teabowl

A review of Madagascar Slim’s Good Life Good Living

Sometime in September or October 2009, I woke up – as I always do – to the sounds of CBC Radio 1. I’m not always sure why I listen to it, but it has something to do with all other options on the dial being much, much worse. Andy Barrie, the host of ‘Metro Morning,’ has a sort of dignified, grown-up way about him, a seemingly sincere desire to pander to my shrinking highbrow demographic, and so I get my tax dollar’s worth every morning between 6 and 7. Very occasionally, Metro Morning plays music; to introduce something the editorial team has deemed worthy of our rarefied ears. That morning, I encountered Madagascar Slim, an exceptionally talented Canadian singer, songwriter and guitarist, originally from Madagascar.

Now, Madagascar isn’t a geography I’m familiar with musically, despite having lived in Southern Africa for 20 years. This was perhaps a sign of South Africa’s disconnection from the rest of the region (culture, like foreign currency, wasn’t allowed to flow freely during the Apartheid years, and rebuilding regional relations since has been slow). In terms of widely recognized African music, West Africa (Mali, Senegal…) and South Africa itself always seemed to dwarf everyone else’s output, especially since the Western market for ‘world music’ isn’t known for its ability to differentiate sounds or appreciate the subtleties of regional inflection.

Madagascar, the world’s 5th largest island, had been a proudly independent seafaring monarchy for centuries before being invaded and colonized by France in the 1880s. It was a crucial trade gateway between East Africa and Southeast Asia, and – perhaps this is purely in my head – some of these influences can be heard in Slim’s music. For me, the recognizable elements are similarities to a certain South African ‘folk’ – I hear early Johnny Clegg (when he was still playing with his original band, Juluka) and Vusi Mahlasela. There’s a simple lyricism with very distinct Southern African elements here (I would call them kwela rhythms, but I realize that that’s just nomenclature). There’s also a “Latin” tinge, perhaps echoing the deep influence salsa, son and cumbia have wielded in other African coastal economies (such as Senegal, whose music is deeply influenced by Latin American sounds imported by sailors). While I can’t really hear an Asian influence, I sense elements of European folk song – evidence, no doubt, of the missionary colonialism present everywhere in historical Madagascar; this is similar to Waldemar Bastos from Angola, say. In this sense, Madagascar Slim’s music is an amalgam of his country’s history and geography.

Known as a Canadian world music guitar virtuoso, Slim also has another set of influences. Much has been made of his early discovery of Hendrix and his desire to play Jimi’s and B. B. King’s music. And certainly, there are tracks on Good Life Good Living (such as the cleverly named ‘Take Me Home (Slight Return),’ the name an homage to Hendrix’ ‘Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)’) that feature electric, blues-inflected guitar work. In essence, though, this is largely an acoustic, melodious, low-key affair that’s a lot less austere than a blues record, and it has absolutely nothing in common with West African ‘blues’ like Tinariwen, Ali Farka Touré or Boubacar Traoré. (I find myself wondering whether the “Malagasy kid discovers Hendrix, takes up guitar” origination story is maybe one of those self-perpetuating PR myths that don’t really serve to shed any light on an artist’s work but rather obfuscate the complexities of heritage and the richness of influence.)

There is much on this CD that is both immediately accessible (for someone open to world music) and benefits from repeated listening. Slim is an outstanding acoustic picker (witness the instrumental ‘Neny Malala,’ for example) whose simple picked chords propel everything here. There’s a heaviness of spirit here, a sadness of love and loss, underscored by strong and simple harmony vocals (‘Fankahalana’). Since I don’t understand the Malagasy lyrics and don’t have access to the CD cover (bought it on iTunes), I can’t say if it’s longing for lost love, home or a resolution of Madagascar’s complicated politics and poverty, but it’s touching in its simplicity and earnestness.

There’s one moment that borders on a misstep: ‘Take Me Home,’ a beautiful melody and a perfectly executed mid-tempo number, is apparently about every immigrant’s nightmare of living abroad, away from home, and about being sent home, deported. Suddenly, in the middle of the song, there’s a very Canadian voice (presumably meant to belong to an immigration official) announcing Slim’s deportation. It’s jarring… presumably deliberately, but uncomfortable nonetheless. At the end of the track, we hear a female voice waking the singer from his nightmare. It puts this track uncomfortably close to the ‘novelty song’ category. On the other hand, it’s these idiosyncrasies that make us remember and cherish certain albums, so I’m choosing to interpret it this way.

All is well the minute the next track comes on – a rollicking party of a song called ‘Sitaka’ that blends Malagasy roots, Quebec folk (or maybe Zydeco?) and intersperses it with a beautifully executed 12 bar blues seemingly out of nowhere. It’s effortless and demonstrates why Slim is in high demand as a sideman in Toronto’s blues scene.

I can wholeheartedly recommend this if you’re at all interested in world music. It’s one of the freshest things I’ve heard in a while, particularly since African music on CD has become so heavily oriented towards West African desert blues in recent years.

Madagascar Slim’s Good Life Good Living is available on iTunes, Amazon.ca, and Amazon.com. He also had a self-released (?) earlier album called “Omnisource” that is out of print and has sketchy availability.

Yellow Moon

The Neville Brothers. A&M 1990, Audio CD, $4.99

A review of The Neville Brothers’ Yellow Moon

Sometime in the late 80s or early 90s, I become interested in Daniel Lanois‘ music. Here was an enigmatic producer who had worked with Brian Eno, U2, Peter Gabriel, Robbie Robertson, Jon Hassell and Bob Dylan. For each, he had forged important, sometimes career-changing records, yet somehow he had put his own unmistakable stamp on each record. Regardless of genre differences, it’s quite possible to immediately identify a Daniel Lanois produced album when you hear it. It’s a very specific style: there’s a groundedness, a deep connection to all archetypal American music, a solid base in folk, funk and the blues, an earnest honesty, a certain electronic sheen- slightly industrial, but never jarring, a lo-fi hiss, a generous and well-balanced depth of field, a core musicality that shines through everything. Above all, Daniel Lanois has a deep repect for each performer’s musicianship.

The Neville Brothers – best known to most listeners because of brother Aaron’s unusual high tenor – had a patchy history of local New Orleans success prior to constituting themselves as an R&B outfit in 1975. Commercial success, however, remained elusive through subsequent studio and live albums. In 1988/89, they teamed up with Daniel Lanois and his then-engineer Malcolm Burn (now a renowned producer in his own right) to record what would become their career-high.

A deeply unique record in many ways, Yellow Moon is an atmospheric CD. Full of percussion, Lanois’ trademark dark synth pads and Charles Neville’s saxophone, the sound is a sort of lo-fi funk with a strong pan-African identity. There’s a definitive version of ‘A Change is Gonna Come’ here, two out-of-left-field but excellent Dylan covers (‘With God On Our Side’ and ‘The Ballad of Hollis Brown’) and a number of brilliant self-penned tracks.

While the radio single ‘Sister Rosa’ sounds slightly dated today due to its ‘early rap’ vocals, the most outstanding piece of music here is of course the title track. ‘Yellow Moon’ is a brilliant piece of sophisticated, bluesy, swamp-reggae, carried by Hammond licks, a tireless, lively bass line and propelled by Aaron’s plaintive, longing vocal.

Is she hid out with another? | Or is she trying to get back home? | Is she wrapped up in another’s arms? | Or is the girl somewhere all alone?

Like all the best pop music, this is pure emotional pain wrapped in transcendent musical beauty. It’s the kind of song that you have to play again and again when you first hear it. The sort of song that you’ll have in your headphones, late at night, and suddenly you’re standing in the middle of your living room swaying, with your eyes closed. The rest of the record – which is truly excellent, fantastic even – does fade slightly against the bright shooting star of this song. It’s a traditional R&B track at heart, something Sam Cooke might have written, timeless and traditional despite its electronic touches. Lanois, as always, finds how to be the conduit for this music and elevates great R&B to become part of the canon of classic American music, transcending the genre.

The Dylan covers mentioned above are quite incredible, too. ‘With God on Our Side’ becomes a gospel meditation, all low synth pads – the music itself is self-effacing here, almost not there at all – as a frame for Aaron’s heartfelt vocal. It’s a genuine surprise to hear this song – part of the core folk repertoire – so significantly transformed here. The Nevilles make it their own. ‘The Ballad of Hollis Brown’ is a lo-fi blues track, a dark, driving story song with an excellent slide guitar. Both tracks are great examples of how Aaron Neville’s voice, so fraught with adult contemporary meaning post Linda Ronstadt and one too many Christmas albums, can sound organic and authentic in the right context.

The Nevilles also do a version of A.P. Carter’s ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken,’ at first glance a hard-to-believe pick. But in the context of Lanois wall of amorphous synth sounds and a simple heartbeat thud as the backbeat, the brothers’ four-part harmonies affirm what you already know: American music really vanquishes racial boundaries and is rooted in a single sound. Johnny Cash and Elvis knew this, and so do the Neville Brothers and Daniel Lanois.

Hearing Yellow Moon 20 years after it was released continues to be a great joy. For those of you who don’t know it, this anniversary is a good time to get acquainted with a classic of the American repertoire.

Bible Belt

Diane Birch. S-Curve Records 2009, Audio CD, $5.75

A review of Diane Birch’s Bible Belt

It almost didn’t happen, my finding out about Diane Birch. My friend and coworker P. and I decided to visit our local Sunrise Records yesterday, on our way back from lunch. You know, two old people looking at CDs. And while I was mildly interested in seeing that Rodrigo y Gabriela have a new release out, the store guy kept telling us about what he was playing on the speakers: Diane Birch. How she was the new Norah Jones, “if this next song doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will,” that sort of thing. He was an older guy, too. And he was zeroing in on the only demographic that still buys CDs. It was a job well done, really, until he started telling us about how good-looking Diane Birch is. Neither of us could quite figure out why that should be a deciding factor, but I dutifully took a look at the CD cover where she appears dressed like Twiggy and gazes back at us with serious big eyes. I wasn’t buying it, or anything else for that matter.

P., on the other hand, rolled the dice and bought it. And so, back at the office, I made a copy, just to see if my on-the-spot judgment had been wrong.

And it was. Diane Birch is quite amazing, and this is a great record. The bio on her website summarizes the story to date: born in Michigan, spent her life in Southern Africa until she was about 10 (her dad was a missionary pastor), returned to the US, learned to play the piano, grew up, moved to LA to become a film composer, supported herself playing standards on the piano, learned to sing, learned to write songs, got a record deal, moved to New York. That’s the really short version. But since she’s only in her mid-20s, perhaps it isn’t really much longer than that.

The record is a remarkably likable blend of 70s female singer-songwriter styles with some pure r&b thrown in for good measure. Music people like to classify things by offering comparisons, and I’ve been thinking about that since yesterday. Everyone is comparing her to Norah Jones. There’s certainly something to that idea: she’s a singer-songwriter who got a young start, sounds mature beyond her years, plays a style that’s not “of her generation,” and uses authentic-sounding retro instrumentation. So that’s certainly one legitimate point of comparison. But it’s lacking in some core ways: this is the album that Norah Jones could have made instead of The Fall, her own new outing (which I’m not done listening to yet, but it certainly didn’t seem to provide the same level of immediate emotional resonance this has).

Other points of comparison might be Katie Melua (same clarity of voice, but Diane Birch has 1000% more substance and writes her own songs), Joss Stone (there’s some serious r&b singing going on here – Diane Birch is not in Joss Stone’s league but then again, that’s neither her game nor how she’s being marketed), or perhaps some of those white British retro-r&b singers, like Adele or Duffy.

The marketing bio on her website draws careful historical comparisons to Laura Nyro, Karen Carpenter and classic AM radio. I won’t comment on those alleged parallels, but this is big, friendly music with accessible melodies that had me humming more than once. The playing is tasteful and thoughtful throughout – she’s surrounded herself with the cream of the crop of New York session musicians, and the collective experience shows.

Ultimately, though, Diane Birch’s voice is the real star here: not too high, not too low, not too gritty – she has an everywoman voice, like Carole King perhaps. The most beautiful thing about her voice is that she never oversings, never strains, never becomes shrill. She displays a remarkable economy in her vocals that’s both admirable and really surprising in a singer so young. Her phrasing’s impeccable, too. Like other singers who don’t think of themselves as singers primarily, she knows how to shape her vocals with a self-effacing restraint that complements her music beautifully.

The songs are lovely, open, accessible and likable by the broadest cross-section of listeners. They are the sorts of songs you catch on the AM radio of your mind when driving on your imaginary California freeway. Another reviewer has said that the record should have been shorter by about three tracks but couldn’t really say which ones should have been cut. I’d counter that perhaps they all belong there. There really isn’t a weak song here. Even the slightly indulgent ones are charming and somehow work as part of the whole.

I, too, didn’t really want to like Diane Birch. I think her label’s marketing is not doing her justice, and the cover images (often the first and only thing you have to go on in a record store) produce some very strange cognitive friction. But the music is – unequivocally – glorious and deserves to be heard and loved.

The Beatles Stereo Box Set

The Beatles. EMI 2009, Audio CD, $147.50

Is there a more valuable, interesting and diverse catalogue in popular music than this one? In twelve records, the Beatles changed the entire face of music several times over, imprinting their songs on our culture in a way that transcends generations, politics, location and taste preferences.

I think of music as belonging – at the very highest, surface level – to one of two categories: music bought by music lovers, and music bought by people who don’t buy music. People who don’t buy music may listen to the radio or encounter music in other ways in their daily lives, but they never purchase music. Their CD collections, even when they are adults, consist of roughly 15 CDs, most of which were birthday presents from well-meaning but misguided friends. You’ll find an alarmingly high density of artists like Queen, Dire Straits and Hootie and the Blowfish in their CD shelves; also U2, Coldplay and maybe an older Radiohead CD that’s a little dusty.

The Beatles are the one act that consistently and powerfully transcends both types of musical public. The fact that their career together was so short and eventful, of course, contributes immensely to this: even people who aren’t particularly interested in the biographies of musicians know, in broad terms, the story of John, Paul, George and Ringo. The Beatles created their own archetypes.

The music is peerless in more ways that I can enumerate here. I’m not going to describe each record because – if you haven’t – you simply need to hear them all. Even the Beatles’ throw-away album filler tracks are extraordinarily evolved compositions, well-produced and fabulously entertaining.

The remasters, so memorably released on 09-09-09, are tastefully and carefully done. They are subtle in ways that other remasters are not: following a careful audio restoration process that took several years to complete, they are not just louder but provide new insights into the music. As a general rule, it does feel as though audio cobwebs have been removed. Where the previous, 1980s CD reissues sounded tinny, thin and frequently harsh, these sound full, balanced and well-rounded while never lulling you into a false sense of security. There’s more space here, better stereo imaging, more depth of field. The vocals are clearer and have less sibilant distortion. And McCartney’s Höfner bass is a revelation on most pieces, as these new editions finally do it justice and allow it to anchor the music properly, something the old CDs never managed to convey.

I have spent many days listening to the Beatles remasters over the last two months, and there have been any number of new discoveries and insights. I’m particularly impressed by the many ‘new’ album tracks that I wasn’t as aware of before. I suppose this is a good illustration of how the 1980s CDs gave me listening fatigue. I feel as if there are many songs that I’m really only encountering fully now that I have the remastered discs.

For example, I’ve enjoyed Magical Mystery Tour tremendously, including such album tracks as ‘Blue Jay Way’ and ‘Your Mother Should Know,’ neither of which I had consciously encountered before. I’ve also reconnected with Let It Be, which – contrary to popular opinion – I think is the better record in the Phil Spector version (rather than McCartney’s revisionist release from a few years ago). For example, I think that ‘I Me Mine’ is an extraordinary song that should get far more attention than it does.

On the whole, the remasters have brought the Beatles into the digital age, made them digitally listenable, and have provided countless hours of enjoyment. The subtlety and skill applied in the creation of these new versions cannot be praised too highly.

I think this is essential music, and every household even remotely interested in popular music should own these records. You will find that they transcend age, taste and personality differences.

–

Despite the ongoing controversy over the remaining Beatles’ reluctance to see their music released digitally, a digital version of sorts will be released just in time for Christmas:

The Beatles [USB]

The Beatles. EMI 2009, Audio CD, $283.99

I simply bought the individual CDs on the day of release, instead of the box set. I felt that I didn’t particularly need the box and the poster.

Finally, there’s also The Beatles in Mono, a box set of the original ten or so records that were released in mono. It appears that the Beatles themselves only attended the mono mixing sessions of their LPs. EMI has made these mixes available as a separate limited edition box set whose packaging is more elaborate and historically authentic. I’ve heard some of them and can’t say that I was all that impressed. They are great-sounding remasters, too; it’s just that I’m used to the Beatles in stereo.

Humbug

Arctic Monkeys. Domino 2009, Audio CD, $7.88

A (brief) review of Arctic Monkeys’ Humbug (2009)

In 2005/2006, the Arctic Monkeys were the British rock world’s most-hyped new rock ‘n’ roll sensation. Before they had ever released an album, the tornado of media opinion preceding them ensured they’d sell a vast number of their first release, and they did. This first offering was followed by diligent touring and a second album that was, by all critical accounts, possibly even better than the first.

Musically, the Monkeys played a sort of nervous New Wave/classic rock blend on their first two offerings – derived, in equal measure, from Franz Ferdinand, the Clash, the Jam and – maybe – Oasis. They were a precise band that wrote decent songs and had a healthy postmodern disregard for even the most recent rock history: they were kids in the 90s, when rock was post-rock and popular music had already entered its permanently relativist state. Their music was likable, but perhaps no more so than, say, Ash or the Subways once you stripped Arctic Monkeys of their immense media profile.

For me, their first two records lacked a certain grounding. Entertaining enough to listen to, clever in many ways, both Whatever People Say I am, That’s What I’m Not and Favourite Worst Nightmare had great tracks but, in the end, left me a little cold. Maybe in the same way that Franz Ferdinand’s weaker album tracks leave one cold.

Enter Humbug in 2009. The Monkeys have retained the services of Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age fame to produce their new album. While I’m not that closely familiar with Homme’s output overall, his music in Queens wouldn’t in any obvious way suggest that he’d be a good match for producing the nimble, light-footed, hardworking, nervy Monkeys. Queens of the Stone Age is all about lowdown, heavy grooves, growls and drones; music that has tons of bottom end.

And yet, on Humbug, something magical has happened. Homme has helped Arctic Monkeys find an anchor of gravity, has tied their music down and bolted it into the floor. While other reviewers have pointed out that this record is so much more experimental than the first two, I think the main achievement here is actually the songwriting that’s resulted from the new lower frequencies: there’s a darkness, or rather many of the tracks are darkly funny in the same way that Nick Cave or recent Morrissey is.

In fact, I was surprised by how sonically similar this CD is to Morrissey’s You Are The Quarry, 2004’s formidably rocking (and funny) comeback record.

Humbug, then, is the Arctic Monkey’s sonic coming-of-age record. It’s immensely listenable and quite brilliant, although – I suspect – it hasn’t gotten the right kind of media attention this time around because it doesn’t comply with our preconceived notions about the band, and because change is not always welcomed. I, for one, am thoroughly enjoying the darker textures, weirder lyrics and harder orientation.

Two recent Arctic Monkeys videos to round out this brief posting: the first is the single from Humbug, the second is a fabulous cover of Nick Cave’s ‘Red Right Hand,’ released, apparently, only on the web.

Sunny Side Up

Paolo Nutini. Atlantic 2009, Audio CD, $10.16

A review of Paolo Nutini’s Sunny Side Up (2008)

I’ll say it right up front: I think this is a great record. A great record that got a bum rap. It’s not that the critics didn’t (at least more or less) grasp what this is about, but few cared enough to focus on how fabulous the music on this CD is and instead pointed out how it was commercial suicide, how his reach was far beyond his grasp, and how inconsistent it is.

Yet what’s most striking about this album is how unconditionally, unashamedly musical it is. It sounds like music made by someone who wants to share the sheer joy of his songs with the world. The reviewer at musicOHM gets it somewhat right when he says, “Sunny Side Up is bonkers in a good old-fashioned English sense and Nutini’s devil may care attitude should be applauded by all right-minded lovers of artistic sidesteps.”

So I’ll do some applauding.

The comparisons are many: Otis Redding. John Martyn. Maybe a spot of Johnny Cash. Cat Stevens. Van Morrison. For me, the reference that comes to mind most often is Bryan Ferry. It’s not just Nutini’s warble, his overtly melodic, full-throated soul croon that reminds me of Ferry. It’s his songs: songs that don’t particularly care whether they’re of their own time. I’m reminded of how, on The Bride Stripped Bare, Ferry made all manner of genres his own and somehow managed to produce a coherent classic that didn’t relate at all to the prevalent records of the time. All slick suits and glam, most of Roxy Music’s 1970s output is, of course, directly opposed to the trends of the day. Throughout all that opposition, though, it shines by virtue of its sheer musicality, its musical daring. Its warm embrace of both classic 60s soul and European cabaret comfortably meets somewhere in a very likable middle.

“Everybody’s got opinions, girl. Their own version of a good idea.” Things start off with an old-fashioned ska tune sung in an Otis Redding rasp. ‘Ten Out Of Ten’ is a classic dating story: Paolo takes his girl out on the town to cheer her up because she’s feeling down. It’s a dance tune, this. Not one anyone under 35 would consider dancing to (I think), but a dance tune nonetheless. And a perfect, perfect little gem of blue-eyed ska. Beautifully played and recorded, too.

‘Coming Up Easy’ continues the classic soul theme. Not particularly deep lyrically, but Nutini is skilled at mimicry and hits the tone of classic r&b quite accurately. The finale, “It was in love I was created and in love is how I hope I die,” repeated over and over, reminds me of Van Morrison’s ecstatic blues shouter workouts on-stage circa It’s Too Late To Stop Now.

‘Growing Up Beside You’ is a pretty melody and offers a soft, folkish, slow-roller with mostly forgettable lyrics; something about a crush on a girl in school.

No matter, because we swiftly move on to the album’s pièce de résistance: ‘Candy.’ What an extraordinary song! They’re rare, songs like this. This is note-perfect middle of the road radio rock with a laid-back, country feel. Perhaps a good description would be Bryan Ferry singing over a typical early Dire Straits arrangement. It’s quite unclear what Candy is about: a love story, perhaps, a plea to stay together after all. No matter that it’s unclear because all good poetry merely approximates precision and instead offers words that confuse, intrigue and delight at the same time. And ‘Candy’ offers the best opening lines I’ve heard in a song in years: “I was perched outside in the pouring rain, trying to make myself a sail. Then I’ll float to you, my darlin’, with the evening on my tail. Although not the most honest means of travel, it gets me there nonetheless. I’m a heartless man at worst, babe, and a helpless one at best.”

‘Tricks of the Trade’ is lovely in that folky way: “You took me from my bubble, knowing my defense was weak. And you sat there and you listened, anytime I chose to speak.” A core truth wrapped into a few insightful words. Lovely and smart. On to what’s perhaps the strangest track here: ‘Pencil Full Of Lead.’ It’s a classic swing/rockabilly number with breakneck lyrics sung in a thick Scottish drawl. It’s wacky and it’s not everyone’s kettle of fish. But it’s good in a way that’ll make you look back on this record fondly in 20 years as a lost classic, and you’ll wonder why people didn’t love it the first time around.

‘No Other Way’ is more classic Bryan Ferry/Van Morrison (somewhere in the middle, actually) heartfelt blue-eyed soul, beautifully played but quite a lot over-emoted. Did I mention Nutini has a ‘warbly’ voice? Well, when he pushes it too much, it has a few kinks that aren’t entirely pleasant. He doesn’t quite have the young Van Morrison’s uncannily perfect pitch.

‘High Hopes,’ ‘Chamber Music’ and ‘Worried Man’ combine folk and various 1960s/1970s sounds (like Johnny Cash’s story songs) and offer perfect Nutini versions of these kinds of song. They’re always more than just exercises in writing music that’s just like something else that we already know; what’s clear from each tune is how deeply Nutini actually feels this music, how fervently he wants to render his own take on each archetype. The results range from pastoral hippie tunes to Waterboys’ style pseudo-Celtic material. (Nutini, while from Scotland, can certainly not be accused of making traditional music.) Finally, ‘Keep Rolling’ is a sad maritime swansong, a lover’s goodbye that spends almost half of its two and a half minutes in an unidentifiable, electronic, ambient warble and sees the album out quietly.

My prediction is that Sunny Side Up will grow to become one of those records that we fondly look back on for its immense musicality and daring. And for its commitment to Paolo Nutini’s own vision, expectations be damned. Graeme Thomson, in the Observer, said that, “One day, when his undeniable talent has settled and set, the results could be wondrous.” I beg to differ: they already are. But we, as listeners, need to remember what we loved about our eclectic favourites from the past to fully appreciate it.

The Dusty Foot Philosopher

K’NAAN. Interdependent Media 2008, Audio CD, $7.98

Troubadour

K’naan. A&M/Octone 2009, Audio CD, $7.48

I’m a dreamer but I ain’t the only one | Got problems, but we love to have fun | This is our world, from here to your hood | We alive man, it’s okay to feel good

Delivered in a sing-song that’s not entirely unlike Jay-Z’s 2003 single ‘99 Problems’ (but without the menace), ‘Dreamer’ by Somali/Canadian rapper K’naan is a good starting point for listening. He was 13 when he left Somalia, a war-torn African country that instantly credentializes K’naan, in a way. Like the reviewer at PopMatters said, you’d like to listen to the music on its own merits, but that’s sort of difficult when the MC is from one of the world’s political hot zones, mostly ignored by the world community and a place where civil war essentially continues without an end in sight, to this day.

Continuing with the biography for a moment, K’naan’s family left left Somalia on the last commercial plane out in 1991, first settling in New York City (where K’naan’s father had already lived and worked as a cab driver for a few years), and later in Toronto, Canada. K’naan knew early that he liked hip hop, learning lyrics from Rakim and Nas records phonetically before he learned English. Right from the outset, there was always a strong world music inflection to K’naan’s music and lyrics; he was no gansta but a man with a political mission. ‘Discovered’ by Youssou N’Dour while delivering a spoken word performance in front of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees in 1999, K’naan’s first record, The Dusty Foot Philosopher was released in Canada in 2005 and finally saw a US release in 2008. (All of this info courtesy of Wikipedia, of course.)

It’s an imaginative, interesting and engaging record with more than enough musical interest to match K’naan’s strong poetry. As discussed by other reviewers, K’naan sounds a little like Eminem – less angry, less clever with his words, perhaps, but also significantly less acerbic and hurtful. I’m reminded more of the Fugees during their classic The Score period. The Fugees always sounded as if they were dipping their feet in their Caribbean origins, sounding a little reggae, a little soca, a little zouk and a lot r&b in addition to their conscious but not fun-averse rap. And in a way, that’s exactly the kind of sound K’naan achieves. There’s as much party and pop in his records as there are in, say, the latest 50 Cent oeuvre. But it’s a different kind of party, one where women are a little more respected, where the partiers discuss the politics of back home while some Fela Kuti or fiery Afro-jazz rumbles in the background (something like the middle section of Troubadour’s ‘Fire in Freetown,’ maybe).

I walk with three kids that can’t wait to meet God lately | That’s Bucktooth, Mohammed and Crybaby | What they do everyday just to eat, Lord have mercy | Strapped with an AK and they blood thirsty | So what’s hardcore, really? Are you hardcore? Hmm… | So what’s hardcore, really? Are you hardcore? Hmm…

K’naan is a man with a message, and, like any poet on a mission, it’s often delivered in a less-than-subtle way. Hip hop has never been a subtle art form, and so subtlety is not a requirement. Being cleverer, sharper and more insightful is; and K’naan definitely makes himself heard on these records. Marley looms large in K’naan’s CDs to date – he’s there in the sing-song, and in the moments when K’naan directly invokes and channels him. That’s another parallel to the Fugees: Wyclef has made a very successful career out of channeling Bob Marley, in voice and lyrics often sounding uncannily like him. K’naan follows this model in many ways; Troubadour, released in 2009, was even recorded at Marley’s Tuff Gong Studios in Jamaica.

Comparing the two records, it’s clear that The Dusty Foot Philosopher is a more interesting, better-produced record, while Troubadour is more consistent, poppier, lighter and more party-oriented. Production on both records was handled by Canadian production duo Track & Field (Gerald Eaton and Brian West of r&b band The Philosopher Kings, also the producers behind Nelly Furtado’s first two albums which had a whimsy similar to The Dusty Foot Philosopher), and their sound is always impeccable. There isn’t a single track on these two CDs that falls into that category of “didn’t need to hear that” so many hip hop records are plagued by. The beats are always elegant, never heavy-handed, and there are so many acoustic instruments here that aural fatigue doesn’t have a chance to set in. K’naan is a gifted MC and a good singer, alternating between the idioms with great ease.

Where The Dusty Foot Philosopher is angry about the state of the world, its steadfast ignoring of Africa’s plight and strife, and driven by the impulse to spread the word, Troubadour picks up the story of a highly assimilated quick-learner immigrant grappling and coming to terms with life in Canada. Waiting for money transfers from Western Union (‘15 Minutes Away’) or integrating the breakup of his mother’s marriage after what sounds like domestic violence (‘Take a Minute’), these are Canadian preoccupations. Perhaps not typical middle-class Canadian preoccupations, but observant analyses of the African diaspora’s life in the Greath North.

And, taken against this background, maybe Troubadour’s more streamlined sounds are entirely appropriate – a reflection of K’naan’s participation in weaving the ongoing fabric of the music of Africa’s great international migration. His main shingle may say hip hop, but this is much more universal than that. Africa, as it does so often, turns lemons into lemonade in its cultural exports.

Incredibly, this CD is out of print, and even Amazon only seems to have sketchy availability through zShops. So I can’t even provide a “buy” link. David Sylvian is the former lead singer and songwriter of Japan. Robert Fripp is the mastermind behind King Crimson. Sylvian is known for his introspective, spiritual, seeking lyrics and self-effacing music-making. Fripp was exploring a more industrial style in the early/mid 1990s. Together, they made one of the most remarkable rock records I know.

Using elements of funk, industrial music, noise and combining Fripp’s angular guitars with a deep, rumbling, sharp, melodious Chapman Grand Stick played by Trey Gunn, this is both enlightened meditation and purely enjoyable music, like a jam band with a spiritual purpose. Sylvian, often seen primarily as a singer/songwriter, should not be under-estimated as a musician/composer, and much of what’s heard here is the interplay of a band. For me, it’s definitely guitar-dominated, but Gunn’s Stick is also instrumental in defining the sound here; this record is a precursor to the subsequent next incarnation of King Crimson, also featuring Gunn from about 1994 onwards.

Find the ladder | Climb the ladder | To God’s Monkey [...] Can’t breathe the air | It’s too thin | This far from heaven | This far from heaven

Sylvian writes introspective, mysterious, strange, often darkly funny lyrics. His voice, low like the best British male singers (think Bryan Ferry, Curt Smith of Tears for Fears or Mark Hollis of Talk Talk) is calm, clear, articulate, authoritative. This is a kind of post-rock: if you know Sylvian’s and Fripp’s histories, it’s clear that this record is post everything: neither rock nor ironic retro; rather, the culmination of a long journey through pop, rock, noise, song structure, vocals, instrumentals, improvisation – in short, a clearly articulated and conscious decision, “this is what we can offer you now.” It’s an authentic statement, uncompromising in many ways, not of its time, but also playful because of the songs, often great songs with smart lyrics and memorable melodies, and the impeccable musicianship. Nothing here is left to chance, not the writing, nor the arranging or playing.

Like Fripp’s work with Crimson and Sylvian’s solo work, there are several very long pieces here. ‘Firepower,’ ‘20th Century Dreaming’ and ‘Darshan’ each run more than 10 minutes. Like an industrial jam band of sorts, they bring enlightenment through repetition, a very Eastern-religion concept. 5 minutes into Darshan’s 17 minutes, you realize it’s put you on another plane, that the music floats you like a good DJ mix, and while it’s primarily rhythm, there’s enough audio interest to keep you listening. Like other music meant to induce a trance (and I’m not using the word here to denote the dance genre but in a more basic, ritualistic sense), Darshan manages to make you feel like the warm envelope of a blanket is being pulled from you when it ends. And, somehow, you’re left out in the cold, robbed of Fripp’s intense soloing and Sylvian’s increasingly evolved, odd and challenging synth pad harmonies.

Fitting, then, that it should end with a slow, ambient number that’s all Sylvian’s keyboards. Orchestral, calm, pastoral, like early Aphex Twin or The KLF’s best work.

If you can’t find The First Day anywhere, Sylvian’s two-disc retrospective Everything And Nothing (also discontinued, but more readily available) has some of the songs and is, without question, worth getting:

Everything and Nothing

David Sylvian. Virgin Records Us 2000, Audio CD, $7.36

White Lies For Dark Times

Ben Harper & Relentless7. Virgin Records 2009, Audio CD, $6.83

A review of Ben Harper & Relentless7, White Lies for Dark Times (2009)

“Relentless7,” the name of Ben Harper’s new band, sounds like the title of a book by Enid Blyton or Carolyn Keene. And they are an adventure to listen to.

Haper had, to date, split his music evenly between a smart, funky, blues/r’n'b/reggae inflected rock sound, and an equally accomplished “Ben Harper” style balladry that always felt, perhaps, a little out of its time. If you could get over yourself enough to really listen, Harper delivered the goods, especially in his early blues oriented songs. Like Bob Marley, Ben Harper knew how to combine the political and the poetic, protest and politics. But it might also be fair to say that the trademark Harper sound had perhaps become a little predictable of late. Great but predictable.

This record changes all that. It’s quite possibly the record of his career. Relentless7 consists, contrary to their name, of three players from Austin, Texas. Guitarist Jason Mozersky is a long-term friend (the friendship originates when he drove a truck for a Texas promoter and played his then band’s demo to a captive Ben Harper). During the 2005 recording sessions for Harper’s Both Sides of the Gun, Mozersky introduced Harper to his friends, drummer Jordan Richardson and bassist Jesse Ingalls. The initial jam session obviously resulted in enough excitement that the concept for Relentless7 was born.

Together, Harper and the seven produce a very full, rich, fuzzy wall of rock ‘n’ roll – swampy, Southern, and full of excitement. Something about their energy reminds me of the North Mississippi All Stars or Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (they don’t actually sound like either of these bands, so don’t get your hopes up too much; this is still Ben Harper as we know him). There’s also a focus, a low-down precision groove that’s reminiscent of ZZ Top. I’m especially fond of Richardson’s drums – he spends a lot of time on the floor toms, producing a lower register rumble to match the growling guitars and thundering bass.

I like the songs, too. I know the reviewers typically mention that Harper’s lyrics aren’t as literate as they could be – some call them mangled couplets – but I think there are strong songs here that will easily be as memorable as those from his early albums Welcome to the Cruel World and Fight for your Mind. I’m rapidly growing fond of “Shimmer & Shine,” “Whyu Must You Always Dress in Black?” and “Keep It Together (So I Can Fall Apart).”

Highly recommended. While the Relentless7 may not replace the Innocent Criminals permanently as Ben Harper’s backing band, they create a powerful, room-filling rumble that provides a fuller, better-grounded foundation for his considerable song craft, voice and lead guitar.

Slice O Life

Bruce Cockburn. Rounder / Pgd 2009, Audio CD, $11.17

A review of Bruce Cockburn’s Slice O Life (Live Solo) (2009)

A lovely and complex CD this, Bruce Cockburn’s first live album of just him and his guitar. Recorded in 2008 at a variety of shows, this is a strong set of well-known tunes and less familiar gems, interspaced with background stories and live banter. Cockburn comes across as a good-natured entertainer, someone who has aged gracefully from being a political singer-songwriter into a musician first and foremost.

The record was produced by Colin Linden and has a clean, thoughtfully balanced sound, not too echo-y, not too dry, that gives a good impression of the rooms it was recorded in. It’s filled with classics that, I’m told, all Canadians know. Since I didn’t grow up here, some of these songs are new discoveries for me, and this is a great way of discovering them, stripped to their essence. Cockburn is a very gifted rythm guitarist, adept at fingerpicking driving music that could stand on its own (and it has, on 2005’s Speechless).

If, like me, you’re somewhat new-ish to Cockburn’s music, I’ll leave you with some favourite lines from ‘Lovers in a Dangerous Time’ and encourage you to hear ‘Slice O Life’ if you can. I’ll be seeking out more Bruce Cockburn.

These fragile bodies of touch and taste | This vibrant skin – this hair like lace | Spirits open to the thrust of grace | Never a breath you can afford to waste | When you’re lovers in a dangerous time.