At first glance, the union of whimsical English avant-folkers Tunng and three of the septet Tinariwen, the former conscripts from the Sahara, seemed as awkward as a marriage involving Michael Jackson.

Stuff and nonsense, of course. For all their musical differences, their language barriers (none of Tunng seemed fluent in Tamashek while Tinariwen speak almost no English) and their somewhat different everyday lives, a more pertinent question than “why?” might be “why on earth not?” After all, deep down, music is just music.

So it proved. Alas, Tunng’s hooodies lasted just one song but the tall Tinariwen were prepared for a sandstorm, with only eyes and mouth visible beneath extravagant turbans. How foolish those of us who had not taken such precautions would have felt had a sirocco laid waste to Camden High Street.

Rather than crowbarring their styles together, each enhanced the other’s material. Tunng gave Tinariwen beats, drums and a certain sunny disposition, while the Malians offered Said Ag Ayad’s ferocious percussion, staccato handclapping and gravitas. That they danced — and you suspect there was little dancing in their war years — as if auditioning for Thunderbirds only added to the eye-teasing, ear-popping spectacle.

Although Tunng members necessarily handled the between-song chat, this was an exchange of musical equals, whether Becky Jacobs and Abdallah Ag Alhousseyni were duetting divinely on Mano Dayak, the eulogy to a Tuareg (Tinariwen’s rebellious tribe) rebel leader or Ibrahim Ag Alhabib was adding a coruscating, unashamedly rock guitar to the jaunty Soup.

Towards the end, Bullets and Matadjem Yinmixan were roaring but hummable howls of joy.
They really should do this again sometime.