one of the poorest countries in the world. Yes, they lost partners and family. But their music was always about joy, about dance, about the power to carry on. Mariam honours Amadou not by stopping but by doing exactly what they always did: making music that brings people together.
In the final listening session, Amadou and Mariam stood up and danced in front of the speakers. It is an image that lingers: two people hearing seven years of work materialise, finally experiencing the completed version of what they had built in fragments. And what do they do? They dance. No analysis, no critical evaluation, no discussion about whether track five should have come after track eight. Just dance, pure joy in the moment.
That is what Mariam continues now, not out of duty or financial necessity, but because that is what the music demands. ‘We want people to sing with us, dance with us, party with us!’ she said recently. It is not an invitation but an expectation, not a request but a demand. And after fifty years, they have the right to make that demand.
Conclusion
“L’amour à la Folie” is not a perfect album. It will not surprise anyone familiar with the oeuvre of Amadou & Mariam. It does not offer a radical new vision of African music or world music, or whatever label you wish to place on it. But it is a beautifully crafted, emotionally resonant record that does justice to half a century of musical partnership.
The production is layered but never busy, modern but never trendy. Pierre Juarez and Busy Twist understand what made Amadou & Mariam unique and give it space. The songs are strong, with multiple highlights: “Sonfo,” “Mogulu,” the title track, and no real missteps. The emotional impact is undeniable, though one must take care that the context does not distort judgment.
What elevates the album is the combination: musical quality, historical significance, and human dimension. This is the conclusion of a story that began in 1977 at a school for the blind in Bamako, travelled the world via Abidjan, Paris, Glastonbury, Coachella, and countless other places. It is a story of two people who proved that limitations are not boundaries, that authenticity and commercial success can coexist, that love—for each other, for music, for the audience-is—is the strongest driving force that exists.
Amadou has gone, but his voice and music still resonate. Mariam continues the journey with the certainty of someone who knows the music is bigger than one person, that the mission—to bring Malian music to the world, break boundaries, make people dance—does not stop because one of the voices falls silent. (8/10) (Because Music)
Maxazine South Africa