There are few more eye-opening experiences than a trip
abroad. But if you got a little bit of cash for the holidays and don't have either
enough of it or the time to hop a plane right now, a global musical journey is
as close as a few mouse clicks and as cheap as a few bucks. Here are a three
wonderful examples.
I adore African music and Jamal, a new release from
the Malian band Alkibar Junior, is
one of my favorite releases of 2016. A quick lesson for those less familiar
with African music: In the West, melody and instrumental solos are usually
dominant, with bass and percussion providing scaffolding. Much of West African
music is the opposite. Singer Sekou Touré anchors this album. (Don't confuse
him with the deceased Guinean dictator of that name. Touré is a common surname
in West Africa.) Touré hails from the same commune in Timbuktu as the famed Ali
Farka Touré (1939-2006) and several members of the latter's band appear on Jamal, an album of praise songs
dedicated to those who guided northern Mali through recent political and
economic crises. What a recording! On "Suka," Sekou Touré's voice
mesmerizes and calms; on "Tjmi" he opens with a vocal blast, then
settles into a groove in which all the voices, instruments, and percussion blend
into a soupy mix. The overall effect is akin to having been forcibly hurled
into a stream then deciding to just float along with the current. Instruments
are played skillfully, but not in that look-at-me individual style of Western
music. "Djugal" has a meaty bass part that opens the song, but it's
just a start/stop/go framing device; "Kori" is like an electrified
lullaby in which Diadie Bocum's guitar, Touré, and the backup singers rock us
to serenity. And then there's the soulful and meditative "Daou,"
which is the kind of song that conjures Deadheads of a bygone era in a drifting
circular dance, heads titled back, and eyes closed. The songs are mostly in
Songhai, but you won't need translation—joy and tranquility transcend language. (PS: CD song titles and those on the download version don't always match, but I think they're the same tracks.)
★★★★★
The first question that occur when you hear Sandaraa is geographical. Is this a
Middle Eastern band? South Asian? Balkan? A klezmer ensemble? The answer
is "yes." It is Lahore-meets-Brooklyn in conception, a collaboration
between Pakistani singer Zebunnisa Bangash and metro New York clarinet master
Michael Winograd. The fiddler, guitarist, bass player, accordionist, and
percussionist are also based in Brooklyn, though several of them have deep
ethnic roots and none of them seem to be constrained by any particular national
border when they pick up their instruments. Ms. Bangash is a marvel. We listen
to her undulations, staccato cadences, and elides duel with Winograd's clarinet
on a song like "Jegi Jegi" and hear klezmer strained through a world
music filter. Nothing is hurried on their self-titled
EP. There is the trance-meets-keening of "Mana Nele" clocking in
at 7:20, and the trippy "Bibi Sanem Janem" at 5:40. The latter song
is typical of how Sandaraa build compositions. It opens with a soulful clarinet
solo and eases into swaying rhythms that explain why this ensemble's 2013
founding was partly underwritten by the Center for Traditional Music and Dance.
"Dilbrake Nazinin" is a particularly lovely piece that unfolds to
guitarist Yoshie Fructer bending the strings as if he were wielding a sitar and
he commands the first minute and a half before Bangash sings. She stays quiet
and wistful until the 3:50 mark when the song leaps into higher gear–only to
have Ms. Bangash settle it back to a more contemplative level. I call this the
feather-hammer-feather effect. The EP's final track, "Haatera Taiyga"
spotlights tin-pan-style percussion from Richie Barshay that frames several
instrumental surges bordering on wildness–but there is always Bangash's voice
that invokes an angel standing pacific in the middle of hot oil. Sandaraa often
reminded me of a South Asian version of Pentangle. That's a good thing–a very good thing.
★★★★
Amira Medunjanin is
a Bosnian singer from Sarajevo and is considered by many to be the world's
finest interpreter of Sevdah, which
doesn't have an easy English translation. Oddly, to get it, it's helpful to think
of ancient Greek medicine. The Greeks thought there were four basic elements:
air, water, fire, and earth. These corresponded to four bodily
"humors:" blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. Sevdah derives from the last of these,
the least plentiful humor in the body, but the animating force connected with
melancholy, pensiveness, pragmatism, and pessimism. If you get the idea that
Medunjanin's latest CD, Damar, is layered with dark tones,
you're on the mark. One reviewer called her the "Bosnian Billie
Holiday." I get that, but to my ear, fado
legend Amalia Rodrigues is a better match. Sevdah is a music of sorrow–like fado or a less ribald version of Greek rebetika. Why would you wish to hear such music? Because Ms.
Medunjanin's vice will freeze you in your tracks; because her songs will stir
things in your soul. And because you had no idea that darkness came in so many
shades. On Damar she works with jazz
pianist Bojan Z and guitarist Boŝko Jovíc, the first of whom sets new moods
with a single note or pause, and the latter of whom is steeped flamenco fingering. This album demands
more that you feel what Medunjanin
sings rather than understand the lyrics. I don't know any Croatian, but even
good translation software struggles with titles such as "Pjevat cemo sta
nam srce zna." (My best guess: "Sing What the Heart Knows.") I
can tell you, though, that it's a soulful mid-tempo song in which Medunjanin's
mildly operatic quaver oozes emotion. I can also tell you that "Tvojte ociLeno mori" is a Macedonian folk song that feels as if it were sung by a
sad madrigal, and that "Ah sto cemo Ljubav Kriti" ("Oh, Why Should
We Hide Our Love?") is a traditional Herzegovina song that unfolds
deliberately and mournfully. I can also tell you that the title track
demonstrates the literal depths of Medunjanin's range, as she dips down to
smoky tones reminiscent of the husk of Marlene Dietrich. Pain has seldom sounded
so good.
★★★★
Rob Weir
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