Peia Thunders with Beauty on Album of the Month

-->

PEIA

Beauty Thunders

Peia Song Music

★★★★★

If you put Enya, Loreena McKennitt, a diva from the Met, birds, and theatrical Japanese folk opera into a blender and set it to “puree,” you might end up with somebody like Peia Luzzi. Think I’m kidding? Check out “Beauty Thunders” and you’ll hear what I mean. It’s one of several of what I call “earth songs” on her album. Before it concludes Peia’s vocal emulates those of recorded fowls and it flits among Shai Siriki’s driving oud notes. The composition is, depending on your point of view, either jaw-dropping amazing or just plain weird. I'm going with the first interpretation, but whichever side you come down on, you’ll be forced to conclude that hers in a truly remarkable voice. Believe it or not, this is just the tip of the musical ice berg. She kicks off the album with “Szerelem,” a traditional Hungarian lament before she becomes a Japanese bird. She follows that flight with a Scots Gaelic song rendered Clannad-like and then segues to the Celtic mysticism of “Dance in a Storm,” an original, but one that sounds like it was plucked from Ms. McKennitt’s repertoire—complete with climb-the-scale crescendos, dreamy ambience, and world music instrumentation featuring Mike Wofchuck’s ban-the-can percussion. In fact, it feels a lot like McKennitt’s “Lady of Chalot” in style and spirit. The next three tracks come from, in order, Peru, the Basques, and Ireland, and the final two tracks are another that feels Japanese and “We Shall Rise Again,” a quiet, prayerful reflection on the earth, people, and renewal.

So who is this Peia Luzzi who squats in the dark shadows of her sepia-drenched CD cover, a pile of stones meditatively stacked on her right and an enigmatic feathered staff planted to her left? A Celtic chanteuse? A European world music devotee probing ancient rituals? A vagabond Druid wannabe? Nope, nope, and nope. She’s a Nutmeger (from Connecticut) and a Berklee School of Music grad, though I’d wager she is indeed interested in mysticism and ritual. But before you toss her into some catchall category like New Age, listen to her voice. It rings clear and strong, and is ornamented with wondrous and beautiful things: small catches, breathtaking elides, and a range as big as the Andes. Even if you find her themes too abstruse for your taste, you are forced to acknowledge that you are in the presence of an enormous talent. In candor, not all of what Peia does works for me, but November’s album of the month is a place where originality, moxie, and beauty found a muse who is herself a force of nature. 

Rob Weir     

-->

Vishten at the Guthrie Center and Thoughts on PEI Music

-->

ACADIANS IN PEI

Awaiting Vishten. No devices allowed during shows. Yay!

Not many people south of the Maine/New Brunswick border can tell you much about Prince Edward Island and even that might be a generous assessment. There are, after all, just over 140,000 people in the entire province—about a third as many as live in the New York City borough of Staten Island. If pressed, some in the Lower 48 might know that Prince Edward Island potatoes compete with spuds from Maine and Idaho, but you have to be among the cognoscenti to know that tiny PEI has one of the most vibrant musical traditions in the Western hemisphere. Seriously—it's so rich that I've come to imagine there's a provincial law requiring all residents either to become professional musicians or move to the Yukon.

I'm a folk music geek, so PEI music isn't new to me. I've known about fiddlers Richard Wood and J. J. Chaisson for some time, lamented the dissolution of the band Barachois in 2007, and even knew that Stompin' Tom Connors lived there for a time. But, like I said, that makes me a geek (freak?).  For most, PEI music draws blanks, though the secret is slowly getting out and once it does, there's no turning back. At the fore is the trio Vishtèn. For the past three summers they've drawn enthusiastic audiences in the Massachusetts' Berkshires town of Great Barrington and, on September 2, I was lucky enough to catch a show at the Guthrie Center. If that name rings a bell, you're right—the Guthrie Center is named for folksinger Arlo Guthrie, who lives nearby. He now owns the church he made famous in "Alice's Restaurant" and has converted it to a cultural venue and administrative post for the various philanthropic projects with which he's associated. It's a terrific space for music—acoustically sound and sporting café tables to hold cold brews and well-prepared offerings from the small kitchen just off the lobby. Vishtèn added charm and warmth to a near-perfect late summer evening.

Vishtèn is an anomaly within an anomaly. They are Francophone Acadians in a province in which 94% of the residents are English speakers and they are, strictly speaking, only two-thirds of a PEI band. Vishtèn is anchored by twin sisters Emmanuelle (vocals, whistles, mandolin, piano, foot percussion) and Pastelle (vocals, accordion, piano, mandolin) LeBlanc. The third member, Pascal Miousse (vocals, guitar, fiddle) hails from the nearby Magdalen Islands, which technically makes him a Quebeçois. Never mind! Francophone sensibilities infuse most of Vishtèn's music, especially in the planks of wood underneath Emmanuelle's feet, as foot percussion is the rhythmic foundation for most Vishtèn sets. Their opening numbers was both typical, yet unorthodox. It featured rolling accordion note bursts atop a fiddle drone, nonsense syllable vocalizations, and Emmanuelle sitting ramrod straight in her chair to play Jew's harp or penny whistle, but her legs and feet a blur as the tunes gathered pace. There were several false stops, the momentary pause signaling the shift into a higher gear before rushing helter skelter to the actual finish. 

 Vishtèn performed selections from their back catalogue (5 albums in all), but the bulk of the material came from their most recent release, Terre Rouge, and with good reason—it just won them a 2016 East Coast Music Award as the Traditional Group of the Year. An ECMA nod is a big deal indeed—something akin to a regional Grammy. (In Canada, only a Juno Award carries more prestige and these usually go to more pop-oriented performers.) Vishtèn did several of my favorites from Terre Rouge, including "Trois Blizzards," a moody homage to a one-tow-three punch of winter storms that left PEI without power for five days and necessitated that locals pitch in to aid each other old-fashioned communal style. Pascal remarked that he was oddly saddened when power was restored because it meant everyone retreated to their insular ways. As a result, the tunes within the set are appropriately wistful with a spirit that's somewhere between resilient and melancholy. They also dusted off their pan-Acadian good-time two-step "Joe Fèraille," a Cajun stomper from Louisiana. The sisters joined force at several junctures to show off some duel step dancing, though most of their footwork is akin to (but not the same as) Quèbeçois clogging.

The Louisiana departure notwithstanding, Terre Rouge references PEI's red soil and Vishtèn's songs might be mostly in French, but they are deeply rooted in the island's red earth. To my mind, Ten Strings and a Goatskin is the best exemplar of PEI's Celtic roots and Vishtèn the Acadian heritage. From such a small place—such mighty sounds. Grab any chance you get to see Vishtèn. Their live shows are even better than their CDs.

Rob Weir

July Album of the Month from Siama Matuzungidi

SIAMA MATUZUNGIDI

Rivers—From the Congo to the Mississippi

http://www.siamamusic.com/music

* * * * *

Siama Matuzungidi was a soukous legend in his homeland, the Democratic Republic of Congo in the 1970s and early 1980s. The former Zaire is, alas, a troubled land and Matuzungidi and lots of other musicians fled. He landed in Minneapolis in the 1990s, via Uganda, Dubai, and Japan. Our gain; Africa's loss.

For those unfamiliar with soukous, it's a popular form of dance music sometimes called the "African rumba," as it appears to be one of the few musical types that migrated from the Caribbean ­to Africa rather than vice versa. Like Cuban son, which inspired it in the 1930s, soukous makes judicious use of bright brass and it's good party music. That's the musical history side of things, but Rivers is far more than an African lilt grafted to a Latin beat; in fact, this album shows Matuzungidi experimenting with various styles. True to its subtitle, we indeed hear music inspired by the Congo–try "Sisili," or "Malembe"–but also tunes whose roots lay along the Mississippi River that runs through his adopted home. For the most part, though–as we hear in the bluesy " Ndombolo" and "Mpevo–" think the Mississippi considerably south of Minnesota. The latter song is one of several tracks that feature trumpet from Bobby Marks that will make you jump, and bass and piano lines that would be more at home in, say, Memphis than Minneapolis.

Matuzungidi's vocals invite adjectives such as "silky," spirited," and "sunny. Given that most of the songs are in African languages, I've no idea what he's singing most of the time, but most of it felt joyous, so I hope I wasn't grooving to somebody's pain. You'll have trouble standing still to "Jungle Zombie," its solid dance grooves muscled up by bold brass. The brass serves to give heft to a hypnotic melody line from which departures spin. The overall effect of the song is like being bathed in a warm river with a strong current pulling you downstream. It's a good metaphor for an album that often delivers you to unexpected places. Matuzungidi's guitar and Tony Axtell's bass set the melody for most of the tunes, but you'll hear lots of instruments you probably don't associate with Congolese music: concert flute and piano (Brian Ziemniak), a full drum kit (Greg Schutte), and cello (Jacqueline Ultan), for instance. The most surprising of all is the veena playing of Nirmala Rajasekar. Let's add the Ganges to our list of rivers; the veena is a lute-like instrument that is the likely ancestor of the sitar and whose sound it resembles. It is often called a "Carnatic veena" and is used throughout southern India in "classical" music  that is often religious in nature. I think Matuzgungidi's references are more secular on "Maisha Mazuri." It has a little bit of everything in its robust mix: cymbal-crashing percussion, guitar and piano arpeggios, and a veena lead that would do a rock musician proud. Add to this Matuzungidi's vocals, which on this track are as sexy as Barry White but with ten times more energy. If Matuzungidi hasn't surprised you enough, he rounds off the album with "Yolanda," a sophisticated and moody tune that owes a debt to moody jazz.

This is certainly one of the year's finest albums. Check it out. By the way, Matuzungidi's Website promises there is track information in the CD. I got a download, so those who buy the CD can read the liner notes and let me know how far off base I am in some of my assumptions!

Rob Weir

Maarja Nuut :Avant-Garde Fiddle from Estonia

MAARJA NUUT

Une Meeles

www.maarjanuut.com

* * *

Estonia is a Baltic nation that isn't Scandinavian, but has been controlled by Danes and Swedes (as well as Russia). At times its wild keening vocals sound Balkan, but they're not. At times, the exuberance of fiddlers such as Maarja Nuut sounds Finnish, though that's incidental and the only thing really Finnish about Estonians is that they share common language roots. Why the geography lesson? Because Maarja Nuut's music is hard to pin down; it will remind you of lots of things, without really being any of them. Especially given the fact that her tastes run more toward the avant-garde than the folk wellspring. Consider, for instance, a song titled "Kiik Tabab Kindaid," which translates "The Swing Wants Mittens." A lot of fiddle tunes have odd names, but this one personifies the swing, muses on marriage, and the composition unfolds beneath, then above, a field recording of humming cellphone cables. Nutt's strings squeal in resonance with the cables, then drop to a drone to accompany primal vocals. Memo: This is not for die-hard traditionalists.

At every step of the way Nuut challenges, pushes sonic borders, and at times begs the question: What is music? "Kargus" opens to a saw-like barrage of notes that reduce in volume and become something that sounds to my ear like a drone/triplet hybrid. Nutt this time uses a light melodic voice to add contrast. "Sammud" is a waltz, but one looped to body moment and the tune's namesake "Footsteps." Add some plucked notes and we hear scraping and tapping feet, a 1-2-3 cadence, and a lovely little melody all at once. The effect is hypnotic. It's oddly delicate, as opposed to the free-spirited and wilder feel of "Kuradipolka" ("The Devil's Polka").  It too has a repeating thread of notes, but these serve to fray the tune rather than unify it. High notes drift to the edge of our aural comfort zone and then the entire piece ends abruptly. Or would you prefer some unbridled village-like rapid-fire vocalizations and some clip-clop percussion? Check out "Hobusemäng" ("The Horse Game"), which apparently is a variation of a ritual game linked to casting spells. In other words, Maarja Nuut's music is a flight into places where reality, magic, experimentation, programming, and dreams collide–appropriate for a project whose Estonian title means "In the Hold of a Dream." Like most avant-garde projects, this one will confuse some listeners and induce wonder in others. Place me in the second camp. 

Here's a YouTube sampler of this unusual artist.

Rob Weir

Eva Salina, Arsen Petrosyan, Moken: Around the World in Music

-->

Ever had that feeling that you need to see some other people? I get that feeling about music every now and again, especially when I flip on the radio and enter that vast sonic wasteland known as "American pop/rap/hip-hop." At that point I seek an aural overseas adventure to see what folks elsewhere are singing. Here are several journeys worth book and they won't cost you more than a buck a track.

My first offering is the glorious Eva Salina and you're not actually leaving the USA at all to experience the wonders of her Romani, Dutch, Jewish repertoire; she's a Californian. On her latest, Lema Lema (Vogiton Records), she features Balkan and Romani (Gypsy) songs from the repertoire of Serbia Romani legend Šaban Bajramović (1936-2008). If you don't know his music, you're hardly alone on this hemisphere, but let's just say it's the kind of mishmash you'd anticipate from traveling folk: village folk songs, hot jazz, keening vocals, bright brass, and an air of sauciness. And you'd better be an extraordinary singer to tackle this stuff, as its demands on the larynx are not for the easily winded. Believe me when I say that Ms. Salina is up to the challenge; hers is a voice for the ages. When she takes on "Boza Limunada," a mildly naughty song of a man looking for a fertile wife, Salina slams it with the brazenness of old-style Greek rebetika singers (many of whom were also prostitutes). If you think she's a muscular singer, wait until you get a load of the accordion (mostly by Peter Stan on this album). Salina is positively a brawny imp on "Hovani Romni," the story of a cuckold drowning his horns in booze. Her notes pulse out like she's a one-woman oompah-pah band. All of the songs tend to have tough themes, but Salina is so gifted she can make a song like "Koj Is Gola Roma" sound like a lyrical Italian folksong despite the fact its male protagonist endures beatings. Salina said she wanted to fuse lyricism with a splash of Bollywood–sounds weird, but works brilliantly! By contrast, her take on "Pijanica" feels like a van driven by a Balkans brass band dropped into a zocalo to jam with a mariachi ensemble. This is easily one of the year's finest albums and that's not just my opinion–Ms. Salina was recently the centerpiece of an NPR profile. No exaggeration is needed when hurling accolades at Eva Salina. Listen for yourself.

Let's stay in the same cultural ballpark for a moment. Arsen Petrosyan is an Armenian-born duduk musician. The duduk is a double-reed flute in the oboe and shawm family, though its sound is bolder and its tonal qualities more reminiscent of the clarinet. Petrosyan's Charentsyan (CD Baby) is a nice introduction to Armenia's national instrument. Much of the release can be described as mournful and formal in tone, though there are a few departures. "Hazar Ernek" has the vibe of a belly dance; "Javakki Shoror" casts impressions of a raw village folk tune—especially the call-and-response interplay with other instruments–though its hand percussion has similarities with Southeast Indian arrangements. Petrosyan is obviously a talented musician, but whether you'll fancy all nine tracks is a matter of individual taste. I'd recommend going to a site like SoundCloud and sampling to see what strikes your fancy. Something will.  

  Moken is from Cameroon, but now lives in Atlanta. His debut, Chapters of My Life (Bantu Records) is a pan-African look at his life thus far: from Africa to broke fashionista at a Detroit design school to a working musician. It's an odd little release in many ways and definitely not your average Afropop recording. He counts among his influences Van Morrison, Nina Simone, and Manu Dibango. It's hard to hear much Morrison on this record other than short rock riffs every now and then, as on "Wiating for the Day," the sunniest track in the collection, but Dibango and Simone are in evidence. Dibango is a Cameroonian saxophonist famed for fusing jazz, funk, and folk–and Chapters of My Life certainly has that vibe. "Ma Masse," for instance, is done in the style of a Senegalese mbalax, but in a more dramatic less danceable style than most mbalax offerings. Two songs, "Machine Man" and "Walkin Man" reference Moken's impoverished student days when he occasionally lived in his car. The second tune has a suitably robotic feel to mark a time in which his car left him stranded 10 miles from his destination. You can definitely hear Simone's influence in Moken, especially his preference for material that is sultry, soulful, and meditative. As in the case of Petroysan, though, I'd recommend you sample before you buy. My overall sense is that Chapters of My Life is an incomplete project with filler and a few songs short of completion. There is promise here, but the repertoire could use some work.

Rob Weir

Hohka: Ecclectic Finnish Music

-->

HOHKA

Mailla/Halmeilla

Hohka 002

* * *

The sophomore release from the Finnish quartet Hohka is just eight tracks long, but that’s because of deliberate pacing, not an attempt to shortchange listeners. The English adjectives ‘enigmatic’ and ‘eclectic’ best describe this band. The album title translates Countries/Nowhere to Be Seen and the cover sports a giant longhaired rabbit looming above a miniaturized band member. What do these infer? (I am unaware of Scandinavian legends involving ominous rabbits!) Nor does a Finnish-to-English translator return meaning for five of the track listings, so one is left with impressions for most of the titles. Hohka is Finnish for pumice, that porous remain of a volcanic flow and that’s a good starting point for evaluating this release.

Like many artists who trained at Helsinki’s Sibelius Academy, Hohka treat musical boundaries as pervious. You will hear original tunes, but ones inspired by a variety of sources: Celtic music, classical, grunge, Finnish tradition, and folk dances. If I infer correctly from what I could translate, Hohka has worked with three dancers and (at least some of) the pieces accompanied their footwork. One could easily imagine the opening track, “October Flowers,” as a set piece for a lively Riverdance-like production. The tune is drenched in Irish and Scottish influences strung together with a jazzy interludes. Dance is most obviously invoked in “Loumalan Joonaksen,” a ¾ polska common in Finland. It is dynamic in construction–one that uses guest percussion to suggest clogging feet. It slows to a kantele (a Finnish zither) bridge from Valtteri Lehto before gathering to a fast pace driven by Meriheini Louto’s nyckelharpa (a keyed fiddle akin to a hurdy-gurdy). Those two instruments are also on display on “Suurin Pudottaja,” which translates “The Biggest Loser,” but evokes images of a steam train gathering speed. Enne Purovaara lays down double time bass, and other instruments punch through a quirky frenetic tune reminiscent of a back catalog offering from the Penguin Café Orchestra. Also on the accelerated side of things is “Kertalaaki,” an industrial strength piece featuring muscular accordion from Veikko Muikko, forays into dissonance, and a wild ending featuring Lehto’s electric guitar. Yet the rest of the album is as subdued as the aforementioned tunes are energetic. “Laavikkovalssi” begins Zen-like and even its anthemic finish evokes mid-winter melancholy. “Le Secret de La Licorne” uses several French horn blasts to signal a hunt, but its contemplative ambience and measured aspect feels more like stalking than hunting–as if the pursuer finds the unicorn’s lair and the “secret” is that it has fled. The album’s final two pieces are a 9:16 composition in several movements that is orchestral and classical in temperament, and a 3:12 kantele solo, of which the last 20 seconds are nearly silent. It is possible (likely?) that I lost some of Hohka’s intent in (non) translation, so let’s just say that this an album that takes its time to get at what the musicians wish to do and that like the giant rabbit on the cover, it’s intriguing to muse over the intent. But there’s one thing over which there is no misunderstanding: the four young musicians in Hohka are thoughtful and skillful.

Rob Weir

Balkan Clarinet Summit Transcends Language

BALKAN CLARINET SUMMIT

Many Languages, One Soul

Piranha 2857

* * * *

It’s an orchestra! It’s a small jazz ensemble! It’s a heavy metal concert! And it’s many other things as well. The Balkan Clarinet Summit is a veritable United Nations of woodwind talent, fertile ideas, and musical mastery. It’s fourteen tracks and more than an hour’s worth of live clarinet-based instrumentals like you’ve never heard them before. Go ahead and scoff. I did before I listened.

The Summit is composed of Stavros Pazarentis (Greece), Slobodan Trkulja (Serbia), Sergiu Balutel (Moldavia/Rumania), Oguz Buyukberber (Turkey), and Orlin Pamukor (Bulgaria), with arrangements and other contributions from Claudio Puntin (Italian Swiss and Steffen Schorn (Germany). As the album title suggests, these skilled reed players communicate in the language that transcends words: music. In one of several bold moves, the project opens with a piece titled “Nostalgia,” and it’s a bit like what you get if you took some Gershwin, a medieval pastoral, and classical orchestral music and whirled it about in a blender. If that doesn’t sound particularly “Balkan,” try pieces such as “Geamparale” or “Severniaski Tanc,” each of which pulse with the nervous energy of a dog chasing its own tail. Do you prefer an introspective, forlorn feel? Try “Poéme.” Want to evoke a “Sorcerer’s Apprentice”-like foray into 20^th century modernism? Listen to “Sirba De Concert.” Or maybe you just want to hear how many sounds you can get from a reed instrument.  Check out the heavy metal licks of “Snake Lick Jab,” which also contains scratches and funky grooves that will make you ponder, “Clarinet hip hop?” There’s even a brief moment in “Breaza” where the clarinet evokes a didgeridoo, though most of the piece sounds like a drunken dance of mosquitoes (in a good way).  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow remarked that “music is the universal language of mankind.”  Many Languages, One Soul is living testament to the truth of the poet’s words. – Rob Weir

Here's the official trailer

Wired for Sound: Contemporary Music from Mozambique

-->

VARIOUS ARTISTS

Wired for Sound: Mocambique

www.wiredforsound.co.za

* * *

Wired for Sound is a seventeen-track sampler of what's going on in the contemporary music world of Mozambique. For those who need to get maps out, Mozambique is on Africa's southeast coast–the island of Madagascar lies in the Indian Ocean to its east. Although Bantu peoples and languages are indigenous to Mozambique, it was a colony of Portugal until 1975 and Portuguese remains its official language. As you will hear, Western influences are embedded in some of the music. In its externals, Wired for Sound feels similar to a lot of Afropop––lots of bright guitar cascades, solid framing percussion, and lead voices supplemented by texturing harmonies.  As the title suggests, most of what you hear is plugged in. Mozambican lead vocals tend to be smoother and sunnier than what we associate with West African music. In fact, tracks such as Million Issac Junior's "Thikukola" or Academico and Pimento's "Marry Very Well" are faintly reminiscent of calypso songs. There is also a blues tradition; change the language and "Takunha Dilani" would be at home in a club in Chicago's Southside. Still another style, heard in "Atija" by Palopes and "Ihepo Mama" by Liquissone Juliasse Nhamataira, uses repeated words to induce a meditative quality. Another departure is that Mozambican music contains more horns than a lot of other African music, South Africa being the exception. Much of the brass melds into the mix, but one will certainly hear bright sax in the Sozhinho Ernesto K. Banda song "Ku Pupuluma," and the ethereal jazzy flair of Nhamataira on "Chuva" is evocative of midwinter projects from Paul Winter.

As on all samplers, some tracks stand out more than others and a few seem out of place. I personally enjoyed a traditional song from Josefina Zacharias, but could have done without the final two tracks altogether–a rap in an African language I don't speak by MDK and Flay C has no emotional impact on me, and Nelito and Armando's attempt at some Mozambican hip hop sounds like a sloppy mess. Rap and hip-hop are now universal (which means they may be on the wane as pop music) and they never have been genres I found interesting, but these two tracks violate the standard I use to gauge world music: if you're performing something that's vibrant and new, I'm intrigued; if you're recycling pop clichés, I'm unimpressed. Luckily there are 15 really solid tracks to make up for the two misfires.  Rob Weir

Belly Dance Music (Really!)

JALILAH

Jalilah’s Raks Sharki Stage Cuts

Piranha 2856

* * *

Who can explain passion? The performer known as Jalilah was born Lorraine Zamora Chamas and raised in California. Thirty years ago she fell in love with the raks sharki dance style–that’s belly dancing to those of us whose midsections jiggle more than jig–and began a journey that’s taken her to Egypt, Germany, Lebanon, and Canada. She’s made six albums of belly dance music, usually with highly regarded Middle Eastern orchestra leaders such as we find on this culling from her previous recordings: Mokhtar Al-Said, Hossam Shaker, and Ihsan Al-Mounzer. If the music reminds you of music you’ve encountered in old black and white movies, it’s because Jalilah prefers the vibe and rhythms of 1930s/40s style dances. Her major nod to modernity is the realization that today’s audiences have shorter attention spans. These are indeed stage “cuts,” in that she’s taken music/dance performances that would have originally run up to twenty minutes and knocked then down to five or fewer.

Belly dance music, you say? Isn’t that a bit (as the British say) naff? It can be. Raks Sharki thrives in the seam between don’t-touch eroticism and melodrama. The music is look-at-me diva style that wiggles its way to the line separating dynamism and histrionics and sometimes transgresses it. You can close you eyes and conjure the jingling bells, slapped tambourines, swishing veils, gyrating bodies, and colored backlighting. How long can you hold the fantasy? How many dramatic pauses, sudden restarts, and swelling interludes are your limit? Some may find that sixteen tracks of this are too much, even in truncated form; others may wish for more. I wouldn’t want to listen to this every day, but it’s surprisingly good road music and it certainly serves to demolish any rut in which you may find yourself stuck. My bottom line is that I overcame my abiding dislike for performers with just one name and listened to the whole thing. It’s a small standard, I realize, but how else is one to judge something this far from one’s own journey?  Rob Weir

Here’s a clip of Jalilah doing her thing. And if you mail a check for $20 to my private bank account I promise not to post a YouTube of me attempting the same thing!

Ahmed Nasheed: Voice from the Maldives

 

AHMED NASHEED

Dhaalu Raa

Assai Records 001

* * *

No Wikipedia peeking­—Where are the Maldives and what do you know about them? You’ll find them in the Indian Ocean southwest of Sri Lanka, about halfway between the Horn of Africa and Sumatra—a string of 28 small islands upon which fewer than 400,000 people live. It’s also a nation under Shar’ia law with a horrifying human rights record. In all, an unlikely place to find a musician who counts among his heroes The Beatles and Pink Floyd, and tackles women’s rights, environmental stewardship, and government corruption. Ahmed Nasheed is so out of sync with the powers that be that he gets no national airplay and has to peddle his music in tourist shops and abroad.

Ahmed’s music is a pastiche of Western rock, North African guitar, and variants of a regional style known as rairvaru, a hypnotic folk style found in the Indian subcontinent. Two of the more interesting elements are the use of female backup singers whose harmonies evoke Township music and of the log drums, the latter of which are heartbeat-like in acoustic songs, but are pounded with the fury of a Western drum kit when Ahmed plugs in for crunchy power chords. The log drums reflect the album’s dual nature: quieter songs rooted in the East and Western-influenced electric sets. Close listeners will detect musical homage and lifted phrases. “Rasge,” an anti-corruption song, leaps to reworked “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” riffs and “Sihuru” has passages similar to “You Keep Me Hanging On.” If “Fihivalhu” and a few other tunes sound like they could have come from The Beatles’ White album, it’s because Ahmed openly admires (the late) George Harrison.

The rock songs sound the most familiar to Western ears, but are perhaps too familiar. I much preferred Ahmed’s tradition-based quieter material. “Dhiyssnsge Huvafen,” for instance, is a tribute to Princess Diana, but sung in a slow chant-like fashion in which Ahmed’s expressive elides structure mood shifts. “Sheyvaa” is not a raga, but it’s evocative of music one might hear in the south of India. Ahmed is a soulful singer and a skilled guitarist who tries to merge East and West. He faces an enormous challenge­—getting Western audiences to tune into Muslim folk-rock, and getting Muslim Maldivians to open their minds to ecumenical Western culture. –Rob Weir      

Habib Koite Seeks to Heal Mali through Song

-->

HABIB KOITÉ

Soô

Contre Jour CJ030

* * *

Soô is a Bambara word meaning "at home." On his latest record, Habib Koité honors his homeland of Mali with such gentleness and sunshine that one would hardly know that it's a troubled land these days (courtesy of radical Islamists). The closest Koité gets to dealing with social problems is "Khafole" and "Need You." The first song deals with the issue of female circumcision, though it's told from the point of view of a mother's pain of losing her child to a botched job. The latter, the only track in which Koité sings in English, is about an arranged marriage from the perspective of the beloved young man being cast aside for a rich suitor, but even its tone is one of resignation.

Get the idea that Habib Koité isn't about confrontation? He's practically a musical U.N. for Malians, right down to singing in four of its native tongues: Bambara, Dogon, Malinké, and Khassonké. The vocals and arrangements are smooth to the point of evoking Caribbean calypso. Most of the subject matter is equally upbeat; a favored theme is connectivity–between friends, among his countrymen, and between men and women. Songs such as "Dêmê" and "Bolo Mala" have fluid swooping harmonies the likes of which one hears during the finale of a pop music fundraiser.

The album is very pleasant, though my personal favorite tracks are those that break with the hypnotic feel of the rest of the album. On "Diarabi Niani," for instance, Koité busts out his guitar chops, which are considerable. (Koité is rightly famed for his open tunings and five-note scales.) "Téréré" is also interesting–an homage to Malian string music featuring Koité's guitar, Toumani Doubate's kora, and Basse Kouyate's calabash-bodied n'goni. If you're looking for something more raucous, check out "Balon tan," which is about playing soccer. It has a frenecticism not found elsewhere and sports some tongue-twisting vocals, all of which puts us in motion as if the game was hotly contested. There's even a rap bridge from Master Soumi.

This album isn't Koité's strongest work, but it's still a good one. Most listeners will find it diverting, but will miss the song's central messages unless consulting the liner notes (MP3 won't do!). I applaud his desire to stay positive, but I longed for more musical contrast. After all, one appreciates the sunshine most after a bit of darkness. —Rob Weir  

Here's a YouTube video of Koité performing the title track.

Aurélie Dorzée Fills the Empty Spaces

-->

AURÉLIE DORZÉE

Horror Vacui

Home Records http://homerecords.be/en/album-horror_vacui-435.html

* * *

 
To say that Belgian chanteuse/violinist Aurélie Dorzée is somewhat unorthodox is akin to saying that Cirque du Soliel is a tad daring, and the circus analogy doesn’t end there. Her latest, Horror Vacui, takes its title from Italian art critic Mario Praz and translates “fear of the empty,” a term he coined to describe how Victorians filled every space in their homes. It’s a double pun for Dorzée, who neither leaves silences on her album, nor fills them with what you’d expect. She describes her material as “experimental folk,” though such a label is merely a convenient handle for an uncategorizable blend of minimalist sounds. She often merely plucks the violin strings and fills the spaces with vocal scales, keening, and primal screams. Her parents were in the theatre, and the overall feel of the album is often dramatic, but in the twisted way that an existential circus might present itself. (Think one of Cirque’s jongleur-based performances.)

Her violin playing is what one might get via a mash of classical training, Roma abandon, and the darkness of Scandinavian industrial rock. When she mixes vocals, even wilder combinations suggest themselves. “Le Roi et la Marionette,” for instance–the title is lifted from an Urbain Du Roure novel–evokes the smoky cafe melancholia of Edith Piaf, but also the whimsical theatrics of Yoko Ono. Even the titles are off-kilter: the album’s most conventionally lyrical tune is called “Son sexe végétal” (“His Sex Plant”) and the buzzy Breton-like “Celle Qui a Vent dans La Tête,” which translates (roughly) as “She Who has an Empty Head.”   In many ways, though, the title track encapsulates the album’s feel. Dorzée’s violin is  haunting in both the distinctiveness of the tune and in the foreboding ambiance it conjures. I cannot promise you’ll like this album–only that you’ll not hear its like elsewhere.   

Rob Weir

Think I'm kidding about her oddness. Check out this.  This one is pretty wild as well.

Ka Provocative but Distancing

-->

SHIRISH KORDE

Ka

Svarassa Records

* *

File this one under the category of fascinating, but under realized. Shirish Korde is a genre-bending composer of symphonic music–think Phillip Glass with South Asian influences. Korde is also a music professor at Holy Cross whose works have been performed around the globe and is perhaps best known for his opera Phoolan Devi: The Bandit Queen. That work, like Ka, was developed with Boston Musica Visa, a group that melds chamber music, opera, theater and, in this case, Indian music. The term Ka comes from the Rig Veda and is a difficult-to-translate Sanskrit noun/pronoun that relates to creation and blurs the boundaries between who and what.

If that seems a bit dense to you, it’s emblematic of both this album’s provocative possibilities and its emotional distancing. It is a five-song cycle, though the term “song” is problematic as ka deemphasizes recognized language. It features soprano Deepti Navaratna, who is both a trained South Indian classical musician and a Harvard neuroscientist. Hers is a stunning voice, though much of what she produces is a vocalization array that aims at those parts of us that are primal and instinctual. They are also nearly impossible to comprehend. The music–arranged primarily for stringed instruments (mostly cello) and tabla–often sounds like the intersection between chant, opera, world music, and free form jazz. At is best it is so hypnotic that I suspect a live performance of Ka would be a transformative experience. Alas, we tend not to listen to CDs the same way in which we absorb concerts. Ka is meant an integrated musical experience. This means that the CD’s numerous quiet passages and silences often fail to provoke meditative reflection and simply seem empty. Likewise, keening vocals meant to tap into spiritual mysteries sound, when ripped from their context, sound like one of Yoko Ono’s odd departures.

None of this is to say that Ka is a bad composition. It might, in fact, be brilliant. But it also validates one of my long held axioms that not all great music should be recorded. Put the musicians on the stage, and barriers melt; remove the stage and mental walls can rise. The latter was my experience with Ka. If I might, it was too academic to be accessible.

Rob Weir