181: Drum-Believable, by The Dhol Foundation

The Dhol Foundation (United Kingdom)
Drum-Believable (2007)
13 tracks, 62 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

The Dhol Foundation is a many-headed beast, all spanning from that large, loud and powerful Punjabi barrel drum, the dhol. TDF is a school, an educational curriculum, a stable of session musicians and a storming live band. They also have a fair handful of albums under the TDF name too, and that's where the organisation's founder and figurehead Johnny Kalsi lets loose, invites his friends and experiments with as much music as he can in ways that would not necessarily be compatible with a live performance from a dhol troupe. Drum-Believable follows on the work from TDF's debut album Big Drum, Small World with a set of dhol-led world dubtronica, although bringing in an even more eclectic mix of senses and styles.

The first three tracks form a medley that sets the tone for the whole thing. The first piece 'Palace of Love' starts with the inimitable voice and sarangi fiddle of Ustad Sultan Khan before being joined by swelling strings, powerful dhol lines, jazzy acoustic guitar, bansuri flute, tabla and spoken word with all sorts of mystical synth drones holding it all together. It's all quite Nitin Sawhney-esque. Then is 'Simply H', a gentle Celtic fiddle piece played by Máiréad Nesbitt. It's short and sweet, and its unmetered nature makes it act a bit like an alap in preparation for the third track – TDF's biggest banger, 'After The Rain'. That one is basically a throwback to Johnny's days in the Afro Celt Sound System (before they reformed again, with Johnny stepping up as a co-frontman). It's based around a reel played by Nesbitt, with dance-dub bass electronics and – of course – the thumping of the massed dhol drums. It's great on the record, and even more powerful live, I've yet to see a performance of the piece that doesn't end with everyone in attendance pogoing around like mad.

After a globe-spanning opening trio of pieces that dwell deeply on the nature of sounds and timbres, remaining deliberate and precise from the slow openings to the bouncing at the end…TDF take it somewhere completely different, with the out-and-out bhangra party track 'Aja Nach Lai'. And so on goes the whole album. Styles are chucked around for fun, usually (but not always) with a dance/dubtronica focus, and usually (but not always) with more dhols than you can shake a stick at. It's all quite reminiscent of Transglobal Underground at their most exciting – and they're another band in which Johnny Kalsi has played a crucial role over the years.

For all its great music, I've also got to mention an important aspect of Drum-Believable - that title. It's another bottom-notch pun from Johnny Kalsi that so far also includes groaners such as Drums and Roses and the aforementioned Big Drum Small World. I for one am sad that he's never yet followed through with the threat to name a future album Drumblebees. Coming to our ears in 2020, maybe.

180: Satta Massagana, by The Abyssinians

The Abyssinians (Jamaica)
Satta Massagana (1976)
14 tracks, 47 minutes (1993 reissue)
Spotify (sort of – it’s a different version, but a lot of the tracks are the same) ∙ iTunes

I've written in the past about the 'traditional' sacred music of the Rastafari, the drums and chant of the nyabinghi, but there's another religious music of the Rastas that is much more famous: it is, of course, reggae.

Roots reggae to be exact. Reggae has its origins in many forms, from the Jamaican styles of ska, mento and nyabinghi and American imports of soul, rhythm and blues and rock. As such, reggae itself comes in many forms, from the crooning pop of lover's rock to the funkier side of things made famous by Bob Marley. Roots reggae, for me, is on another plane entirely. It's deeper in so many ways: the lyrics are invariably about Rastafari and themes of black liberation; the groove is slow and weighty, as if nothing can stop it once it's got a momentum; the melody is bluesy and it's often – like so much religious music – based around short repeating phrases.

The Abyssinians are one of the most famous roots reggae bands, and Satta Massagana, their debut from 1976, is one of the genre's most crucial albums. It's actually a little bit more on the poppy side of roots, but it doesn't suffer from that at all, and everything that makes roots special is all there and accounted for. There are so many classics on this album, including the opener 'Declaration of Rights', but the stand out has to be the title track. The band's name shows their deep affinity with the Rasta motherland of Ethiopia, and 'Satta Massagana' shows that this is more than lip service – with lyrics in Amharic, Ethiopia's most widely-spoken language, the group show their passion for the country and the people of Ethiopia in line with Marcus Garvey's teachings.

Religion is the inspiration for so many of the world's most passionate music, from qawwali and gnawa to Gregorian chant and gospel, but if you're looking for the deepest grooves alongside the equally deep religious themes, roots reggae is surely your port of call…and you could do a lot worse than Satta Massagana by the Abyssinians to fill you up with that coolest of religious fervours.

179: Come Find Yourself, by Fun Lovin' Criminals

Fun Lovin’ Criminals (USA)
Come Find Yourself (1996)
15 tracks, 57 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

Other than the vaguest definitions of cool being a sort of unflappability, it's so hard to describe what makes something cool without getting into circular logic, that cool is... well, cool. Or, y’know, hip. The easiest way to explain it is to offer examples, and every so often there comes some piece of culture that helps us to calibrate our (individual) sense of ‘cool.’ The first time I heard Come Find Yourself, I had to rejig my conception of cool.

Because I'm not sure there is a better way to describe this album. It is a distillation of cool. Musically, the Fun Lovin Criminals' debut album is based on rock, rap and funk with lyrics heavily referencing New York City and crime, but also deeper and more ponderous topics. But the coolness comes, as it often does, in its personality. There are small elements of jazz in the album's music, but I hear a lot more jazz in the attitude – lead singer Huey Morgan's performance mannerisms can't help but put me in mind of hipsters and beats from the 1950s, with a Latino edge, even when he's rapping.

The album is full of great tracks, from the most famous singles of ‘Scooby Snacks’ and ‘The Fun Lovin Criminal’ to lesser-known album tracks such as ‘Smoke ’Em’ and ‘Bombing the L’, but to me, the track that really stands out comes at the end of the album as a bonus track: an alternate, 'Schmoove' version of the piece 'I Can't Get With That'. In some ways, I feel like it's the epitome of the album; although musically quite different from the rest – the rock is stripped back and replaced by a groovy, soulful jazz; the rap slowed down and its rhythm relaxed into more of a speech-song – it takes the coolness cultivated throughout to the next level. It really takes its time. Nothing about the track is rushed, nothing is overstated, but it has everything it needs, no more or less. I'm not usually one for alternative takes or versions of tracks (apart from remixes and dubs), but for me, this track has become my go-to of the album, and the one I think of whenever Fun Lovin Criminals come to mind.

Real coolness may be indefinable, but it's easy to point at something that defines cool through its very existence. And if you're under any misconceptions: Come Find Yourself is COOL.

178: The Gate, by Joji Hirota

Joji Hirota (Japan)
The Gate (1999)
9 tracks, 61 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

A performance of taiko drumming is a sight – and sound – to behold. These Japanese drums range in size from large to downright immense, and the noise they create is similarly massive, a huge intertwining thunder of weaving rhythms. It’s easy to understand why the taiko drums were once used to scare enemies before battle. Often paired with breathtaking choreography, a performance of taiko drumming is bombastic, thrilling and chest-pounding.

Joji Hirota is most well-known for his mastery of the taiko, having led his own taiko troupe across Europe since the 1980s. When I first got my hands on the only record he made for Real World Records, 1999’s The Gate, I was expecting to be assaulted by a wall of drumming power as soon as I stuck it in the machine. What actually came out of the speakers, though, was different.

The Gate is not at all like those theatrical taiko performances. The very first track is a gentle and sombre string quintet with the breathy tones of the Japanese bamboo flute, the shahkuhachi. It turns out that as well as a master drummer, Hirota is also a shahkuhachi player, singer and composer, and he stretches each of those limbs on this album.

Out of the album’s nine tracks, three are led by percussion, four are with the string quintet and two are songs backed with harps and synth strings. Despite there being quite a range of different styles on offer, then, the album works really well as a set, as each of the pieces regardless of the instruments at play, all share a connection of atmosphere. The whole album is thoughtful, sincere and slightly melancholy; not all of it is gentle, but it is all calm. Every aspect is considered and deliberate, giving it all an extremely satisfying and accomplished feel.

It’s so interesting when an artist you have put in one box in your head turns around and throws something completely different at you, and is amazing at that too. Joji Hirota is undoubtedly a world-class taiko player, but with The Gate, he proves that that is just the beginning of his musical talents.

177: Jama Ko, by Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba

Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba (Mali)
Jama Ko (2013)
13 tracks, 58 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

This album was one of the very first that I reviewed when I was making my tentative steps into music journalism, for the now sadly defunct website Musika.uk.com. Thinking back on it now, I reckon I was a little harsh on Jama Ko when it first came out, so here I’ll try to rebalance it a little bit.

So obviously, the album is a bit of a grower (for me at least). Over time, I’ve come to realise some of the components that make it a really good album, although I can still acknowledge its flaws.

Jama Ko marked the first time that Malian ngoni lute player Bassekou Kouyaté had really ‘plugged in’ on record. That was something that had been resisted by his previous producer Lucy Durán, but which now forms a crucial part of his sound. I do think that nowadays he’s perhaps a little too over-reliant on his electronic gizmos such as distortion and wah-wah, but on this album it’s used sparingly in a way that makes it exciting each time it rolls around. In fact, it’s a really special moment when he first busts out that wah-wah during his solo in the album’s opening and title track – I like to say that this is one of the best guitar solos I’ve ever heard, and it’s not even played on guitar.

This album is Bassekou’s third as a solo artist (or rather, as bandleader) and although it shows a definite expansion of its sound into more Western directions in terms of some tonalities, harmonies and chords here and there, his repertoire here still owes a lot to Malian music traditions. A big theme on this album is singers. Over the course of the 13 tracks, there are five lead singers, and through them, the album explores different aspects of Malian tradition: there is Amy Sacko, Ngoni Ba’s regular singer, from the Bamana tradition, as is the legendary Kasse Mady Diabaté; Zoumana Tereta, usually known for his one-string soku fiddle playing, here sings in the style of the Wassoulou hunters; Khaira Arby is half-Songhai and half-Tuareg from the north of the country; and Taj Mahal guests on a track, representing Malian music’s distant nephew, the blues. Bassekou himself even does some singing opposite Taj Mahal and does a great job of it, it’s a shame we don’t get to hear his vocal prowess more in his performances.

There are some slip-ups though. There are some tracks which seem the most ‘produced’ and they’re the ones with the least soul. The song ‘Wagadu’ is a great example, with its artificial echoes, piano chords and glockenspiel; the song itself is great, but these production elements seem unneeded in the context of the rest of the album. It basically seems whenever they let Canadian co-producer Dominic 'Mocky' Salole go from behind the desk to in front of the mics, the album as a whole suffered from it. A shame.

Despite remembering being quite harsh on this album, at the end of the original review I wrote back when it was first released, I did say that ‘Bassekou’s latest album is his most musically progressive and perhaps his most enjoyable,’ and actually, yeah fair enough. Even after releasing several albums since, I reckon that Jama Ko is his best of the bunch, his balancing of traditional and modern directions almost – almost – perfect. Take a listen and hear for yourself. And if you don’t believe me, maybe give it another listen and see if you change your mind.

176: The Birth of Dar, by MoMo

MoMo (Morocco/United Kingdom)
The Birth of Dar (2001)
6 tracks, 41 minutes
I can’t find anywhere to stream or download this one online, unfortunately. However there are a few copies going for very cheap on discogs if this blog sufficiently piques your interest. I’d definitely recommend it…obviously.

Moroccan music has always seemed to me to have a bit of a darker edge to it than that of other Maghrebi countries. I don’t know what creates that feeling – it could be something as subtle as a unique tuning system, a small difference in timbre or a slightly lilted rhythm, but whatever it is, Moroccan music always seems particularly suited to a dark room of writhing bodies. It’s also one of the reasons that make its fusion with techno and other electronica work so well.

The name MoMo stands for ‘Music of Moroccan Origin,’ and that’s a great – and accurate – declaration of intent. The music of Morocco is their starting point, and after that, anything goes as they make their sound relevant to their UK-based context. That means elements of Berber music, Arab-Andalusian music and Morocco’s most famous Gnawa music, performed by the band-members and hacked up into samples, all provide grist for the mill for this album of psychedelic techno and breakbeat. Most satisfyingly, MoMo manage to maintain their source material’s dark edge and fold that into electronica carefully crafted to hold the same ever-so-slightly menacing vibe while still providing extremely dance-worthy rhythms. They pronounced this wonderful mix dar, or, as they described it succinctly on the album sleeve, ‘Dar Music is bloody foreigner music.’ The style as laid out on The Birth of Dar is a bold statement of (what was then) modern life: it’s uncompromisingly British and defiantly Moroccan, and neither gives way to the other, nor does it need to.

Calling this album The Birth of Dar gave a tantalising prospect of a new musical movement waiting to proliferate. But that never quite materialised. MoMo played gigs for a few years but then seemed to fade away into non-existence for the longest time. I had thought that MoMo as a project was completely dead, but it actually turns out they had some stirrings recently, and released an album last year with Jah Wobble, which you can hear on Spotify. Admittedly the only musician uniting these two albums is singer, percussionist and guimbri player Tahar el-Idrissi, but it’s still good that the spirit of MoMo continues in some form.

Although short-lived, the concept of dar still resonates as an important mindset and an ultra-cool, ultra-danceable and ever-so-slightly dark album in The Birth of Dar. It still has the power to resonate; hopefully the movement will get another chance at moving the world some point soon…or at least, that this album will be made easily listen-toable again.

175: Vampire Weekend, by Vampire Weekend

Vampire Weekend (USA)
Vampire Weekend (2008)
11 tracks, 34 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

I once heard Vampire Weekend referred to as ‘the whitest band in America.’ Aside from the fact that, in the iteration on this album, not all of the band are even white themselves – making such a statement kinda weird to be honest – I sort of get where that commentator was coming from. The band’s image is nerdy and ultra-preppy, their lyrics and imagery are full of references to the Ivy League, and their vocals are sung in ambiguous mid-Atlantic accents. But what really drew me to their music when I first heard it was how much it didn’t just sound like your average white-boy indie rock band.

The first song that I heard by Vampire Weekend – and I’d guess it would be the same for most people in the UK – was their single ‘A-Punk’, their first to achieve wide success over on this side of the ocean. I found it curious – it was very polite, and had none of the angry energy of punk that its title led me to expect, but there was an energy to it, bouncy and poppy without being pop music. Then there was a clear but indefinable African edge to the sound. The influences are a bit murky on this track, the high-pitched guitars echoing the sounds of Ghanaian highlife, Congolese soukous or Zimbabwean jit without obviously being any of these; the drum pattern was similarly vague. Nevertheless, the sound was there. I wanted to delve deeper, so I got their album – and there those influences flourished out.

They’re all the way through, and almost every track seems to take inspiration from a different African style. The highlife, soukous and jit are there in clearer tones, and so are Soweto jive and isicathamiya, and the Congolese sound of the electro-likembe (replicated on electric guitars) and the rhythmic patterns of Angolan kuduro and Burundian karyenda drumming. Perhaps the most obvious place that this influence shows is in the song ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’ – not only is it in the music, it’s right there in the name: kwassa kwassa is a music and dance style adapted from soukous and made famous by Congolese star Kanda Bongo Man.

For all these African influences, they enrich the sound of the indie rock rather than take it over. They give Vampire Weekend a unique sound without making it just sound like an American band attempting to copy African musical styles – after all, a lot of their sound also comes from a whole range of other directions such as rock’n’roll, synthpop, folk-pop and even aesthetics of baroque chamber music. There’s lots of talk connecting Vampire Weekend’s music to Paul Simon’s Graceland but, if anything, I reckon the younger band do a better job of bringing the African styles in as part of their own sound, rather than just sticking them together as Simon did, albeit to good effect.

With all of these styles at play, from across the US, Europe and seemingly most of sub-Saharan Africa, I have difficulty understanding the critical mind that can listen to this album and define that sound as being made by ‘the whitest band in America.’ However, there is no disputing that what Vampire Weekend do is cultural plundering and appropriation with very little acknowledgement of their music sources – which I guess you can think of as the whitest things a band can do.

174: The Simpsons Sing the Blues, by The Simpsons

The Simpsons (USA)
The Simpsons Sing the Blues (1990)
10 tracks, 40 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

By 1990, The Simpsons had only been around for one and a half seasons as a full, primetime TV show, but already the world was in the grip of Simpsons-mania. So what happens then? Merchandise and tie-ins, of course. As far as blatant money-making tie-ins go, The Simpsons Sing the Blues was certainly successful musically as well as commercially (and it was successful, becoming the fastest-selling album of the year).

With half covers and half originals, the album consists of The Simpsons family (and, on one track, Mr Burns and Smithers) taking lead vocal duties though a mix of pop-blues and pop-hip-hop. While it is far from perfect (especially in terms of some dodgy turn-of-the-decade production choices), there are some really fun tracks here. There is obviously lots of humour all over the album, the whole thing of the cartoon characters taking on the main vocal duties all the way through actually comes off well, and not at all as ridiculous as it could have done – the actors all sing well, even in-character, and the choice of songs really do suit the characters well.

The massive success of the show meant the makers were able to attract top-tier names to join them on this album. ‘Do the Bartman’ was produced by and features backing vocals from Michael Jackson, Homer Simpson’s version of ‘Born Under a Bad Sign’ is bolstered by the electric guitar of B.B. King, and the piano solo on Marge and Homer’s duet of Randy Newman’s ‘I Love To See You Smile’ is played by the recently departed Dr John, to name three. The legends aren’t even used as selling points either; you have to dive into the small print of the CD booklet to confirm B.B.’s and Dr John’s contributions, and Jackson isn’t credited at all.

Yes, a lot of The Simpsons Sing the Blues has aged badly from a musical point-of-view, but at least half of the tracks still have real repeat-playability. And regardless, it’s still fun and weird to hear cartoon characters singing along earnestly to legit blues stars, and a great reminder of the time a comedy cartoon took over the international pop culture consciousness for at least a decade to become one of the most influential cultural phenomena ever. Why shouldn’t that phenomenon include an album of blues music?

173: Electric Phin Band, by Khun Narin

Khun Narin (Thailand)
Electric Phin Band (2014)
4 tracks, 40 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

The phin is a small, guitar-like lute from north-east Thailand. It only has three strings, two of which are played and the lowest of which is struck to make a drone, and it’s traditionally used to accompany folk music such as molam and to provide instrumental entertainment in community celebrations in the countryside. Khun Narin’s music is in the latter sphere; the only thing that really sets them apart from tradition is the fact that their phin, played by Sitthichai Charoenkhwan, is electric, played through a homemade sound system together with some distortion and some delay.

But that small innovation gained this village band a worldwide audience. After seeing a video of the group performing in their village, an American producer headed out and helped them to cut an album, recorded at one of their usual gatherings. Electric Phin Band is the result. Critics were falling over themselves to liken the music to something they knew – ‘psychedelic’ is always the word that’s used, and it’s often compared to styles such as surf rock, jam band, funk and punk, and even the Congotronics sound of bands like Konono No.1. For my money, I hear clear echoes of Tuareg guitar music in the pentatonic scales and loping rhythms of Charoenkhwan’s phin and Latin jazz in the bass guitar of Chaiphichit Tarapha.

This is one of those curious cases of parallel evolution. This is music that holds so much in its scales, rhythms and tonalities; I don’t think it is frivolous to compare it to all those musical styles, because there are definite similarities to all of them in some way or another, and that’s something the ears love to latch onto. It’s more of a coincidence than any real cultural connection, though – at the end of the day, this music is just the most modern take on the repertoire that has been performed in the region for generations.

Just as the music of the khaen – another molam instrument of north-east Thailand and Laos – sounds impossibly funky when playing its traditional style, the phin seemingly only needs an amp and a few small effects to trigger connections in listeners from all over the world. I find it rather comforting – even though it’s quite odd – how humans producing art on completely different sides of the globe, often with very little cultural connection, still tend surprisingly often to similar aesthetics of tune, rhythm and structure.

172: Unknown tape, by Hirut Bekele

Hirut Bekele (Ethiopia)
Unknown tape
12 tracks, 59 minutes
Listen and download at Awesome Tapes from Africa

Here’s a difficult one: how do you write about an album you have no idea what it is? No title, no date, no track names. All I know is that it is by the singer Hirut Bekele. Let’s try.

The version of this tape that I have – and that you can have too, courtesy of Awesome Tapes from Africa – is not good quality at all, it’s fuzzy, muddy and a little distorted, but the standard of the music cannot help but shine through. The ensemble is three, as Hirut’s voice is backed by just an electronic organ and a krar lyre; the sound is actually quite sparse in most places, but if anything, that only serves to highlight Hirut’s captivating voice. Her singing is quite understated in a way, it’s sweet and soulful, but she can’t half belt it out when she needs to, and put on quite an attitude when she wants to.

I find these recordings most spellbinding when the pieces are based on the more semitone-rich scales such as those on tracks 2, 5 and 9, which use the scales of anchihoye, a variation on bati (with a major seventh), and ambassel, respectively, for all you musicologists out there (a handy guide to the Ethiopian qeñet scales can be found on this website). And then there’s the wild, guttural introduction to track 11, which I think harkens to the vocalisations of eskista dancers, but it come out of the blue and doesn’t come back, either. There’s a lot of lightly strange things about this tape, and I love it.

It’s so hard to find any information about Hirut Bekele, though. When I visited Ethiopia, I tried asking in every music shop about recordings by her. No-one had any, although they all remarked on what a legend she was. One of them told me it’s because of some confusing legal matters about who owned the recordings, that when she died, the licenses were inherited by someone unexpected or something, but I find that a strange excuse, especially seeing as Ethiopia’s music trade seems to be almost exclusively run on pirated copies. Who knows what’s going on? Either way, I would love to know – and hear – more about Hirut and her music, a legend with a fantastic voice but an enigmatic profile.

171: Super Parquet, by Super Parquet

Super Parquet (France)
Super Parquet (2015)
4 tracks, 43 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

Featuring albums by Dub FX and Dr Didg in the past couple days, we’ve been in a world of loops, and now that we’re with Super Parquet, that isn’t going to change just yet. When I interviewed the band back in 2017 for an article (which you can read at my other blog), they were totally clear on what was the most important thing about their music when they just kept saying “drones and loops” over and over, in a quite nice verbal representation of what they do.

In a sentence, Super Parquet’s music is a marrying of folk dance music form the Auvergne region of France with electronica, techno and musique concrète, but such a description gives only a small hint as to what the group actually sound like. They’re not very easy to listen to; their instruments all have harsh tones, from the cabrette bagpipes, banjo and the boîte à bourdon (the ‘bumblebee box,’ sort of a cross between a hurdy-gurdy and a shruti box) to the overdistorted synthesisers and the super-crunchy drum machines. They also revel in disturbing sounds, dissonances are found and dwelled upon, without the musicians ever really feeling the need to resolve them. Throughout the entirety of the first track, a harsh, sawtooth synth drone plays, first in the bass registers but slowly sliding all the way upward towards mosquito levels, and hitting every single dissonance along the way. It’s uncomfortable and they love it.

The great thing about their sound is that it’s completely unrelenting. That’s the thing about drones and loops – they will go on forever until you tell them to stop…and this is a band that don’t like to stop. They will build and build for as long as they like, raising the tension and never really letting that drop come in the way you expect. That’s taken to the extreme in the final track of this set, ‘Bourrée à Solomagne’, which is 22 minutes of beautifully agonising build up before the tension is released right at the end.

This is music to overwhelm the senses. In that way, it’s quite like the ritual music of North African Sufis such as the Gnawa or Stambeli. The band have got the ears covered, but to get that full out-of-your-mind experience, there needs to be some element of disorientation. The only time I’ve seen them live was in a huge arena in Poland. Their performance was up to scratch, but the venue was just too spacious. I’d love to see them in a small, packed club, incredibly dark except for the dancing and strobing stage lights, with heavy, incense-tinged air. I reckon in that context, this music would be a trance-inducer to rival any religious ritual.

Super Parquet is the only material the band have released so far, and it is from four years ago. They seem to have gone fairly quiet in the last year or so, and I really hope that means that they’re busy focusing their attention to the studio, creating some brilliant new album. Fingers crossed, eh? But until they come out with that one, at least we have this one to be getting on with – it’s not bad!

UPDATE: I have been reliably informed that we will be getting some exciting new recordings by Super Parquet very soon, and a whole new album by the end of the year – score! So if you like what you hear from this album, keep an ear out for their new stuff. I can't wait!

170: Serotonality, by Dr Didg

Dr Didg (USA)
Serotonality (1998)
10 tracks, 47 minutes (original CD release)
Spotify ∙ iTunes

Graham Wiggins gained the nickname Dr Didg while studying a DPhil in solid-state physics at Oxford University, where he became known for experimenting with the physics at play in his chosen instrument – the didgeridoo – in his spare time. He even invented a keyed didgeridoo and presented it on Tomorrow’s World with his square hairstyle. What a nerd. But then, of course, he was also the eponymous member of the band Dr Didg, one of the funkiest groups on the world dubtronica scene in the 90s, presented rocking out with his long hair and huge hippie clothes. A man of many faces, then.

The band’s whole focus is towards building up an almighty temple of groove, a sonic headspace in which trance-seekers can worship and dance. The didgeridoo is obviously at the heart of their sound, but it’s mostly used as a percussion instrument (a bit similar to beatboxing – didgboxing, maybe) and to interject its singular roars, which are drawn together in loops and form the basis of their sound. So, don’t expect deep Aborigine traditions here. Instead, there’s layers-on-layers of synths, drums, bass, guitars and horns creating something in the mid-space of funk, dub, jazz, house, techno and psytrance, often with a vaguely Egyptian-sounding lift to it too.

A weird brain connection for me on listening to Serotonality with fresh ears is its stylistic similarities to the techno-funk of the Jazz Jackrabbit soundtrack I wrote about months ago. My favourite track from the album, ‘Brand New Shoes’, with its too-funky-for-its-own-good groove and saxophone-synth lines, would fit right into that soundtrack, I reckon. I actually had to stop writing this for five minutes while I went a bit nuts to that track. Wonderful stuff.

In the early 2000s Dr Didg as a band slowly gigged less and less and eventually stopped being a permanent thing, although there were occasional reunion shows here and there. Wiggins carried on with his career as a physicist, co-writing such riveting papers as ‘Direct parallel image reconstructions for spiral trajectories using GRAPPA’ and ‘A 96-channel MRI System with 23- and 90-channel Phase Array Head Coils at 1.5 Tesla’ and helping to develop important technology in the field of biomedical imaging. I find it so impressive that someone can reach such high levels of achievement in such different arenas. When he passed away much too young in 2016, Wiggins left behind important legacies in medical technology and world dubtronica that will keep people living and grooving for a long time yet.

169: Live in the Street, by Dub FX

Dub FX (Australia)
Live in the Street (2008)
10 tracks, 52 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

In 2019, when the beatbox-and-loop-pedal, ‘all from the mouth’ sort of thing is now a well-known gimmick, the music of Dub FX still stands out as great music regardless of how it’s made. It is true that all the sounds on this album come from the mouth of Dub FX (as well as a couple of guest rappers on two of the tracks), at least at the beginning of their journey. Those sounds then go through so many layers of looping and processing that they come out as a whole selection of synths and drum machines.

What I find especially impressive is his range of production skills that are conducted entirely live and, for the most part, with his feet. As his name suggests, dub is a huge part of his sound, and he uses a lot of the same techniques as a dubmaster in his performance. Not only does he build up the loops seamlessly, he then takes the various ‘live’ looping samples of the track and process them all separately, dropping them in and out of the mix as appropriate, apply different effects and huge delays on each individually, all to craft and change the atmosphere throughout a piece. That these dub techniques are utilised on his own sound that is actually a mix of varous hip-hop and electronic styles give a really unique spin on the solo beatbox trope. And Dub FX’s use of beatbox doesn’t stray too far away from its original purpose either – at the end of it all, his dance-and-trance-inducing soundscapes are a wonderful vehicle for his raps, which he tumbles into with supreme flow.

Obviously, this album was recorded entirely live, and entirely on the street. It’s his very first album, made to sell while busking, and I really think that’s the perfect setting for his music and performance. I've seen him live in busking mode many times, actually – sometimes by chance, sometimes by design, and the connection that he shares with his audience as they all stand on the same level, just a metre apart is truly special. It sort of reinforces the whole ‘live’ nature of the performance, that even though the music has the sound of perfectly crafted electronica, at the heart of it it’s still all done on-the-fly, and the audience affects it in a very real way, whether literally getting up and taking a turn on the mic (he’s always open for new musical friends – even I’ve had the pleasure of jamming with him under a bridge in Berlin) or just in the reciprocal vibes that pass between everyone present. I caught him doing a show once on a proper stage, raised up and apart from his audience, and while the music was technically fine, the atmosphere was just shot. The street is his real home and the ideal place for his art.

I feel the same way about Dub FX’s albums. He’s released quite a few studio recordings after this one, and to be fair, they are actually really good – that production wizardry is even more in evidence when he’s behind a mixing desk rather than a bunch of effects pedals – but for me, this debut perfectly captures everything that he and his music are all about: getting down on the level, crafting the sounds organically among people, and letting the whole vibe flow easily through the microphone.

168: The Tale of the Princess Kaguya (OST), by Joe Hisaishi

Joe Hisaishi (Japan)
The Tale of the Princess Kaguya (OST) (2013)
37 tracks, 52 minutes
Stream and download from khinsider (shhh) ∙ iTunes

Although I love Studio Ghibli’s films, I only saw Isao Takahata’s The Tale of the Princess Kaguya for the first time a couple of years ago, but it’s probably my favourite film ever. It is absolutely stunning, a complete masterclass of animation, storytelling and simplicity. It is unrelentingly beautiful, the whole thing looks like an almost-finished watercolour come to life, except for when things get a little frantic and it seamlessly transitions to a chaotic charcoal sketch style. The story is rather simple, but passionately and sensitively told, based on traditional Japanese folklore, and all of that is reflected in the art style. It is a quiet, contemplative and slow film that really takes its time to ponder on the humble beauties and tragedies of nature and life. The Tale of the Princess Kaguya is a nigh-on perfect film, and I encourage you all to go and watch it as soon as you can, and get blown away just like I was.

But we’re here, ostensibly, to talk about music, and specifically an album – today, the Original Soundtrack of The Tale of the Princess Kaguya. It was composed by Joe Hisaishi, who is well-known for his Studio Ghibli soundtracks, but this was his first for a Takahata film. Although his other scores have tended to focus more on standard Western classical and contemporary techniques (often including some interesting synthesisers), this one is a little different. A great score reflects the film, and that is the case here: the art style looks as if it could have been made by one artist and one brush, and so the music is entirely acoustic and usually focuses on quite intimate tones. The music is pleasantly understated and has a habit of sounding incredibly simple while being anything but. Almost the entire score is pentatonic, and there are many nods to classical Japanese musical forms such as gagaku and traditional instruments such as the koto zither and ritual bells; it even at points takes influence from Indian and Burmese music – which may sound a bit odd, but its use is completely natural in situ.

The film actually incorporates music into its plot in a couple of interesting ways. When she is young, the Princess sings folk songs with her friends in the countryside, but once she is moved to the city, she is obliged to learn the classical music of the koto. There is a real binary constructed between the two, which is especially evident in the way that the Princess performs the same piece of music in both ways: the earthy, simple but friendly tone of the folk style, and the intricate and elegant, yet resented, manner of the classical style. That can even be heard in the tonalities of each variation, with the folk version being in the major-sounding yo scale and the classical in the more complex, semitonal miyako-bushi scale. This album has the nice touch of putting them side-by-side as the closing track, entitled ‘Song of the Heavenly Maiden’.

One element of Joe Hisaishi’s genius that you will not be able to appreciate through this OST album is his masterful use of silence. He knows that not every scene needs incessant musical accompaniment, and these moments of quiet are always spot-on. When the first strains of strings come in after a long, reflective silence, it makes their impact so much more emotional and intense. I know this is a piece of writing about the album, but, you know, you wouldn’t have to listen to the album if you watched the film. Then you get to appreciate it in its full glory, sounded or otherwise. Plus, you also get to experience one of the most breathtakingly beautiful pieces of art out there. Just sayin.

167: Scissors, by Hans Dulfer presented by handieMan

Hans Dulfer presented by handieMan (The Netherlands)
Scissors (2006)
11 tracks, 54 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

This album took me some time to get into – I didn’t like it for quite a few listens. To be honest, I’m still not 100% sold on it, but there is definitely something very compelling about it.

Hans Dulfer is a Dutch jazz saxophonist who has never really done things the straight way. Although he is more than proficient in a small-band jazz setting (as his live performances will attest), his recorded output has always included a twist, incorporating elements from Afro-Latin music, funk, hip-hop and pop over the years. Bearing that in mind, Scissors isn’t actually a million miles away from his previous work, and it’s certainly in keeping with his genre-defying mindset.

This album certainly holds Hans Dulfer at its core, but the artistic direction comes from producer handieMan. Dulfer’s playing itself serves as handieMan’s instrument and the name Scissors is appropriate – everything is hacked up, flipped about, looped, overdubbed and processed in about every which way you can imagine. These reformed sax lines become the basis of some heavy hip-hop-funk-electro-dub, that maintain a jazzy outlook throughout.

A lot of it is totally cheesy and some of the tracks still don’t really work for me, but there are a lot of interesting ideas that are bounced around the album. If anything, I think handieMan could have afforded to be even more experimental here – the very 90s-sounding funk is fine if that’s the mood you’re going for, but the work that he does in sampling and chopping Dulfer’s noises is so much more exciting, and it’s that which makes me keep listening to this album and what warrants its place on this list. As a whole, the album may represent a bit of a missed opportunity, but its innovative, electrifying and unusual perspectives on jazz saxophone and the roles it can play within non-jazz music make Scissors a worthwhile listen.

166: Dimanche à Bamako, by Amadou & Mariam

Amadou & Mariam (Mali)
Dimanche à Bamako (2004)
15 tracks, 57 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

By this point, the blind husband and wife duo Amadou & Mariam had been slowly gaining international attention with their über-cool, extra funky Malian rock; Dimanche à Bamako tipped them over into world music superstardom.

It’s a little ironic, then, that although the album is credited to Amadou & Mariam, it would perhaps be fairer to bill it as ‘Manu Chao featuring Amadou & Mariam.’ The anarchistic French ska-punker was brought on board as a producer for this album, but he didn’t restrict himself to behind the mixing desk – he’s all over it. He contributes guitars and backing vocals to the mix as well as the programming of various samples, and he even takes on lead vocal duties on several tracks. In the end, the whole thing is much more akin to Chao’s other work than A&M’s. That’s just his way of working, too - his production on Calypso Rose’s album Far From Home (released 12 years later in 2016) has the same sort of sound.

That’s not to say this isn’t a great album, of course. I loved this album when it first came out, and must have played it to death; until I listened again in preparation to write this, I didn’t realise that I knew every track from beginning to end, but I did. I guess that in the intervening years, the Manu Chaoness of it all sort of clouded my perception of it. I’ve seen the duo live quite a few times now over the years, and I truly believe that Amadou is one of the very best guitarists I’ve ever seen, and when he gets going on a solo, all sorts of mad colours come flying out of his axe. When you have a musician like this at your disposal, why mess around with over-production? Hit record, let him do his thing, and let us hear that!

Maybe I resent Chao’s heavy-handed approach to production taking away from Amadou & Mariam’s whole thing a little bit too much. But if the album wasn’t so successful, I probably wouldn’t have heard of them at all (or had my exposure to them delayed at least). And besides, it is still almost an hour’s worth of good music regardless of whose sound it is or isn’t. Gotta accentuate that positive – the album is good, enjoy it.

165: Best, by Muddy Waters

Muddy Waters (USA)
Best
14 tracks, 57 minutes
Inadequate Spotify playlist

I feel like I’m not getting to include enough stuff in this list by the real masters of blues music from right at the beginning of the genre’s recording to about the early 1960s. Before then, albums weren’t really a thing, it was all singles. The most that we hear of these artists, then, come in the form of compilations, and when there are so many Best of Whoever albums floating around, all with more or less the same assortment of tracks on there, it’s really hard to pick any in particular as a ‘favourite album,’ so they’ve sort of been left by the wayside here, which is a shame, because (as you already know when I’m talking about seemingly any other type of music) I absolutely adore the blues, especially the stuff of these earlier eras.

But I’m glad The Algorithm chucked up this particular album for me. Yes, it’s a Best of, and to be honest, it’s another one of those cheap bargain bin style releases. That rough image of the cover was the only one I could find online anywhere. Can’t find any release date for it, and I actually can’t find the same recordings anywhere online, they were just recorded at some mystery concert I-don’t-know-when, probably by bootleg (and if it is a bootleg recording, it’s a really good one) – the Spotify playlist I made and linked to up there contains the same songs as this compilation, but not the same versions, and it doesn’t even have some of the songs at all. If you want to hear the versions I’m listening to, get in touch.

The reason I chose this particular album instead of any other Best of – or even one of the albums the he made after the LP became a thing – is simply because it was the first time I’d ever heard a full album of Muddy’s music. It’s a great selection of tracks – it is missing some of his most classic songs such as ‘I Just Wanna Make Love to You’, ‘I’m Ready’ and his amazing solo version ‘Rollin’ Stone’, but most of the rest are there, and it does include some lesser-known ones – and Muddy and band are clearly on top form for this gig. It’s pure Chicago blues too, before his renaissance where he added a lot of influences from the rock his music helped create in the first place.

Obviously, Muddy Waters is a compete icon of blues music. He’s the most famous artist that represents the movement of blues northwards, learning his craft on the acoustic guitar in the Mississippi Delta from the old masters before moving up to Chicago, plugging in and defining that city’s sound for decades to come. This album captures that sound – the rawness and folkiness of delta blues with the groove (and solos) of the Chicago style.

Best may not be the most quintessential – or essential – of the compilations and live albums of Muddy Waters that are available out there, and despite (well, probably because of) its cheapness, it’s dropped into full obscurity and it’s probably almost impossible to get your hands on. But if you can, you may as well. It’s a great example of a master at work…and if you can’t, just give Muddy a listen in general. He’s always great and even if you think you like him, he’ll always surprise you.

164: Alright, Still, by Lily Allen

Lily Allen (United Kindom)
Alright, Still (2006)
11 tracks, 37 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

Pop pop pop. This is pop all the way through, in both its popularity and its musical style. There’s nothing particularly challenging in the music but it is completely infectious. The tracks from this album were absolutely everywhere the summer that this album came out, and it’s easy to see why.

Although the music itself may sound quite simple, it’s not bereft of stylistic variety. A lot of the album – including the most famous singles ‘Smile’ and ‘LDN’ – has a relaxed reggae lilt to it, and there are elements from hip-hop, R’n’B and soul in there to keep the poppiness from getting too monotonous. There’s also a good and wide-ranging use of samples here, and not the usual sort for a mid-00s pop singer either, including snatches from Earl King’s ‘Big Chief’ and Dawn Penn’s ‘No No No’ turning into valuable melodic hooks and making the music nerds’ ears tingle.

Obviously a big draw for Lily Allen’s work is her lyrics, and on Alright, Still she really established her reputation for angry and bitter lyrics. She still somehow makes them lighthearted and fun, though, and this is the exact opposite of a depressing listen. Her stories of failed relationships, sexual harassment and just the general shittiness of life are told with a deadpan, ironic humour that feels super relatable and humanising, without any flowery, poetic wit to bog it down.

Although I’ve listed the album as having 11 tracks up at the top – and that’s the official count – that’s not what I have in my own iTunes library. That’s because, uniquely in my collection, I think, I got so annoyed by a terrible song that I just completely straight-up deleted it from my computer and my life and basically refused to accept its existence. That song is the last one on the album, ‘Alfie’, written about her now-Game of Thrones star brother. She wrote it when she was younger and I think it really shows – juvenile lyrics, annoying nursery-rhyme lyrics and the worst kind of bubblegum pop. Awful.

Regardless, for me, this definitely-10-track-and-no-more album is a great one. Apparently, when the album came out, Stylus Magazine referred to the album negatively as ‘nothing more than pop for people who hate pop music,’ and I say…well, yeah. But that’s a good thing! It’s a really good example of just how groovy pop music can be in and of itself, to the degree that its popularity can reach beyond into the ears of those that wouldn’t otherwise be fussed. Alright, Still doesn’t need that amount of thought put into it: just stick it on and enjoy.

163: The Rough Guide to Country Music Pioneers, by Various Artists

Various Artists (USA)
The Rough Guide to Country Music Pioneers (2013)
25 tracks, 77 minutes
Spotify playlist

As Rough Guides go, this is a pretty obscure one. It’s never actually been properly released as a stand-alone, as far as I can tell. Thing is, it seems like there was a point where someone at the World Music Network realised there were thousands of out-of-copyright recordings from the US that could be hoovered up for use in compilations and they just released a whole slew of them – mostly focussing on different types of early blues, but some, like this one, featured country music. There was also the added benefit that these recordings – mostly the 1920s and 30s – were also restricted by how long they could be. Most of them hang just under the three-minute mark, which means you can cram a whole bunch of them onto a CD. That behind the scenes stuff is all conjecture on my part, but it would make sense why such an expansive and well-curated compilation as this one just ended up being released as…a bonus disc to another compilation. The Rough Guide to Jimmie Rodgers, to be precise. Now that one is also a great album and a well-rounded introduction to the Singing Brakeman, but the bonus disc fascinates me even more, for its diversity if nothing else.

Just as I like listening to all the musical geographies present in yesterday’s album, the range of tracks presented on today’s really lets you hear the stylistic scope of that era of country music. It is all undoubtedly country music, and you can trace a clear line from these beginnings of the style to the Nashville sound and the more pop-like hybrids that came later, but if you listen with just slightly different ears you can hear so much musical history. On this album, there are tracks that can be clearly heard as part of the traditions of the blues, gospel, and English, Scottish, Irish and even French and Scandinavian folk. There’s elements here that got drawn into bluegrass and even hot jazz on both sides of the pond – this really was from a time when all these musical labels were much more fluid and less defined. And on top of all that stylistic stuff, it’s all sung with a range of the most amazing accents from the Deep South of America, which makes the whole thing such a delight to listen to from so many angles.

With 25 tracks on this album, there are so many great ones to choose from. There’s ‘Chevrolet Car’ by Sam McGee, ‘Pretty Polly’ by B.F. Shelton, ‘Sugar Baby’ by Dock Boggs, ‘Tell Mother I Will Meet Her’ by E. Stoneman, E.K. Brewer & M. Mooney…and the list goes on. As I’ve probably mentioned before, I am really interested in country music but I’m forever looking for ‘ins’ that allow me to explore this fascination – The Rough Guide to Country Music Pioneers is absolutely perfect for that – so many musical lineages and leylines to be followed up on…and even if you don’t feel like doing that, there’s enough here to keep you occupied all by itself. And then you still have a whole CD of Jimmie Rodgers to catch up on too!

162: Ya Madhacha, by Mahmoud Abdelaziz

Mahmoud Abdelaziz (Sudan)
Ya Madhacha
7 tracks, 42 minutes
Listen and download from Awesome Tapes from Africa

This tape – courtesy of the amazing blog and music resource Awesome Tapes from Africa – is a great example of Sudanese pop that really outlines the musical geographies at play.

Mahmoud Abdelaziz was one of the most popular singers in Sudan in his time, before his death in 2013. His lyrics addressed an audience that leant towards a more tolerant, secular society, naturally drawing the ire of the more conservative government. Even though this music could perhaps be considered a protest, it’s not at the expense of any pop credentials. On this album, which is probably from some time in the 2000s, Mahmoud’s rich vocals describe truly catchy melodies and the music is a great mix of influences from classical, folk, funk and reggae. And that’s when those geographies become really evident.

Sudan is undoubtedly an Arabic nation, but its position as an African culture is also super important. Sudan, Ethiopia and Somalia all share some portion of a cultural connection – they each speak different languages but they are like cultural cousins. You can hear all of that in Mahmoud’s music, and on Ya Madhacha. A big part of the album’s sound is a sweeping string orchestra and several darbuka goblet drums, which are heavily reminiscent of Egyptian film music, but whereas that style is usually based on melodies of the Arabic classical maqam systems, this music is entirely pentatonic. Although the language, instrumentation and even melodic ornaments are immediately recognisable as in the Arabic tradition, the tunes themselves have much more in common with those of neighbouring Ethiopia and Somalia even further out east.

Of course this is pop, and this sort of thing isn’t really what you’re supposed to be thinking about when you listen to pop music – it’s supposed to be light, fun music that’s easy to enjoy. And that’s exactly what Ya Madhacha is, but I just love when music as popular as this can serve as a perfect example of that country’s cultural geography, including all the musical nuances to triangulate its position in the world both physically and conceptually while still sounding simple and eminently hummable.

161: Man Like I, by Natty

Natty (United Kingdom)
Man Like I (2008)
12 tracks, 44 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

Is there a reason why more music invokes the feelings of summer than any other season? Maybe that’s even just me – is that just me? There is some music that feels wintery (aside from just Christmassy stuff), and very little that feels like spring or autumn, but there’s loads of summery sounding music. I wonder why that is.

As you’ll guess, I reckon Natty’s Man Like I is a great summer record. It has the sound of a lazy day in the park with some tinnies and a Frisbee. Get this album blaring out of a little speaker and annoy everyone around you, perfect. Not sure what it is about this album that has that vibe to it, either. I mean, other than the very first track ‘July’, an ode to a wonderful month (course it is – that’s when I was born!), admittedly that is explicitly summery, but the rest aren’t as thematically obvious.

It’s essentially just a lovely, quite poppy album of reggae with little hints of hip-hop here and there. It’s also lightly twee in a way quite a lot of late-2000s music was, but it doesn’t take itself overly seriously either. The whole thing has this really chill, acoustic thing going on, even though it’s not even acoustic. A lot of it is based around Natty’s acoustic guitar and voice and builds up from that point, but they’ve done a great job of retaining the same ambience. Through all the drums and bass, electric guitars, keys, backing vocals and all sorts of production bits and bobs, it’s still like he’s just strumming on his acoustic guitar in cool company.

Summer is rolling in, so next time that breeze becomes warm and languid and there’s an aroma of freshly mown (or smoked) grass in the air, crack this one out and keep the sun in the sky all day long.

160: Double Time, by Leon Redbone

Leon Redbone (USA)
Double Time (1977)
11 tracks, 34 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

Born under the absolutely amazing name Dickran Gobalian in Cyprus before moving to Canada and, eventually the US…or was he born in Louisiana under the name James Hokum in 1910? Or any number of other stories he’s told in the past? Only he can be sure – although I’m fairly certain he’s not 109 years old. What is a definite is that he is Leon Redbone.

Redbone’s mix of blues, vaudeville, trad jazz and old show tunes sounds as if it could have been recorded in the 1910s, given the right recording equipment. He leads all of his tracks with his charmingly strange voice: he croons, yodels, scats and whistles and shows off as the world’s greatest player of the ‘throat tromnet’ – that’s a hybrid trumpet/trombone all from the mouth.

All the songs here are covers of artists such as Jimmie Rogers, Jelly Roll Morton and Blind Blake, but when you make an album this good, you don’t need to be a songwriter. There’s not one bad track here, and there’s many great ones. A big part of the charm of this album – and all of Redbone’s recorded work – is that it’s performed straight-faced but it’s not serious. There is so much inherent humour to it without turning it all into a joke or compromising any element of the musicality or arrangement. That allows the times when he really gets on the loose wig – such as the barmy solo voice-and-guitar version of ‘Sheik of Araby’ – to be even more hysterical.

Redbone became somewhat of a cult star in the 70s as a mystery man out of his own time. His music struck a chord with people looking for something completely out of the ordinary, leading to a number of famous fans. Double Time was only his second album, but by this point he’d already gained enough of a reputation to feature guest performers – playing parts well beneath their standings, too. Experimental post-bop flautist and saxophonist Yusef Lateef is here playing an understated soprano sax on ‘Mississippi River Blues’, and Don McLean – already famous for ‘American Pie’ – performs the entirely functional role of banjo player on ‘Mississippi Delta Blues’. Then there’s a smorgasbord of horns, clarinets, tubas, strings and two separate barbershop quartets all in the mixer too.

There’s a lot of questions that you can ask about Leon Redbone, but none of them really matter. All you need to know is that he is a unique and hilarious purveyor of the lighter side of music from the early 20th century. He’s completely bonkers and his music is wonderful – spend a little over half an hour in his company with Double Time and feel the joy.

Update: since writing this piece, Leon Redbone sadly died on 30 May, 2019. He was 127 years old.

159: Come Away With Me, by Norah Jones

Norah Jones (USA)
Come Away With Me (2002)
14 tracks, 45 minutes
Spotify ∙ iTunes

When I was researching to write the post on Jolie Holland’s Escondida back in March, I came across this review on Pitchfork. It was comparing Holland’s album to this one by Norah Jones, but in doing so, was incredibly harsh on Jones’ work: ‘No matter how boring or stupidly inconsequential Jones' records may be, she has proven herself one of the most unexpected new forces in pop […] Jones' quips tend to fall embarrassingly flat, each verse impossibly lifeless and smooth.’ Ouch. What did Norah Jones do to you, friend?

So you can see why I feel the need to get a bit defensive here. I just can’t work out how that reviewer and I were listening to the same album. I was absolutely in love with Norah Jones’ voice when her debut album, Come Away With Me, first came out, as many people were. It’s incredibly soft, velvety and smokey; it caresses the ears romantically. And on Come Away With Me, it’s in gentle surroundings of mellow jazz, echoes of country music (performed with a twinkle of the eye) and whispers of blues and American folk. There’s even something a little darker in there sometimes, such as the elegant tango of ‘I’ve Got to See You Again’. Really, there’s no getting away from the fact that this is perfect – and, now, stereotypical – dinner party music. It really struck a chord too: the album reached number one across the world, sold millions upon millions of units and won armfuls of Grammys including Album of the Year, Record of the Year, Song of the Year (no, I don’t know the difference either) and Best New Artist. Not bad for an album generally within the realm of jazz.

Maybe the popular success of this album was the problem, the reason it is sneered upon by some. More than being a pleasant and unchallenging listen, it was that the wrong sort of people liked it. Once your record becomes accepted by the bourgeoisie, you’ve lost any claim to cool. Well, bollocks to it. Yes, the bourgeoisie are toxic and their tastes often offensive and they shall be eaten in good time, but that doesn’t mean that they are totally immune to good music. Every now and then, they will hit upon a good thing and tarnish it with their attention (see also: Buena Vista Social Club, Ladysmith Black Mambazo). But don’t take it out on the artist. It’s not their fault.

Besides, let people enjoy what they want. Or, at the very least, let me enjoy what I want. And that includes Norah Jones’ Come Away With Me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have dinner party guests to entertain.

158: Naktės, by Merope

Merope (Lithuania/France/Belgium)
Naktės (2018)
9 tracks, 53 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

Now here is a particularly nice coincidence! Today’s album is from a group fronted by Lithuanian musician Indrė Jurgelevičiūtė – the very same Indrė Jurgelevičiūtė that made such lovely music on yesterday’s ‘album.’ Well, how many others do you know?

Merope are a trio whose music is based on traditional Lithuanian folk songs or – in the case of their own compositions – heavily influenced in that direction. But although that is the jumping off point, Merope themselves are decidedly not traditional. Indrė on the kanklės zither and song anchors them in the Lithuanian repertoire, Frenchman Jean-Christophe Bonnafous plays the bansuri flute from the Hindustani classical tradition and Bert Cools from Belgium contributes layers of guitars and electronics.

The group say of Naktės that it ‘presents a world full of wonder, inspired by the atmosphere of the night,’ and that certainly comes across. While the sound is very calm throughout, it often blossoms into the mystical and spectral, and there’s even something a little unsettling about it at times. The bansuri obviously brings an Indian edge, but it’s also used in a more freeform way, making sounds for their timbres as well as just their tones. The electronics also create this feeling, with sheets of hypnagogic noise that brings to mind the washed-out retro synths of vaporwave but in a more ambient context. And when the electronics turn their attention to the kanklės, processing the instrument’s twinkling strings, it echos the higher-plane-inducing sound of Laraaji. Altogether, the instruments and sounds coalesce and disperse like the Northern Lights, a soundscape rooted in place but with license to soar.

Naktės is Merope’s third album, but this is actually the first time I’d heard of them, and asking around, it seems like I’m not the only one for whom they’ve flown under the radar – and it seems like a popular album once people get it in their ears. So here you are then: this is Merope, they’re a good band and Naktės is a good album. And if you don’t know, now you know.

157: Sacred Riverside Gathering @ Monasterio de Santa Cristina, Galicia, by Davide Salvado, Indrė Jurgelevičiūtė, David Rothenberg and Miguel Hiroshi

Davide Salvado, Indrė Jurgelevičiūtė, David Rothenberg and Miguel Hiroshi (Spain/Lithuania/USA/Japan)
Sacred Riverside Gathering @ Monasterio de Santa Cristina, Galicia (2014)
9 tracks, 53 minutes

This is another Album that is not really an album at all. It was a concert that was live streamed and – wondrous! – has been archived in full on YouTube. You can watch and listen to the entire performance there, together with some interviews and speeches, or, if you prefer, I have also turned all the musical sections into an mp3 album that you can listen to on the go. Get in touch and I’ll send you those files.

This album/video/stream or whatever you want to call it is the record of a unique musical meeting. Organised by the eco music platform Wapapura to coincide with that year’s WOMEX event, the concert was held in the beautiful 12th century Monastery of Santa Cristina along the banks of the River Sil in Galicia, Spain. In the monastery’s cave-like church, four musicians and a very small audience gathered for a one-off collaboration.

Two of the musicians come from traditional backgrounds – there’s Davide Salvado, a Galician folk singer, and Indrė Jurgelevičiūtė, a Lithuanian singer and kanklės (zither) player – and two come from the world of experimental music – David Rothenberg is a jazz clarinettist who is most well-known for his work with naturally-occurring music, most recently performing with nightingales in Berlin, and Miguel Hiroshi is a Japanese-Spanish percussionist who works with rhythms from all over the globe.

Together, the musicians take turns performing pieces from each other’s repertoire and expanding their own traditions to accommodate the particularities of their collaborators’. They take part in collective improvisation in a calm and relaxed manner; although one musician may lead a particular section, none takes a precedent over the others. In the hushed church, every smallest sound is crystal clear and reverberates around the space for a long time, meaning that the barely amplified music often plays with dynamics of quietness as opposed to the dynamics of loudness that we usually expect. In the ancient, holy surrounds, it all gives the concert a meditative, even mystical feeling, and one that is obviously shared by the audience, who click their fingers rather than clap at the end of pieces so as not to break that spell. It’s the perfect music for the perfect location.

I can only imagine what it must have felt like to experience this concert in the flesh. Although I was nearby at the time, in Santiago de Compostela, I unfortunately couldn’t go – I was working instead. It’s really great that Wapapura not only live streamed the whole event (using only solar power, no less) but continue to host it online for us all to enjoy this magnificent one-time collaborative event.

156: Farka et Haïra, by Ali Farka Touré & Khaira Arby

Ali Farka Touré & Khaira Arby (Mali)
Farka et Haïra (1986)
8 tracks, 63 minutes

I compiled an eight-track version of this tape (in mp3 form obviously) from the downloads available at both Voice of America and the worldservice blog. Check out those blogs and all they have to say about the tape, and if you want to download the whole tape directly, let me know and I’ll send it over.

Really, those blogs tell you all you need to know about the background of the tape, and any information about it that I could tell you would just be rewording their own research, so please do check them out – I’ll just give my own thoughts of the tape here.

When this tape was recorded at a live concert in 1986, Ali Farka Touré and Khaira Arby were both famous across Mali, but this was before either of them attained the international fame they later achieved. These recordings give you an idea of what both musicians sounded like without having their sound tempered towards an international audience, either in their way of playing or the sound quality that comes with it. Because that’s a big part of this record’s charm: it’s obviously been copied and recopied so many times across many decades of cassettes that everything sounds super crunchy. It really suits Ali’s guitar playing, and Khaira’s voice cuts all the way through the noise, so that the poor quality of the recording doesn’t affect the appreciation of the music it contains in any way.

It’s also interesting to hear their repertoire before they both brought the influence from the blues to the fore. With Ali’s heritage as Songhoi and Khaira’s as mixed Hassani-Tamashek, their music together bares elements from all of these cultures from the north of Mali, as well as the music of the Bamana from the south of the country. On top of all that, it just sounds like a totally relaxed gig, with the musicians taking everything at their own pace while making some absolutely stellar performances.

Really, I just included this as a little-known early recording of two great musicians who went on to have worldwide success, and I reckon more people should hear it. So if you’re a fan of Ali or Khaira, or any Malian or Saharan music in general, get those blogs linked at the top read, and definitely get these amazing sounds in your ears.

155: Egypte: Les Musiciens du Nil, by Ensemble Mizmar Baladi

Ensemble Mizmar Baladi (Egypt)
Egypte: Les Musiciens du Nil (1977)
8 tracks, 70 minutes (1988 extended CD reissue)
Spotify ∙ iTunes

In the world of music, Egypt is most well-known for its classical music: it has been considered the most glorious seat of Arabic classical music for many centuries. This album shows a different side of the country’s musical culture. I guess you would call this folk music from Upper Egypt – that’s the south of the country, named for being upstream of the River Nile. This was the first recording of the legendary group known in Egypt as the Ensemble Mizmar Baladi, but who, due to the success of this album, are known abroad under the name The Musicians of the Nile.

Across this album, the ensemble play many different instruments, but the most prominent melodic accompaniments all have a special something about them: there is the mizmar (a high-pitched shawm) and the rabab (a fiddle with one or two strings). Both of these are played in threes, and they all have quite a whining, buzzy tone that could put some off, but I find entrancing. My favourite instrument showcased on this album, though, is the argoul, the long double-clarinet. It has such a great sound – one pipe provides a drone and the other the melody, and the musician (here Mustafa Abdel Aziz) uses circular breathing to keep a continuous sound, giving it the effect of a particularly reedy bagpipe. The argoul is only featured on a couple of tracks, an untitled taksim (improvised solo) and the track ‘Tayyara’, but I find them so captivating. I actually conducted one of my rare in-depth musicological analyses on the argoul taksim on this album – feel free to get in touch if you fancy a read!

While it is obvious by the melodies and rhythms that these pieces come from an Arabic culture, it really is a world away from the classical traditions of Cairo. The timbres at play are very far removed from the shimmering tones of the oud, qanun or ney, and the baladi rhythms used throughout are nothing if not invitations to dance. The classical styles of Egypt are certainly wonderful and captivating in their own way, but I know which music I’d rather be surrounded by during an incense-and-coffee fuelled evening in Luxor.

154: Jungle Blues, by C.W. Stoneking

C.W. Stoneking (Australia)
Jungle Blues (2008)
10 tracks, 40 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

I’ve talked a lot about C.W. Stoneking in the past – most recently in a big article for fRoots not too long ago, which you can read over on my other blog – and I’m sure I will continue to for a long time to come. I’m an unabashed fanboy of Stoneking’s. I’ve seen him more times than I can count and I’ve listened to his albums enough to know each song by heart. But as with many of his fans in the UK, my first exposure to him was his second ‘official’ release, Jungle Blues.

In his first album (which we’ll come to on here sooner or later), Stoneking’s sound is very much based on blues, but on Jungle Blues he branches out. Blues is still at the core of his work, but he also brings in many closely related genres from the time when all that stuff was less closely defined: there’s vaudeville, calypso, early jazz, country and gospel and it’s all jumbled up together, giving it all a 1910s-early 1950s vibe, depending on the track, which is all enhanced by his fantastic, 80-years-old-and-no-teeth voice (which contrasts with his youthful figure) and sparkling wit.

Every track here is perfect, to be honest. While there are big hitting tracks such as ‘Jungle Blues’ and ‘The Love Me or Die’, having seen Stoneking so many times, what strikes me the most when I listen to this album now is what you don’t get on stage. There are two performances in particular that I would absolutely love to see. Firstly is Chris Tanner on clarinet; he contributes to the horn section all through the album, and the shrill woodwind of the clarinet contrasts and complements the lower brass of the sousaphones, trombones and even trumpets and adds a light giddiness as it flutters around, klezmerish on occasion, above the rest of the sound. I never saw Stoneking with a clarinet in his set-up, and now he seems to have ditched the horns in his touring band for good, maybe I never will. Secondly is the voice of actor Kirsty Fraser, who also happens to be Stoneking’s wife. She leads the housewife’s lament ‘Housebound Blues’ with a smouldering fury, and her voice fits the music’s vintage sound just as well as her partner’s.

Really, I could do a deep dive into every song in C.W. Stoneking’s repertoire, and I’m sure I will probably do that at some point (365 C.W. Stoneking Songs for 2020, anyone?). But until then, I will have to suffice with saying, just get your hands on anything you can by the man and lose yourself in his world. Definitely see him live – he’s a great showman and comes around to the UK, Europe and the US fairly often – but it’s also interesting to hear how his shows differ from his live performances.