184: Grater Hits, by The Glitzy Bag Hags

Glitzy Bag Hags (United Kingdom)
Grater Hits (2007)
13 tracks, 64 minutes
Nowhere to stream or download online, unfortunately. If you want to get a listen of this album, their Facebook page was taking orders as recently as November – drop them a message!

I've seen the Glitzy Bag Hags live a few times, but I don't think I've ever seen them on stage. When I used to attend Larmer Tree Festival regularly (from about 2009 to 2014ish I reckon), they were on the bill almost every year, but I always saw them instead just performing around the festival site, a big heap of accordions, drum sets, clarinets, double basses, frilly dresses and wellies making an almighty racket to crowds of stunned but cheerful onlookers.

The best, most succinct way I could describe the Hags is that they're a right laugh. Theirs is not a high wit – they're mad as hatters (fancy and not-so-fancy hats are an important part of their junk-shop-on-ecstasy chic) and they're sillier than a chimp's pyjamas. Their songs tackle big themes such as eBay, David Hasselhof and unstoppably peckish pooches, and they also add their own delightful spin to covers of everything from Duke Ellington's 'Caravan' to Destiny's Child's 'Independent Woman' and 'Super Sharp Shooter' by The Ganja Kru.

They're surprisingly hard to define, musically. They definitely inhabit the world of klezmer, but there's also an energy and attitude that lies somewhere along a heretofore unhypothesised skiffle-ska continuum. The way they play is sloppy, even on record: there's wrong notes here and there, some questionable solos and time-keeping that would give a conductor an aneurism. But that's not to say that any of it is bad, or even out-of-place. It all lends to the madcap and off-kilter shopping trolley ride that is the Glitzy Bag Hags' music. Its endearing. They're obviously good musicians (well, most of them) but they're so caught up with having a good time that their instruments sometimes run away from them, and that's all part of the fun.

It's a real shame that you can't hear this album on t'internet (for now) and the band's incredibly scant online presence doesn't give many clues as to whether the band even exist any more. Nevertheless, if you ever see this album tucked in a corner somewhere, or see the Glitzy Bag Hags' name lurking in some obscure part of a festival programme, I do very much urge you to take the opportunity, and make your day a little bit sillier.

183: Makhirikhiri, by Shumba Ratshega

Shumba Ratshega (Botswana)
Makhirikhiri
10 tracks, 61 minutes
Awesome Tapes from Africa

You know by now that I have a weak spot for African music based on cheap and cheerful keyboard sounds, and Makhirikiri definitely falls into that category. But unlike Jagwa Music or Shangaan Electro, Shumba Ratshega's music isn't breakneck, hard-n-fast dance music. It is just as joyous as those other examples, but it's also super chilled out.

Ratshega and his music are from Botswana, a huge country in southern Africa whose music is rather underrepresented on the world scene, overshadowed as it is by musical powerhouse nations of which it shares borders. And that's a lovely thing about this album, its music is one of those that betrays its cultural geography – for example, the melodies are based around the I-IV-V-V chord pattern so favoured by South African musicians, but the triple metre of the beat (that is, you can count it in threes instead of twos) is more common in more northerly cultures such as those of Zimbabwe.

While the music on Makhirikiri is chilled and relaxing, that doesn't mean it isn't eminently danceable, it's just more likely that you'll be swaying rather than bouncing to this one. An obviously heavy influence on Ratshega's sound is the choral music with its roots in the church, which is joined by his sweet lead vocals, the ever-present Casio replicating xylophones and flutes, preset drum patterns and the occasional sounds of farmyard animals. So stylistically, there's a definite gospel lean to this album, although don't tell the church that: these songs are salacious, their lyrics (sung in the Sebirwa language) enough to cause scandal in Botswana – and to earn Shumba's music an 'explicit' tag on iTunes. Perhaps luckily, my Sebirwa is on the rusty side, so I don't have to worry about the songs harming my delicate ears.

I guess you can't judge the character of songs just by their musicality – these don't sound as if they would be infamously crude, but there you are. Regardless, this is still an album of cheerful, perhaps cheeky, music for a lazy summer's day, relaxed enough to keep you buoyant and with enough energy to keep you moving.

182: Nahadin, by Hijaz

Hijaz (Tunisia/Belgium)
Nahadin (2014)
7 tracks, 38 minutes
Bandcamp ∙ Spotify ∙ iTunes

Back when I used to write reviews regularly for fRoots magazine, I apparently somehow gained a reputation as a connoisseur of music from the Middle East and North Africa, and as a result I was sent loads of albums from those regions for review. Out of those, an extremely common subsection emerged: Arabic jazz. This stuff is being made all over those regions (and further afield), and each group has their slightly different take on it, but after a while, all these albums seemed to blend in with each other. Nevertheless, this one, Nahadin by Hijaz, stood out as particularly special.

The impression starts before you've even pressed play: the album has a beautiful cover that you unfortunately cannot appreciate fully in its digital version at the top of this post. The album's jewel case is enclosed in a sleeve of entirely off-white, textured card with what I think is the album's title, written in ornate Arabic calligraphy, embossed on the front. Always lovely to have pleasing visual (and tactile) art to accompany the musical. That musical element is similarly pleasing. The Arabic elements – most recognisable in the contributions of the oud of Moufadhel Adhoum and the vocals of Abir Nasraoui – are met with absolutely top-class jazz, and every one of the musicians ably blend the two in their performance; a real highlight of this can be heard in the piano solo by Niko Deman on the first track, 'Nahadin'.

A lot of these sort of Arabic jazz experiments stick to meditative styles, or at least to atmospheres that bring to mind Arabic classical music – serious, intense and introspective. But Hijaz aren't afraid to go upbeat and lively with it, even with their all-acoustic ensemble – see the track 'Desert Dancer', which starts with a funky double bass, joined by Arabic percussion, buzzing oud and finally piano, bringing in all the sophisticated influences and ambitions while losing none of that funk – or fun.

I still do write for fRoots occasionally, even sometimes about North African musicians (you can read my article on also-Tunisian musician and producer Sofyann Ben Youssef in the current issue!), although I rarely write of Arabic jazz nowadays. However, in a surprisingly crowded marketplace, Hijaz and Nahadin still stand out as a high point of musical expression and close intercultural collaboration.

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.