worldly disorientation

Nordic Gypsy

Just back from Berlin, where I was checking out the city’s annual jazz fest. Saw lots of disparate stuff, from Frank Gratkowski’s fine Doppel-Quartett—with Wolter Wierbos, Paul Lovens, Herb Robertson, Tobias Delius, Gerry Hemingway, Wilbert de Joode, and Dieter Manderscheid—to a superb Turkish quartet called Mozaik that elaborated on traditional court and Sufi music with an improvisational style not beholden to but compatible with those disciplines. But the biggest blast was provided by the Norwegian quintet Farmers Market, led by Stian Carstensen. The group, which features Supersilent drummer Jarle Vespestad and Bulgarian saxophonist Trifon Trifonov--who's got his own new album, although I haven't heard it yet--plays an unexpectedly strong and vital strain of Bulgarian wedding music a la Ivo Papasov, who's currently rocking the US with old pal Yuri Yunakov (Friday night, 11/11, in Chicago at the OTS). They don’t simply mimic or create campy pastiches, but dig right into the stuff. In particular, Vespestad has not only mastered the complex time signatures, but has a found a unique spin on the tradition with his creatively hyper fills and accents. Carstensen, who plays accordion, guitar, pedal steel, and kaval, among other instruments, has made annual trips to Bulgaria to steep himself in the music since discovering Papasov in the early 90s. Although the group has never played in Bulgaria, Carstensen has played loads of private weddings on his various sojourns there, and seems to have been accepted as a brother-in-arms.

The band’s gig in Berlin also included some bizarre digressions into Americana as well as an absurdist medley that makes Zorn’s Naked City sound lethargic, but it was the Bulgarian stuff that provided the most satisfying bulk of the concert. The group recently signed a deal with Ipecac and is at work on a new release for next year. In the meantime, here’s a track from the most recent album from 2000.

New Smeseno

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T-Rob!

Buda Records, the superb French label responsible for the life-altering Ethiopiques series, seems set to blows minds all over again with a new series called Zanzibara devoted to the Swahili music of Tanzania, Zanzibar, and Kenya, among other nearby locales. It’s curated by German Werner Graebner, one of the foremost authorities on the music, who’s been documenting it for decades—including a fabulous series of work for Globestyle and releases on his own, short-lived Dizim imprint. Nearly everything I’ve heard that had his involvement has been brilliant, but most of it has been new recordings, and the first installment of Zanzibara features excellent new work by the Ikhwani Safaa Musical Club, one of Zanzibar’s most storied taarab orchestras with a hundred-year history.

But Zanzibara 2 opens the lid on the region’s musical past—its commercial recordings have been all but impossible to locate, let alone know about. Golden Years of Mombasa taarab focuses on work cut between 1965-1975 on the titular island-city off the Kenyan coast. It’s a small group taarab sound the vividly illustrates the natural polyglot nature of much of the music from the area, where Arabic classical music swirls with native rhythms and gets spiked with influences from as far as India and Japan. The tracks here combine hand percussion, strings, and prominent oud, abetted by a mixture of either organ, harmonium, or accordion as well as amplified tashkoto, a Japanese string instrument that in these hands comes off as cross between sitar and electric guitar. It’s topped off by fantastic singing—soulful, leisurely, and melodic, including the unexpected mark of Bollywood sensibilities, long a favorite form of recreation for the locals. There’s nothing else in the world like this phenomenal stuff. Bring on volumes 3-20 and beyond.

Yasseen Mohamed: Ndege Kaa Ufikiri

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ABC's

After a layoff of several years, the superb British label RetroAfric is back in action this year, recently issuing a collection of work by Sierre Leone's Geraldo Pino—a formative influence on the Afrobeat of Fela Kuti. Earlier this year it released a killer collection of Congolese rumba by Gaby Lita Bembo and Orchestre Stukas du Zaire. Aside from earning a reputation for his outrageous showmanship and flashy duds, his band played with more aggressiveness and flash that most of his Kinshasa rivals. Stukas featured a succession of dazzling lead guitarists including Samunga Tediangaye—who’s admiration for Jimi Hendrix went as far as the old playing-guitar-with-the-teeth routine. In 1975 he jumped ship to join the mighty Orchestra Veve, but his replacement Bongo Wende was just as able. Tediangaye returned after just a few months, but he died tragically in 1977 from hepatitis. Another guitarist, named Kembo, admirably filled his shoes, even if they became work boots instead of high-heeled sneakers.

As with most Congolese bands, Bembo’s lead singing was closely shadowed by superb harmony vocals and buoyant polyrhythms, but this stuff is ultimately all about the contrapuntal lattice of effervescent guitar lines, overamped and deeply propulsive. The group soldiered off and on until 1986, but its best work was done in the 70s, and that’s what the excellent Kita Mata ABC focuses on.

Odeyo 1

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Nouvelle...bien

On paper the very notion of Nouvelle Vague is downright repulsive; bossa nova versions of new wave (and punk) classics. “Bossa nova” is Portuguese for new wave, and "nouvelle vague" is French for it—get it? French producers Marc Collin and Olivier Libaux rounded up a bunch of young chanteuses, most of whom had never heard the likes of “Guns of Brixton,” “Too Drunk to Fuck,” or “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” and thus brought the appropriate naïf sensibility to the performances. While thinking about the concept bummed me out, in reality the music worked surprisingly well. At its best the project radically transformed some songs; the version of Tuxedomoon’s “In a Manner of Speaking” was truly revelatory, revealing what a genuinely beautiful song it was, something much harder to determine from the original. I saw the band in San Francisco a few weeks ago, where Winston Tong, who wrote the song, added his vocals, which were so flat and inept it’s no wonder I couldn’t fully appreciate the original version.

Although she wasn’t on most of the American tour, the woman who sang the album version of that song is named Camille. She sings a bunch of songs on the NV album, all of them quite well with an impressive range, but it sure didn’t prepare me for the brilliance of her second solo album Le Fil. I was in Paris in March and the album had just been released, and while I was certainly taken by the stunning cover photo, I assumed she was just another pretty-faced chanson singer with nothing much to say. It was only after hearing the NV album that I wisely reconsidered and tracked the album down. Although it features standard instrumentation, the real focus of the album is Camille’s multi-tracked voice—an stunning extension of voice-as-sound generator that stretches from the Mills Brothers to the Delta Rhythm Boys to doo-wop to Fat Boys to Rhazel, although Camille clearly has her own pop sound, part chanson part who knows what. There’s a single, extended vocal tune that runs through the entire album, almost like a tambura drone. This catchy gem is a real highlight, but the album is winner all the way through.

Ta douleur

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Rube Een Yo

Last week Brazil's Orchestra Imperial made one of two US appearances here in Chicago. The group followed Seu Jorge--a long-time associate who joined them for seven or eight numbers--and played to a much diminished crowd at Millennium Park. They lacked Jorge's star power, and their repertoire consisted mostly of classic samba tunes unfamiliar to Yankee audiences. It was too bad, because Imperial's free-form revue was something else. An excellent by-product of the group's performance was a number of superb spin-off performances. In my last post I mentioned a great gig by Domenico + 2--all of whom play with Imperial--but there were also sets by Nina Becker, which I missed, the legendary samba drummer Wilson das Neves, and one by keyboardist/guitarist Rubinho Jacobina. I know practically nothing about him, except that his brother Nelson co-wrote a bunch of tunes on Eu Não Peço Desculpa, the great collaboration between Caetano Veloso and Jorge Mautner from a few years ago.

Anyway, Jacobina fronted a super band that  featured Domenico on drums, Pedro Sa on bass, Bartolo on electric guitar, and himself on acoustic guitar, and their engaging set mixed bits of old-school disco grooves, rock, and Brazilian rhythmic accents with indelible pop hooks. He's not the greatest singer, but he got the job done; heard against so much other Brazilian music it may not be that special, but I'll certainly take it over nearly all rock music manufactured here in America. This track opens the eponymous debut of the group--Rubinho e Forca Bruta, the band moniker nicked from Jorge Ben's classic 1970 album of the same name--and it grooves on that disco beat. This track was performed by Imperial as well as the quartet.

Dr. Sabe Tudo

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Moving

Beginning this Saturday, October 1, my international music program on WLUW is shifting from Tuesday mornings to Saturday afternoons, 2-4 PM, CST. Perhaps this will make it more accessible for you to hear, perhaps not.

Last week's Chicago World Music Festival was something else. I can't say there were any revelations, but it was hella good. The best set was by Domenico + 2. On Fillmore, the duo of Glenn Kotche and Darin Gray, opened the show with its lustrous drones, but they were joined throughout their set by members of D + 2, as well as phalanx of other Brazilian killers who were in town with the mighty Orchestra Imperial--Pedro Sa, Berna Ceppas, and more. The same crew, as well as On Fillmore, enlarged D+2 into something like D + 7. At the moment I don't think there's a better live band on the planet, at least not that I've seen. Other highlights: Seu Jorge, Boubacar Traore, Celso Piña, Rubinho Jacobina, Amadou et Mariam. I'll get a Jacobina mp3 up shortly.

So, As I Was Saying...

Summer is over--where did I go? I was here, unfortunately, working. Chicago is in the middle of its annual World Music Festival, and if the weather holds tonight it's all about Seu Jorge and Orquestra Imperial. Lots of Brazilian music this year--Celso Fonseca, Badi Assad, Domenico + 2, Wilson das Neves, Rubinho Jacobina. Finally. That country keeps it coming--there's a good new album by Gal Costa, but the record that's most captivated me is by Curumin (aka Luciano Nakata Albuquerque). The bio sez he was born to Spanish/Japanese parents. I don't know if that means they were both Japanese/Spanish, or he got one of each nationality. Doesn't really matter; dude is Brazilian. His album Achados e Perdidos was released in his homeland on the fine Ybrazil imprint (home to Clara Moreno, Instituto, Andrea Marquee), but in the US it's on DJ Shadow's Quannum Projects, a fact that initially made me look beyond this CD. For the moment, that was a mistake. I don't know if this is one of those albums that won't get kind treatment from time, but right now it's all simpatico.

If I want to be nasty and mean, I think of Curumin as Brazil's answer to Jamiroquai (I said if I wanted to be nasty and mean), but I can't stand that doofus, and I'm digging Curumin. What they ultimately share is a major Stevie Wonder jones, but perhaps because of the language differences, the groovy Brazilian rhythms, and some killer uke picking (giving a strong cavaquinho feel), there's enough to separate Curumin from a dopey imitator like that British knob in the stupid hat. This track is the one most catching to my fancy, with that squiggly synthesizer line making me think of "Boogie On Reggae Woman." Curumin covers "You Haven't Done Nothing," and while it doesn't sound like the Red Hot Chili Peppers or anything, he does Stevie better when he's actually playing original material like this one.

Guerreiro

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bhangin'

Back in the early 90s I caught the bhangra bug, digging hard on groups like Apna Sangeet, Safri Boys, and Bally Sagoo remixes. Spurred by raggamuffin crossover star Apache Indian, it seemed like it was going to blow up big, but that was before the Asian Underground--Talvin Singh, Asian Dub Foundation, Black Star Liner--knocked bhangra out of the way. In retrospect most of the AU stuff sounds lame--electronica spiced up with weak tabla samples. Seems like the unofficial return of bhangra's ascendancy came with "Get Your Freak On," where Timbaland introduced Indian percussion to hip-hop. It wasn't long before other R&B singers and MCs wanted the treatment, and bhangra producers like Rishi Rich were there to answer the call. The Desi Underground thrives in England thanks to a huge Indo-Pak population, and with great DJs like Bobby Friction & Nihal spinning weekly on the BBC, the stuff seems like it's exploding. Late last year V2 in the UK issued an excellent 2-cd compilation of current Desi sounds--mixing Indian stars with remixed hip-hop MCs and producers like Timbaland, Mos Def & Diverse.

It knocked me out, re-sparked my interest in bhangra, and led me to hit Devon Ave. yesterday where I found six varied bhangra discs for ten bucks a pop: Tigerstyle, Raghav, Bombay Rockers, Jay Sean, Juggy D, and Rishi Rich--the latter three also form the Rishi Rich collective. The production is much more bumping that vintage bhangra, and it freely embraces new flavors in hip-hop and R&B. By no means is it all good, and the assimilationist tendency can be downright toxic, but for the moment I'm feeling pretty giddy about this stuff.

Nasheh

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Wassa Up

Oumou Sangare tends to be the singer the world--well, a small part of the world-- thinks of when the subject turns to the music of Wassoulou, the southern Mali region dominated by Fula and Bamana where the women tend to be the most popular and important musicians.While I'm certainly a fan of Sangare, I'd say Nahawa Doumbia is just as good, but without the international backing of World Circuit/Nonesuch that Sangare enjoys, she tends to play second fiddle. She's worked regularly with French producer Frederic Galliano on some of his Frikyiwa remix projects and her own recordings have alternated between very traditional sounding acoustic efforts and more contemporary, electronics-enhanced outings, such as her most recent album Diby. Yaala, an album from 2000, is my favorite of hers, adding nice electric flourishes to deeply acoustic, hypnotic settings.

N'Tamagnoko

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Stuck

One of the defining characteristics of the burgeoning mp3 blog culture is a desire to expose sonic aranca to a larger audience. That's a very good thing. So I'm going to use this opportunity to tout one of my all time favorite bands, Philadelphia's Stick Men. In the more than two decades since they split, I've only met a handful of people who ever heard them. I have fond memories of bonding with the mind-fucking guitarist Penn Rollins (Honor Roll, Breadwinner, Butterfinger) during a discussion of the Stick Men; he was jealous that I got to see them live. Below are mp3s of two excellent songs taken from the essential complete works CD Cuneiform released in 2001, collecting their album This is the Master Brew and the ep Get on Board the Stick Men. They're followed by an essay I wrote in the Chicago Reader when the CD Insatiable was released.

Mystery Party
Action Man

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R O C K ,   E T C .
Rescue Mission

Stick Men
Insatiable
(Cuneiform)
By Peter Margasak
There's a point where more information becomes too much information. Every year more records come out, more books are published, more E-mails come in, more Web sites go up. If I miss a new CD these days, it's usually because I lost track of it in this overcaffeinated shuffle--not because it was hard to track down. And yet, amazingly, since I moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in 1984, I've still met no more than two or three people who've ever heard of the Stick Men--a remarkable early-80s quintet from Philly whose complete recorded output has just been reissued as the CD Insatiable by the prog-oriented D.C.-area label Cuneiform.
Of course, back in the days before zine culture, widespread independent music distribution, and Napster, this wasn't surprising at all. The Stick Men--the missing link between the Contortions and the Minutemen--put out their 1982 debut album, This Is the Master Brew, and a 1983 follow-up EP, Get on Board the Stick Men, on a tiny Philly indie called Red Records. They were club fixtures at home and played frequently in New York and other east-coast cities, but aside from one short midwestern tour in '83--which brought them to Tuts, at Belmont and Sheffield, where they played for me and about seven other people--they didn't get out much. Booking tours and getting reviewed in nationally available publications was much more difficult for underground bands than it is now.
And while that may have been disappointing to the Stick Men, in hindsight it was probably good for them. Despairing over the soundalike mediocrity of so many contemporary rock bands, I've often thought that the relatively lethargic speed of information just two decades ago may have made it somewhat easier for a band to develop an original vision--there were far fewer moderately successful models to emulate. The environment the Stick Men emerged from was not unlike the busily cross-pollinating musical community we've been fortunate enough to enjoy here in Chicago. Philadelphia at the time was home to Sun Ra's Arkestra and loads of strange rock music, from the primitive electronic sex thud of Executive Slacks to the Buddhist thrash of Ruin, who dressed all in white and were fond of covering Leonard Cohen songs. Guitarist Rick Iannacone, who mixed both Stick Men records, worked regularly with Jamaaladeen Tacuma, a bassist in Ornette Coleman's Prime Time.
The Stick Men have been called Philadelphia's contribution to the New York-based no-wave scene, but by the time they formed, in 1980, bands like DNA, Mars, Red Transistor, and the Contortions had either broken up or peaked, and the comparisons don't do justice to the strange assortment of components the Stick Men juggled. Plus, where most of the New York no wavers embraced a confrontational stance, the Stick Men were just plain weird--fearlessly goofy and cartoonish.
The band was the brainchild of Peter Baker, an art school grad who'd been kicking around in long-forgotten acts like the Undertakers of Love and Blu Beth and the Gentleman Caller. His brittle chicken-scratch guitar covered a wide palette of richly hued grays, filtering the concise funk of James Brown's Famous Flames through the ominous string mangling of the Contortions' Jody Harris. He was an intuitive player who ranged far and wide from the deep, bouncy funk favored by Bill Bradfield--the band's primary melodist--and hyperkinetic drummer Jim Meneses. (This rhythm section joined in 1981, replacing original bassist George Shirley and drummer Michael McGettigan.) The splattery foreground sound was augmented by keyboardist Beth Stack, whose mix of Acetone organ and clavinet drew together the B-52's, Sly Stone, and the Residents, and horn man Chuck Mattern, who offered spare, well-placed accents of Ayler-esque sax and sour-Cherry trumpet. The songs, propelled by Baker's percussive vocals, would fly along at hardcore velocity, come to a lurching halt as if at a just-sighted speed bump, then take off again, usually clocking in at under two minutes. Five of the 22, including "Legend of the Stick Men," mention the group by name. This sharp, spastic punk-funk attack predated--and outclassed--the version later popularized by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fishbone.
Baker knitted together decontextualized black slang and low-rent wordplay into a private vocabulary. On the manifestolike "Master Brew," he swipes cadences from early hip-hop: "Gonna rock then shock then pick your purse / We're the rock jam curse / From the center of the earth / It's a slimey, timey drilling tool / With a sensitive bit just right for you." His talent for mixing oil and water hits its apex in the epic "Funky Hayride"--it's almost five minutes long--where Stack chants, "Shoop bamma lamma lamma lamma lamma crack" as he blurts, "Chickens in the barnyard / Cluckin' it up / Cows and pigs and horses run amuck / They all jam down at the pigsty / Gonna get on board / For the funky hayride."
The band had burned itself out by the end of 1983. They reportedly practiced almost every day, and couldn't sustain that energy. The members toyed with other musical projects in the years immediately following the breakup, but only Meneses is still active in music, playing free improv and experimental rock and jazz in Amsterdam. Baker suffered a fatal heart attack in 1994, closing the door on one of the most intriguing chapters in the history of Philadelphia music. Now that Insatiable, which also includes 20 minutes of shockingly tight live footage, has reopened it, I hope it doesn't get lost in the shuffle.