In March or April of last year, I stumbled across a Youtube video called "The Best Album Of Every Country (And By State For USA) Music Around The World."
This channel puts out all sorts of videos like this, using tools on
RateYourMusic.com and blasting through the resulting charts at top speed
so you can only catch an intriguing glimpse of each album on the list.
I've always been interested in music from around the world, and I'm
perpetually looking to broaden my aural horizons, so naturally I was
intrigued.
Then I saw someone in the comments saying someone should make a Spotify playlist around this concept. Well, why hadn't anyone? Spring was coming, I was emerging from hibernation and I decided that I should be the one to do this!
I embarked more or less immediately. I went to RateYourMusic and started putting together a list. I was on a new medication that gave me severe insomnia, so I did a lot of this at night, in a sleep-deprived trance. Then, over the next year, I listened to 232 albums (more than that, really!) from around the world.
The Process
The first step in the process, starting in April-ish 2023, was to make a list on paper of what RYM listed as the top album from every country. I used this list as a guide since it seemingly had all the countries in alphabetical order. But I checked the charts as they were at that moment and made my own determinations about what counted as being "from" a country.
When I finished that, I started listening to the albums. I did this mostly in alphabetical order, with the occasional mix up here and there. After I had listened to each album, I assigned it a rating and wrote a small review of it. At first I did this in a document, but eventually I moved it to a spreadsheet.
Listening to all the albums took about a year -- I finished on April 12, 2024. I then put together/finalized the Spotify playlists. As I did this, I double-checked everything I could think of, and in the process learned that some artists weren't really from the nations that RYM said the were, learned of some countries I missed, and so on. Thus, I had to make some updates to the list and listen to some new albums to replace the ones that had to be removed.
At around this time, I started working on this blog post. I listened to all the albums I'd given five stars, reassessing what I liked about them. A few I found I didn't like as much as I thought did, and so they were demoted, but most continued to amaze me. I wrote longer reviews for them as I went. In a few instances, I realized, as I looked more into the artists, that, again, they weren't actually from the countries RYM said they were, so I had to work out more replacements.
After this, I started to play around with the data from my spreadsheet, and updated it to remark on any recent changes in the RYM charts (such as if an album had gone from first place to second place).
Judgments and Choosing
If you watch the video I linked, you'll notice that a lot of the listings seem off. What does Dvořák and the Berlin Philharmonic have to do with Azerbaijan? What is Chopin doing in Chile? Why is The Velvet Underground & Nico the top album from Germany when Nico only sang on three tracks?
Well, that's because RateYourMusic is a broken website. For one, it has a habit of misattributing classical albums to random countries. I have no idea why, but there are multiple cases where I had to sift through a load of irrelevant classical music to find anything that was actually from the country of Bulgaria, for example.
On top of that, listings will come and go. When I made my first list, the album listed for Timor-Leste was O Hele Le by Ego Lemos. Now when I go there, the only album there is by a white woman who appears to have been born in Timor-Leste. If I go find the RYM listing for Ego Lemos, he'll show up as being from Timor-Leste. Why isn't he on the chart? I have no idea. Probably a site glitch, but that means one should be skeptical of the accuracy of these charts.
Sometimes,
entire charts will disappear. For example, at the time of writing, RYM
currently displays no albums for Côte d'Ivoire. You know, the Côte
d'Ivoire with the rich musical history. This must be another site
glitch, but it led to me missing a fair few countries at first because
it looked like there were no albums from there.
Since RYM's ratings are based on popular vote, listings change. When I was converting all my data to spreadsheet format, I found lots of cases where an album that had been on top before had dropped a few rungs. In some cases, they dropped many, under a pile of albums that definitely hadn't been there before. I get the sense that things get moved around a lot at RYM, that an artist is erroneously listed as being from one place, then is corrected and moved to another place. Or, an artist is listed correctly, then suddenly appears in the chart for the Czech Republic (this happened with King Krule recently).
Then there's the fact that, apparently, you have to click a button to include soundtracks, live albums, and archival albums in the chart. I only learned this recently, and so missed some things (e.g. the actual top album for Jamaica is a live album from Bob Marley and the Wailers, not Exodus). The confusing thing is that my original list had a fair few albums that were soundtracks, live albums, or archival albums. So I guess they were originally mislabeled? What a needlessly frustrating system!
My
point is: RYM is a glitchy, unreliable, confusing tool. This is
something I've struggled with continuously throughout this process and
which has inevitably affected the results. After a point, I'm no longer
willing to fight with the damn thing, and say that what I have on my
list is good enough.
And that's just talking about the technical issues with RYM. There are other, subtler issues too. For example, RYM won't tell you whether an artist is listed as being from somewhere because they were born on a layover (this was literally the case with one artist, though I can't remember who), or because they actually spent a substantial amount of time there. Since Nick Drake was born in Myanmar, he was, for a while, at the top of the chart there, regardless of the fact that his family left when he was three. It looks like RYM has gotten better about this, but the question remains: in our modern world, where humans are so mobile, what makes someone and their music from somewhere?
I
don't feel qualified to answer or discuss this question. I had to make a
choice based off vibes, ultimately deciding that if someone left the
country before the age of about 10 or so, I wouldn't count their album
in my project. There's no real rhyme or reason to this, but, in the end,
any cut off is an arbitrary line, and I had to draw it somewhere to
keep the Nick Drakes out of the Myanmars of this project. In a lot of
cases, I had to rely on rough guesses based off descriptions from
artists' own websites or activity on their Facebook pages.
I also ran into several cases where the top album listed for a country with colonial history was by a white person. What to do then? Technically, colonial influence is a part of that country's history and culture. But I felt inclined to shift away from these artists if possible. Thus, I picked Bonga for Angola instead of Fausto. But also, sometimes I made choices that I didn't love. For example, white 90s songstress Heather Nova dominates the chart for Bermuda, leaving little other option. And for the US Virgin Islands, I chose the white Vanessa Daou over the black rapper Insight because she had a verifiable history of being in the US Virgin Islands into her teen years while Insight describes himself as "Born in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands, and raised in Boston, Massachusetts," implying he mostly grew up in the US.
RYM
also has a mysterious way of deciding what rating is better than
another. Often the top album will be one that has a higher rating but
fewer votes. Sometimes the results will feel absurd. At the time of
writing, Cuba's top album is listed as Silvio Rodríguez's Al final de este viaje...
with a rating of 3.95 across ~3k votes. Right underneath it is
Irakere's eponymous album, with a rating of 3.98 over a mere 349 votes.
Then, in third place, Buena Vista Social Club's eponymous album with a
rating of 3.91 across ~10k votes. So, despite having over three times as
many votes as Al final de esta viaje, and 28 times as many votes as Irakere, Buena Vista Social Club is in third place? Is Silvio
Rodríguez or Irakere therefore a truly accurate representation of
acclaimed music from this country (acclaim being partially what all this
is about)? So, I had to make some decisions at points. In this case, I
went with Buena Vista Social Club.
Then there is the fact that not every top-rated album is on Spotify. I set out with a goal to create a Spotify playlist, and so I was often limited, having to go with a #2 or a #3 or even lower because it was the first album on Spotify. In some cases, countries had no albums on Spotify, and I had to skip over them entirely. Though, to be fair, many countries (mostly island nations) don't have any albums listed at all.
Finally, there were cases where I had to make moral judgements, because not everyone who makes music does things I can get behind. For example, Burzum's Filosofem is the top album from Norway. I listened to it, and even liked it...and then someone told me that Burzum is none other than Varg Vikernes, noted Nazi and white nationalist. I'm not interested in platforming someone like that, or in listening to their music. Sure, sometimes I wound up with albums that I liked less, and I'm sure someone out there would have something to say about it. But, I'll be honest -- I have enough music in my life that I like but which makes me feel queasy due to the politics of the artists. I'm not trying to add more musical baggage to the situation.
On a Scale of 1 to 5
RYM uses a 5 star rating scale so I did too. RYM has half star ratings, but I dispensed with those because it would've caused me to agonize too much (as is my wont). As I went, I settled on this approximate scale:
1: Unbearable, I couldn't wait for the album to be over.
2: Bearable, but not great.
3: It was fine, even nice, but I'm not writing home about it.
4: Good, worth a listen, but not enough for me.
5: Incredible. I instantly added it to my music library (with a few exceptions).
Obviously the act of rating anything is incredibly subjective. For example, I gave Kendrick Lamar's To Pimp a Butterfly, 4 stars. That album has been the highest rated on RYM for years, but I just couldn't get into it! Even so, I did try to keep in mind the cultural importance or more inherent qualities (if those can even be measured) of the music in mind. So, though I'm not much of a Bob Marley aficionado, I gave Exodus 5 stars, and though I absolutely hated My Bloody Valentine's Loveless (sorry), I gave it 2 stars.
I should also note that among the 5 star albums I have listed and reviewed below, there are some that I already knew, some I have obsessed over since discovering them, and some I listened to, added to my library, and vowed to return to later. A lot of them I didn't return to much or at all because I was busy plowing forward with the project, and I only listened them a second time to write my mini-review. But, despite that, most of them remained as engaging and excellent as I remembered. Those that weren't got bumped down to four stars.
The Data
I am no statistician, no data analyst. I never even took a class in statistics in high school. So, before I go into this section, I will acknowledge that my methods for playing with this data are crude, and my understanding of it may be completely erroneous. I think I will also be hilariously bad at talking about this. Nonetheless, I had fun and want to share what I found, and I'll try my best to make myself understood.
What RYM Likes
This
particular data set might be an odd way to approach this subject. If I
understood how RYM works, had more time or power or could code, I would
love to see the the what the average rating for all albums from Africa
is compared to the average rating for albums from Europe. But I'm not
that cool, so instead we have the average of the ratings of the top
albums from each continent.
Here's a list, from highest to lowest:
Europe - 3.68 across 55 albums
South America - 3.6 across 21 albums
Asia - 3.45 across 49 albums
Africa - 3.39 across 57 albums
North America - 3.29 across 29 albums
Oceania - 2.7 across 21 albums
Are
you surprised by this? I wasn't. This confirmed for me everything that I
was saying above -- Western music holds a greater sway over RYM's
userbase than anything else. Hence Europe is at the top, even with its
assemblage of (in my mind) extremely mediocre rock albums from
relatively small nations like Liechtenstien and Lithuania.
North America's low position might be surprising to some, but the reason for this is that most of those 29 nations are Caribbean. Remember, the U.S. and Canada each only get one entry. If, as mentioned above, you were to somehow get the average rating for all North American albums, I bet that average would be substantially higher. But as it is, this shows RYM's general distaste for Caribbean music and especially for music from Oceania. Dancehall and island reggae are not valued by RYM, while metal, rock, and classical clearly are.
I think the big surprise for me was South America being in the second place spot. I honestly expected it to go to Asia due to the general pretension about bands like Fishmans and Mid-Air Thief (not saying they aren't good, of course). I think this may be because Asia has more countries in it than South America. Included in South America are heavy-hitters like Clube da Esquina, Unplugged, El jardín de los presentes and Juan Gabriel en El Palacia de Bellas Artes. Meanwhile, those incredibly high ratings for Fishmans and Mid-Air Thief are watered down by things that RYM is more ambivalent about, like music from Timor-Leste and Chagos.
What decade of music is the most popular for each continent?
I
tried finding the average RYM rating for top albums from each decade
but it didn't actually show anything of interest. The average rating for
each decade was between 3.2-3.7ish. Interestingly, the 1960s and 70s
had the first and second highest average, despite having relatively few
albums listed as top albums (8 and 31, compared to 65 from the 2010s). I
suspect that this just means that anything that is that highly rated
after so long really is a classic.
My partner suggested a more revealing approach: seeing how many top albums were from each decade in each continent. I gave it a shot and was surprised at the idiosyncrasies that appeared. Behold! Some pie charts I made. I apologize for the tiny font of the color guide. The program I used didn't have options to change the font size for some silly reason.
Africa
has above average numbers of albums from the 1970s and the 2010s
compared to the global average. An odd double peak that, to me, suggests
an interest in classic albums from the 1970s that is perhaps
accompanied by an interest in people making similar music in a
resurgence in the 2010s. Those classic albums include work by Fela Kuti,
Bonga, Witch, Dumisane Maraire, and so on. Then, in the 2010s, there
are several albums that are actually re-releases of older music from the
70s and 80s, such as that by The Dur-Dur Band, Karantamba, and Dahlak
Band. I suspect this indicates a surge of Western interest in African
music, especially of the 70s and 80s, and artists that provide a similar
but updated feel (e.g. Fatoumata Diawara, Mdou Moctar, Group Doueh,
Tinariwen). Obviously, plenty of the music doesn't fit into that
framework -- we're talking general trends here.
Despite having 55 countries -- second only to Africa -- Europe has the highest percentage of albums from the 1960s, 1980s, and 1990s. On the other hand, it has the lowest percentage of albums from the 2010s and 2020s -- in the latter category, there's only one album: Utekočinjeni prestol preprostih (The Liquified Throne of Simplicity) by Širom. It seems that RYM's interest in Europe lies firmly in the past. One reason for this is the handful of revered recordings of classical works from the likes of Brahms, Stravisnky, Bartók, and Chopin. These sorts of albums make up the majority of the 1960s category, and are sprinkled throughout the other decades. Then the other big thread is metal, particularly foundational death metal albums such as Consuming Impulse by Pestilence and Nespithe by Demilich. Some are not so foundational, but I think it says a lot about RYM's sense of taste that the preferred album from Albania is The Order Executors by Thunder Way, which is speed metal from the 90s. Throw in some famous soundtracks (eg. Il bruno, il brutto, il cattivo AKA The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly) and OK Computer by Radiohead, and the reasons for this odd weighting become clear.
In my opinion, Oceania had the most interesting results. There are no albums from the 1980s and 1990s. And see that huge slice of pale blue for the 2000s? Oceania has the highest percentage of albums from the 2000s of any continent: 42.9%. This is also the highest percentage any decade has for any continent. Sure, this is due in part to the fact that Oceania contains 21 countries, but South America also has 21 countries and is nowhere near as unbalanced. What are these 9 albums from the 2000s? One of them is Since I Left You by The Avalanches, an Australian album that has a rating of 4.06 on RYM. Of the other 8 albums, not one has a rating above 3. They are some of the most dismally-rated albums from this entire project: dancehall, Pacific reggae, and Polynesian music. Some of the charts for these island nations, such as Tokelau or Palau, have only one or two albums. This, to me, represents the lack of access: small populations, few resources, lack of access to recording studios. Studios may have sprung up in the 2000s, or people may have started recording at home on laptops. The resulting music often had sound quality issues and was admittedly cheesy sounding, though in my opinion it was fine, even enjoyable.
So How Good Is All This Music, Anyways?
The happy news is that the majority of the music I listened to in this project was great, at least in my opinion. Here's a breakdown of the ratings I gave:
5 - 69 (nice)
4 - 89
3 - 55
2 - 15
1- 4
But What Does the Data Say About ME?
The data I collected was revealing of my own tastes too. Here's each continent ordered by my average rating:
Africa: 4.28 across 57 albums
South America: 4.05 across 21 albums
Asia: 3.92 across 49 albums
Europe: 3.89 across 55 albums
North America: 3.45 across 29 albums
Oceania: 3.1 across 21 albums
This
was hardly a surprise to me. I had gotten the feeling that, in general,
I liked African albums the best and hadn't resonated much with albums
from Oceania. Everything here feels about right. Even the fact that,
after my full-throated complaints about how RYM treats Oceania, I
couldn't get into the music either.
There is something to note about the very concept of a rating system before I go further. Namely, as with any website or app that aggregates ratings, the numbers don't mean exactly what they say. With any album that has a substantial number of ratings, it is impossible for it to have a 5 out of 5 because there will always be some naysayer who wants to rate it lower. Similarly, it is impossible for almost any album to have a 1 out of 5 because there will always be someone who likes the music more than the rest.
So, when looking at RYM's ratings, I've started to think of anything above a 4 as "basically" a 5, and anything below a 2 as "basically" a 1. There are some fine points about what qualifies as "basically" a 2, 3, and 4, but I feel like I'm overselling my (lack of) expertise when I start to type it out.
Since I am one person who is refusing to use decimal points in their ratings, my ratings often have a significant delta from the RYM ratings, even when they are in spirit the same. For example, RYM and I more or less agree on Dode's self-titled album (from St. Pierre and Miquelon). Its RYM rating is 2.93, I gave it a 3 -- so the delta is 0.07. However, I would also say we basically agree on OK Computer by Radiohead. The RYM rating is 4.29 -- the second highest rating on the entire website -- and mine is 5. Though the delta is 0.71, this is both of us agreeing that it's a five star album.
So, as I compared my ratings to RYM's, I noticed that my ratings were normally higher than RYM's. Only 72 out of the 231 albums had a negative delta, where my rating was lower. (There are only 231 albums here because the album from North Korea is a unique exception and not technically on RYM).
Since there are many instances of me generally agreeing with RYM, what's interesting is where I highly disagreed. Namely, I obviously rated African albums far higher on average than RYM did. Like -- markedly higher. The average delta for African albums was 0.89, then after that it's Asia with a delta of 0.45, which is on par with the average delta for all the albums together.
There are also a couple of albums that stand out as major disagreements, eg.:
CHEESECAKE+ by LemKuuja of Jordan -- RYM gives it 3.44, I gave it a 1, making for a delta of -2.44. I hated that album so much. It was some of the most obnoxious, masturbatory EDM I've ever listened to and I remember literally counting the seconds for it to be over. I'm sorry to anyone who likes it.
Loveless by My Bloody Valentine of Ireland -- RYM gives it 4.25 -- so, that's basically 5 stars -- and I gave it a 2. If I was rating only based upon my personal tastes, I would've given it a 1. I found the whole experience, with its repeating high-pitched riffs and manufactured haze to be thoroughly irritating. I'm sorry to hipsters everywhere.
Dvořák: The Nine Symphonies by Antonín Dvořák, Berliner Philharmoniker and Rafael Kubelík of the Czech Republic -- RYM gives it a 3.94, I gave it a 2, making for a delta of -1.94. This is how I learned that Dvořák just isn't for me. In fact, I realized that pretty much all pre-modern symphony work isn't for me.
Missa Papae Marcelli; Motets / Palestrina by Giovanni Pierluiga Palestrina, Cappella musicale pontificia sistina and Massimo Palombella of the Holy See -- RYM gives it 3.17, I gave it a 5. I lean more Baroque, Renaissance and medieval than symphonic, and pretty much any Palestrina makes me happy so long as it's well-recorded (which this is).
ሰላም (Selam) by Tsehaytu Beraki of Eritrea -- RYM gives it 3.13, I gave it a 5. I was expecting this to be at the top. I don't want to repeat the review I left below, but this is exactly the kind of thing I am primed to love and most Westerners are primed to hate.
450 de oi by Zdob şi Zdub of Moldova -- RYM gives it 3.13, I gave it a 5. This cracked me up because this is my favorite album that I've discovered from this project. I have no idea why people dislike it as much as they do. Maybe punk plus bagpipes plus breakbeats aren't for everyone, but that combination is like catnip for me!
As I was typing this out, I started to wonder whether this is of interest to anyone else. Probably not! But I had fun playing with the numbers, and it does demonstrate the wonders of subjectivity. Namely that, in my little cosplay as a music critic, I have clear biases that can be "measured" (as much anything based on mood and taste can be).
Actually, This Fun Project Was About Cultural Hegemony All Along
As with anything, I jumped into this project without many thoughts, and had many along the way.
First, as I compiled my huge list, was that Rate Your Music is a website made for Westerners, by Westerners. You have the option to use only the ratings from any given country, and I considered using that -- what's the best album from a country according to users from that country? But then again, how many people from Vanuatu are bothering with Rate Your Music dot com?
So, I decided to just leave it as is and let it be an exploration of what Westerners think is good music from other countries. After all, that is not an uninteresting thing to contemplate, so long as one remains conscious of what's what.
But then, one must consider that Rate Your Music users are a subset of people within the population of internet users in the world. From what I can gather based on interacting with the website, this is still a diverse crowd, but tends to lean towards people with an off-the-beaten track taste in music, people who get really into writing professional-sounding music reviews, people who love Kendrick Lamar and don't spend as much time on more mainstream stuff like Taylor Swift or Meghan Trainor. There's evidently a fair number of metalheads, given the amount of metal albums that wind up at the top of country charts. (I don't mind this -- I think metal is just as valid as an expression of music from around the world as anything.)
So,
really, I was looking at what albums are the best according to the
people who decide to get on Rate Your Music dot com and express an
opinion. But as far as I know, there isn't another website like this
with such a large user base, so that's about as good as it gets. (If you
know one, let me know and maybe I can do all this again!)
Because the user base is what it is, because the world is what it is, one can find far more opinions on music from the West than anywhere else. As such, if you go to RYM's Best albums of all time list (and include soundtracks, live albums, and archival albums), the first album that's from a non-Western nation and not primarily in English is Fishmans' live album 98.12.28 男達の別れ at #16. Vespertine by Björk is at #21, and Fishmans' Long Season is at #28. On the first page, these are the only albums that aren't from the UK, the US, or Ireland.
I think this isn't just a result of RYM users mostly being Westerners. It is also the natural result of cultural hegemony. If I filter user location by, say, India, the chart doesn't change much. Of course, I take this with a grain of salt, as I think user location is based off of self-attested data. Even then, one must consider that perhaps the people using RYM in India are mostly Westerners, or people with an interest in Western culture. But, the point remains -- due to the cultural power of Western nations, any album by Pink Floyd has more international reach and recognition than any album by a non-Western star such as Juan Gabriel.
Unsurprisingly,
as I ventured into the charts of some of the smaller nations, I found
albums that had only gathered like 10 ratings. Who's listening to Magic
Bobo from Tuvalu? Not many RYMers. Those RYMers who do appear to be
people looking to listen to music from other countries. Are they the
right people to enjoy this music? I don't think so. Recently, I was at a
park where a group of people showed up to barbecue and listen to music
that sounded like many of the Oceania albums I listened to for this
project. They're the audience, not my pasty ass, so who cares
what I think? Besides, in that setting, in the fading heat of
approaching sunset, that music felt perfect.
All
this got me thinking about advantages in numbers and opportunity.
Namely, if a country has a population in the millions, it is far more
likely to produce what may be globally regarded as "great" art, simply
because there are more people: more people to make music, and more
people to create the soft power to promote that country's aesthetics. As
of 2016, he country of Tokelau has a population of 1,499. It's not
surprising, therefore, that RYM only lists 3 albums from Tokelau.
With smaller populations, there's a reduction in opportunity. How many recording studios are there in Tokelau? (From a cursory Google, I think there may be four.) How well-equipped are they? A recording may sound low quality and undesirable due to a lack of access more than anything, and some amazing musicians may never get access to the technology that brings their music to the rest of the world.
Then,
on top of that, one must consider the lasting effects of colonialism.
For example, I was struck by the top album from The Comoros, which, according to the description on Bandcamp,
was recorded in the shell of an abandoned car. Now, I expect some level
of sensationalization from the story of a white guy's trip to an
impoverished nation, but it did lead me to reading the history of The
Comoros on Wikipedia. The story goes that the islands were almost
entirely depopulated as a result of the slave trade, and then, as far as
I can tell, were repopulated by slaves and slave masters. The Comoros
was then a French colony until 1978, and since then the government has
been unstable and subject to multiple coups. While the Comorian economy
is doing better than some, 2 out of 10 Comorians live below the poverty
line.
How
difficult is it to access recording equipment, the time and energy to
make music, in a country that has been so marked by colonialism? Why
would Western nations care about the cultural products of a country that
shows signs of their past abuses? What kind of cultural influence does a
small nation, or a previously or currently colonized nation, exert?
It seems to me that there is a clear reason that The Comoros, with a population of 700k-1mil, has 13 albums listed on RYM, while Iceland, which has a population of about 300k, has at least a thousand. Note this, too: Björk's Vespertine is the top album from Iceland, with a 4.26 rating across 40k ratings and over 300 reviews. The Comoros' top album, We Are an Island, but We're Not Alone, has 3.24 across a mere 178 ratings and 2 reviews (one of which is distressingly racist). Fewer people could be bothered to rate We Are an Island, but We're Not Alone than could be bothered to write a review for Vespertine. The vestiges of colonialism not only affect access, but also interest.
There is also the issue of differing access to healthcare. Too often I learn that an incredible artist from a non-Western country died depressingly young. Dimi Mint Abba of Mauritania died at age 52, Ali Farka Touré of Mali died at age 66, Fela Kuti of Nigeria died at 58, and Dr. G Yunipingu of the Yolŋu Aboriginal Australians died at age 46. Meanwhile, here in the West, Mick Jagger is still chugging along at age 80, and Willie Nelson is still touring at 91 years old. Of course, these are trends, and there are exceptions. After all, the concept of the 27 Club exists for a reason. But the point remains: would these excellent musicians still be with us if they had access to Western-quality healthcare?
On top of all this, we must consider the lasting effect of the "world music" boom of the 90s. I am not well-qualified to speak on the subject, though I would like to learn more, so I can only give the broadest of summaries. In 1986, Paul Simon released Graceland, which featured collaboration from artists across Africa. After noticing the album's popularity, capitalists did what they do best: saw there was an interest in foreign music, and marketed to it.
Thus began the global careers of many excellent artists from around the world, such as Geoffrey Oryema, Ali Farka Touré, Buena Vista Social Club, and more. Thus, also, new age electronic music sampling ethnomusicology recordings and Gregorian chants, like Enigma and Deep Forest. Thus the Pure Moods compilation CD, thus the fake "African" children's choir in "Adiemus," which was used to advertise Delta Airlines.
The marketing of "world music" came with ideological promises of global unity and connection, a "Return to Innocence" akin to those experienced by hunter gatherer societies, who are thus characterized as noble savages who exist somewhere in the past. In short, just another craven marketing tool selling anti-modern and anti-capitalist sentiments in order to make more money for the capitalists.
So, as we look back at the painful inauthenticities sold to us as "world music," the frequent disregard of the actual artists making his music, we must question the filter placed by this industry. After all, the residue of the "world music" boom is all over this project: Geoffrey Oryema's appearance in the Uganda slot is doubtless influenced by his appearances on the Pure Mood CDs, and Orchestra Baobab's Specialist in All Styles is an album that only exists thanks to a renewed interest in classic Senegalese music in the West. What is chosen and sold because it can be made palatable to Westerners? How is it altered to conform to our tastes? Can we view ourselves as objective arbiters of taste when we're less likely to engage with something that is made by an artist in their country for listeners in their country?
Now, I'm not here to advocate for purism of any sort, to say "you can only listen to and enjoy self-recorded Soundcloud artists from other countries" or something. I am speaking as someone who fell for Enigma, "Adiemus," and Cirque du Soleil, as someone who still listens to them. If you feel something, you feel something. And, besides, cultural collision is too complicated, too inevitable, to boil down to "should" and "shouldn't," especially in our globalized world. As I am drafting this, I am listening to Delhi 2 Dublin, an Irish-Indian fusion band that was formed in Vancouver by immigrants -- a novel and exciting idea which demonstrates to me the wonders of our modern era.
No, I'm just saying that engaging in this project opened my eyes to the filters that are placed around us here in the West, and how I view the world through a lens that is inevitably Western-tinged. "Good" music is such a complicated issue, and every top album has its deep history of why it's the "best," and why it got the rating it did.
On the Moral Imperative to Listen Internationally
When I drafted this, I had I recently watched Farya Faraji's video, "Orientalism: Desert Level Music vs. Actual Middle-Eastern Music" and I've been thinking about it frequently since. I was disturbed by his assertion that your average Westerner has probably never heard a single second of actual Middle-Eastern music in their entire life, and has only ever heard stereotyped music made by Westerners, loaded with Armenian duduks and Indian tabla drums. I was disturbed, but not surprised or disbelieving. I hadn't ever thought about it, but I do think it's true.
I was lucky: my mother is a musical explorer, and worked at the library, where she would check out any album that looked interesting. Thus I grew up listening to Mohammad Reza Shajarian, Axiom of Choice, Azam Ali, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, and so on. Music from around the world is what I grew up on, something I find easy to relate to -- sometimes more so than Western music.
I don't say this to sound like a virtuous white person, to come off as superior in any way. Truly, I had little agency in the matter and view it as a gift. Mostly, it explains why I would undertake a project like this in the first place, why it would sound interesting to me, and why it horrified me so much to realize that most Westerners rarely hear any music from outside the West, except as a sample in Britney Spears' "Toxic" or Jay-Z's "Big Pimpin'."
Thus
my kneejerk reaction is to start waving my arms and screaming at those
without much exposure to international music, "YOU ARE MISSING OUT! YOU
DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH YOU'RE MISSING OUT!" Not that the biggest
victims here are white people with a lack of cultural exposure, but good
god y'all, it makes me want to cry. There is so much out there that
will amaze you, alter you, invoke emotions you can't describe.
As Farya Faraji discusses in his video, this lack of exposure leads to people falling for stereotypes of what music from other cultures sounds like. This goes far beyond duduks appearing in "traditional Arabic music." This is also about Borat using Balkan brass music to represent Kazakh music, or The Banshees of Inisherin opening with a Bulgarian song. Would it have been hard to find actual Kazakh or Irish music? Definitely not, especially in the age of the internet, but it's not like Western audiences would notice the difference.
It's
about white people belly dancing to songs by Western DJs who don't name
or pay for their samples (looking at you, Enigma and Deep Forest!),
it's about "tribal drums" and people thinking throat-singing was
invented by the Vikings. It's even about "medieval music" with cellos
and violins and not a single crumhorn in sight, and our cultural
detachment from our own history. I can't speak to the firsthand
experience of finding such cultural misrepresentation offensive, but I
feel in my bones that it is.
Now, I'm not trying to shit on Heilung or Mediæval Bæbes. I'm not trying to say that instruments and samples shouldn't cross borders. Cultural exchange is inevitable and enriching. The problem is that the average audience member isn't savvy enough to know the difference between interpretation and authenticity. Of course, I'm not expecting a utopia where every citizen is an amateur ethnomusicologist. But if just some people had some savviness, if people were willing to explore beyond the confines and theories of Western music, I think we would be in a better place.
Thanks to the internet, it is easier than ever to explore international music. I am shocked at how often I can find an obscure artist from a tiny nation on Spotify, how often I can find a music video with a few hundred views on Youtube. Sometimes you have to break through the algorithm, but one you do, all sorts of new music from other cultures comes rushing in. And, of course, there are sites like RYM, where you can explore via data.
With all these tools, it feels almost criminal not to explore. Music binds people together like few other forces, and a recording from Eritrea or Moldova can touch your soul and give you a glimpse into another human experience. It's a way of raising consciousness about geography, other cultures, distant experiences, and it makes you less likely to fall for shortcuts and stereotypes.
Now, I want to distinguish this argument from the dewy-eyed neoliberal notions that accompanied the "world" music boom of the 90s. Always, always, be aware when and how you're being marketed to, because there are people out there with the desire to distort the truth for money. There is no return to a primal innocence, there is no world peace through compilation albums. The prevailing forces of the world are towards homogenization and colonization. While making the personal choice not to be satisfied with that, to be explorative, is not going to make a significant impact, I do suspect it could help make one more wise to the various cons that are run in culture, capitalism, law, and foreign policy. Empathy is important, and music is an excellent key into empathy.
The Top of the Tops
Here are all of the albums I rated five stars, with a little review and a Youtube video of my favorite track off each album to accompany them. Please remember that these are only my opinions. Also please remember that I don't normally review music and this is my first attempt at ever doing something like this. I am sure my descriptions are weak, vague, repetitive, and untechnical. Oh well! I'm just having fun here. Also, the way Blogger formats Youtube videos is a total mess, so I think they're all gonna show up as being different sizes.
I don't expect anyone to read every single one of my mini-reviews and/or listen to all the music here (but if you do -- impressive!). I figure people will just flick through and stop on what looks interesting to them. This is my permission to anxious people (such as myself) to approach this in an à la carte fashion.
I
was pleased to find that the first album in this project was an
absolute hit. It consists of one short track and two thirty-ish minute
long tracks -- rāgas, or improvised pieces (to oversimplify horribly) -- where Homayun Sakhi shows off his skill with the rubâb,
an Afghan plucked string instrument. Sakhi is equally capable of both
resonant contemplative strokes and quick-fingered flights of notes that
twine with the tabla played by Taryalai Hashimi. It should be noted that the
rāga structure and the tabla are Indian in origin, meaning Sakhi and
Hashimi are mingling two traditions here. The result is entrancing and
thoughtful, and creating a space of peace in the mind. I picked the
shorter track for the playlist, as it's a concise and complex little
piece that perfectly summarizes the album to me.
Technically, Bonga's Angola 74 is number two for Angola, the first going to Fausto, an Angolan-born white man who left for Portugal in his twenties. I actually like Fausto's music, and though he fit all of my qualifications, I didn't feel like going with him when a less colonialist option was right at hand, which wasn't an the case for some countries. So, I discovered Bonga's Angola 74, and I'm glad I did.
Bonga
grew up under Portugal's imperial rule of Angola. He was exiled from
Angola for carrying messages for the resistance, and wrote his protest
albums, Angola 72 and Angola 74, while in exile. I'm not certain about the exact lyrical content of Angola 74,
but it does manage to be an album that speaks for itself. Some songs
are heart-wrenching in their melancholy, others make you want to get up
and dance, to do. All of them are rhythmically complex,
their melodies layered and deep, and Bonga's beautiful soft-rough voice,
like a diamond wrapped in silk, carries one through the aching longings
and calls to movement. On Spotify, Angola 74 is paired with Angola 72 in a two-volume package. So, you might as well listen to Angola 72, because it is equally as awesome.
Early on in this project, Aziza Mustafa's Zadeh's Always hit me like an unexpected rush, a blast of fire. Her style is described as a mix between jazz and mugham,
and the result is as refined as any lounge jazz, but also replete with a
delicate yet powerful ferocity. Zadeh's the one on piano, which carries
as much emotion as a human voice, then, suddenly, with the track
"A.J.D." she brings out her voice, scatting in soprano with incredible
precision. Her band backs her up beautifully with complex, weaving
rhythms and subtle accentuations. Not only do I recommend this album,
but I also suggest looking up some live recordings at Zadeh. She is
perfectly poised at the piano, barely moving as she teases out quick,
complex melodies that would surely make a lesser musician sweat.
Exuma, the Obeah Man
has always struck me as one of those "if you know you know" albums --
at least from the moment I learned about it a few years ago. I'll admit,
it wasn't until listening to it for this project that I felt like I got
it. Exuma is the stage/professional name of Macfarlane Gregory Anthony
McKay, a Bahamian immigrant to the US who, in addition to music and
painting (he painted the album cover), was a medicine man under the
Obeah tradition. When recording this album, "Exuma would often turn off the lights and set up candles, recalling songs from his dreams,"
and the result is spiritually-attuned while still being a hell of a lot
of fun to listen to. Croaking frogs, fluttering whistles, jangling
bells and groaning zombies punctuate hazy tunes that feel like they
emerged from a dark forest or bog. Restless, infectious dances rub up
against solemn and haunting ceremonies. And, through it all, Exuma's
voice, rasping yet pure, bragging about having frog feet and weaving
apocalyptic poetry.
This
is the first example on this list of an album and artist it's hard to
find much information about. According to the lone review on RYM, which
cites liner notes, Shyamal Sinha was a Bengal research scientist who
worked for the University of Wisconsin. He played the sarod,
a close cousin of the Afghan rubâb. Each raga works its way from peace
and space to an infectiously rhythmic and complicated climax. For an
album recorded in the 60s by a small label, the sound quality is
remarkably clear and resonant, and invites you to sink into the music
like warm water, losing yourself in the simplicity of three instruments
combined to create meditative complexity.
This
two-track 33 minute LP is a delight from beginning to end. The two long
tracks evolve through many moments and melodies, always infectiously
danceable and fun. Presumably it's Zoudegnon Bernard "Papillon" who
plays the guitar that is so front and center in this music. The moniker
"Papillon," meaning butterfly, is self-explanatory, if so. The melodies
flit and bob, dart through the music as precisely and relentlessly as
the impeccable rhythm section, and the guitar's timbre is gentle and
sunny. I find "Mille Fois Merci" to be the perfect accompaniment to a
good mood. I'm sure many accuse this album of being repetitive, but
there's so many evolving layers that I have yet to grow tired of it.
If I am understanding my research correctly, this music is in the rural Bhutanese zhungdra
style, where extended vocal notes are ornamented with simple
instrumental melodies. The apparent simplicity belies the training
required to master this style of music. Listening to Jigme Drukpa's
gentle, droning voice, I get it -- to me, there is a stillness and
patience in this music, an invitation to enter a trance. It's music that
feels like it should be echoing between mountains and foothills. Drukpa
is skilled in multiple instruments, and I suspect (but can't confirm)
that all the instruments on this album are played by him -- though the
stringed dramyin is the only one I can nail down a name for. Not only is Drukpa masterful in his craft, he has been a pioneer in Bhutanese recording history.
He created the country's first mass release by individually recording
100 cassettes on his Sony Walkman, Daniel Johnston style, and he was the
first Bhutanese artist to record digitally. I wonder if any of those
original cassettes are around somewhere, and what they might sound like.
I may just be a sucker for anything with a siku in it, but Kjarkas' Canto a la mujer de mi pueblo got a quick thumbs up from me, with the airy melancholy of its opening track, "Wayayay." When looking for the above video, I found newer versions of the songs that felt more upbeat and inspiring, but it's the longing that works for me in the original, the way it feels this music looks across the open air in search of something. The rest of the album isn't just melancholy, though it explores that mood a fair bit. There are dances and sunny day rambles too. Los Kjarkas are beloved in Bolivia, and they're still making a ton of music. It was cool to poke around on Youtube and see these old heads still playing lively shows in traditional dress, just as they did in the 1980s.
I
listened to several movie soundtracks as part of this project, mostly
for movies I haven't seen, and I found that it's rare for a soundtrack
to stand on its own. Bregović's soundtrack for Time of the Gypsies
is an exception. I'm sure others would disagree -- I have a high
tolerance for cheesy synths and anything Balkan. But ever since I
stumbled across the electronic version of "Ederlezi" (the one in the
video above -- there's two versions in the album) a few years ago, I've
been taken with the high drama and 80s melancholy of this album
soundtrack. I have never seen the film -- though I intend to -- but just
to listen to, this album is a unique mishmash of folk dances, haunting
synthetic masterpieces, and the odd violin composition. Somehow this
feels cohesive, creating a nostalgic mood for a time I never experienced
in a country I never lived in. Now, it has since come to my attention
that Bregović
is a Putin supporter these days (wild given how mild his earlier
politics were), but he is unfortunately almost impossible to avoid in
the Bosnia Hezegovina -- he was prolific, and in multiple bands. At this
point, I'm unwilling to mess with my stats more, and he made this music
when he was less problematic -- so I will allow myself this one guilty
pleasure.
Though
I'm often out here giving 4 and 5 stars to albums with a 3.1 rating on
RYM, this is one where people actually agree with me. At the time of
typing, Clube da Esquina has a rating of 4.11 across 14,640
ratings, putting it on par with albums that appear on the first page
RYM's Best albums of all time chart (it's just not there because it has
far fewer ratings). It
is also routinely cited as one of the greatest albums of all time and
was the spark for the MPB (Música popular brasileira) movement that grew
from a period of creative oppression by Brazil's government. Though
attributed to Milton Nascimento and Lô Borges, is in fact the work of a
70s musical collective, Clube da Esquina. I couldn't find much more
information about this, but perhaps this highly collaborative approach
is what resulted in such layered and varied music. This albums goes
downs so easily, like tea that's at the perfect temperature, that it's
easy to not notice the wide range of influences braided into each song
-- from bossa nova to tango to flamenco to The Beatles (this latter one
especially, but never in a way that feels derivative). As far as I can
tell, multiple people contributed vocals, but their style is unified by a
sweetness and hopeful lilting. There's experimentation here as well --
from the strangely horror-inflected moment in "Um Girassol Da Cor Do Seu
Cabelo" to more subtle moments, like the human voice(s) replacing part
of the rhythm section in "Os Povos." It's understated for such an
influential album, but unerringly beautiful and startlingly modern even
now.
Once upon a time, I came across this album on vinyl in a record store in Australia. Huh, looks interesting, I thought, I'll have to look this up online. And I didn't buy it. What a fool I was. This is another one of those "if you know you know" albums, which has influenced musicians as diverse as Jerry Garcia, Lisa Gerrard, Elizabeth Fraser, Frank Zappa, and so on. I do think white voice (the singing style on display in this album) is a bit of an acquired taste, hence why I chose one of the gentler, entry level songs as an ambassador. It can feel like screaming or wailing at times, and there are songs on this album that are mildly anxiety-inducing, even when they simultaneously feel like dances or laments. I think that's part of what makes it so compelling: the conflicted feelings this music generates, how open and yet tight every note sounds, dissonance mixing with harmony.
In the 1970s and early 1980s, Cesária Évora
was destitute and an alcoholic. She'd tried making a living touring
Cape Verde, but it didn't work out and her life wasn't going well. Then,
in 1985, she made a return to music for a compilation album, which led
to her touring in America, where, in 1987, she was discovered by a
French music producer. After a few albums that flew under the radar
(including Mar Azul), she hit it big with Miss Perfumado.
She was nominated for a Grammy, won another, earned wide-spread acclaim,
and became an inspiration to the likes of Madonna and Stromae. It's an
interesting story in the context of this project: her life was improved
by the market for "world" music, by global interest. This, despite how
the "world" music industry can so often be craven and exploitative. As a
result, her albums are at the top of Cape Verde's charts, and I came
across her. Funnily, this album is from before she hit it big -- though
I'm sure I'll get to Miss Perfumado someday. Apparently its success had to do with its relatively positive tone compared to Mar Azul, but I love Mar Azul
just the way it is: pleasantly nostalgic, comfortingly melancholic,
balmy and subtly masterful. Despite being a drinker and a smoker,
Évora's voice was beautifully smooth and clear, a warm embrace to match
her motherly public persona. Each song feels like a caress from a cool,
humid breeze, a relief from the heat of the day.
The
recording quality on this album is terrible, but to be honest, it
doesn't bother me in this case. If anything, the halo-like haze adds to
the charm of the music, which is fun, joyous, and comforting. Either
way, the purity of Maitre Gazonga's voice shines through, an androgynous
warble, and the pealing, relentless guitar remains entrancing. People
on RYM complain that this album is repetitive -- a complaint which seems
to be common on African albums, which makes me raise an eyebrow. Well, I
don't find it repetitive if it's a good jam that I just want to keep
hearing, and, besides, it seems to me that the music evolves and
explores itself over the course of these long tracks. It's sunny day
music, dance around while you get things done music, car windows down
and speakers up kind of music.
Finally,
we reach the first five star metal album from this project. I had a
passing interest in metal before this project, and because of this
project that passing interest has become more active. I encountered some
fun metal albums before this one, but this was the first one that made
me go "Oh shit." Partly because it made me anxious, pressing my chest
like the G-forces on a roller coaster. Well, that's fine, I like media
that makes me anxious, and the sheer heaviness of this music is
attractive to me: the dense walls of quick drums, distant shrieking, and
wavering, distorted guitar, plus those moments of deep, plunging bass.
It's an oppressive atmosphere, and each song is like plunging directly
into hell in the best way possible.
The story goes
that Bony Bikaye was in Belgium, and mentioned to musician Hector Zazou
that he was interested in krautrock and Stockhausen. Zazou connected
Bikaye with electronic duo CY1, and thus Noir et Blanc was born,
another one of those underground classics that you've likely never heard
of. It has a charm you could describe as futuristic or retrofuturistic
depending on your interpretation. On the one hand, the synths have that
spacey, unpolished 80s feel, but on the other hand, the album still
sounds like it came from the future, from a cyberpunk city sprouting
from the banks of the Congo River. The way synths are melded with more
naturalistic sounds -- violins, hand drums and other assorted
percussion, saxophones, bird song (real or not) -- calls to mind
industry tangling with a forest. The rhythms march on relentlessly
through a thousand tiny flourishes, and Zazou's deep voice sounds as if
it's calling from somewhere between smokestacks and trees. I have never
heard anything like it before or since, and I wonder if I ever will
again.
There
are so many national heroes and musical from other countries that we
overlook because we're too preoccupied with our own culture. I don't
know if it's only like this in the West, or if it's the same everywhere,
but it's something I wish to fight against. Within the phenomenon of
overlooked musical icons, there's so many that are LGBTQ+ that we're
totally missing out on. Chavela Vargas
is one of those superstars. She was born in Costa Rica, moved to Mexico
at age 17, and became famous for doing stripped-down versions of
rancheras, refusing to change the pronouns of male POV songs to make
them more cishet. Given this, and the fact that she wore men's outfits,
and her rumored affairs with Frida Kahlo and Ava Gardner, her sexuality
was an open secret for many years, until she came out as a lesbian in
2002. I don't speak Spanish, and am not studied enough to understand the
nuances of how she interpreted these traditional songs. All I know is
that the depth and slight dry roughness of her voice, the gentle
plucking and strumming of the backing guitar, and the soulful
lugubriousness of it all, spoke to me instantly, before I knew anything
of her background. I chose this lovely live performance to represent my
favorite song from the album (and a popular song all around) because it
shows how Vargas was kicking ass into old age. This performance is
perfectly haunting and lovely, and it's hard not be enraptured by her,
even through video.
This is one of those albums I chose over an album that had a higher score but far fewer ratings. The numbers were compelling, but partly I was offended and aggrieved (and heavily biased) because Buena Vista Social Club is one of my favorite albums of all time. Of course, there is the argument that it mostly appealed to foreigners, that it wasn't representative of Cuban music at the time (because the members of Buena Vista Social Club were old heads from a prior era). Well, as discussed above, the entire RYM top albums project ultimately becomes about what music people from English-speaking countries know and like, and when measured by that standard, I believe that Buena Vista Social Club is one of the best.
I
chose a live recording for the video because it shows the number of
people it takes to create such complex, entrancing music, and the way
they do it without much fuss, as if it were the easiest thing in the
world. The base of the song is a relentless and infectious rhythm upon
which are built solos and response chants of "Me quemo aé!" ("I am
burning!") Then, of course, Ibrahim Ferrer's singular voice, which is so
odd it almost sounds fake. His singing in the second half of the song
is partially improvised, a series of quickfire sexual innuendos.
"Candela" is one of my "favorite" songs on this album, sure, but I love
all of them, from the way "Chan Chan" gives me goosebumps from the first
cord to the sweet sentimentality of "Dos Gardenias," which a coworker
of mine used to sing while she worked. This album is a masterpiece of
ineffable emotions and technical accomplishment so complete it sounds
effortless. If it's not in your life now, listen to it and wonder where
it has been all your life.
A
bit of funk, a bit of reggae, an Eastern African heat and sunniness,
and a whole package that is somehow none of these. I'm a dour person
overall, but it surprises me how I was impressed by so many fun, happy
albums. The Dancing Devils of Djibouti is one of those crown
jewels of those sorts of albums: relentlessly boppy and groovy, with a
unique chunky, echoing, jewel-bright tone that brings everything
together. Djibouti has flown under the radar culturally, to the point
that RYM lists this album as being "Somali Music." But this, I think,
puts Djibouti on the musical map -- if only anyone was paying attention!
This isn't the song I chose to represent the album on Spotify -- that
one's not available on Youtube. But this song is just as groovy and
encapsulates what I enjoyed about this album.
I'll
get it out of the way: this album reminds me of Beats Antique, back
when Beats Antique was good. It's more nuanced, though, gently
exploratory, starry and fantastical while playing with classic downtempo
and electronic forms. From what I can find, Nicola Cruz draws
inspiration from Andean folklore and music, mixing traditional
instruments with electronic production. In this album, he combines them
in unexpected ways, the drips and drops, the bleeps and bloops, the wubs
and dubs twining with plucked strings and drums and flutes and curious
voices in a way that feel perfectly natural. I also appreciate Cruz's
sense of rhythm, which often feels unconventional, even confrontational.
My favorite song off the album just happened to come with this charming
music video, which I enjoyed as well -- it makes sinking into the mud
look like such a sensual proposition.
As I've been writing these little reviews, I've been checking other reviews on RYM for any information I can't find elsewhere (not to steal language!) and boy is this an unpopular album there! It's two hours long, pretty samey, and the music is simple -- Tsehaytu Beraki's singing, the strumming of her krar and sometimes clapping, drums, and back-up singers. "Dang," I thought, "I might not like this album so much the second time." But I still do! I've been listening to it, doing some tasks and some writing, and it's the perfect accompaniment: largely upbeat, light, and trance-like. Some apparently find Beraki's voice grating, but I find it to be pleasant and motherly, especially in "Askerbay Gomma," where she just talks for five minutes. Her voice, when she was younger, seems to have been clear, forceful, and commanding. The simple beats rock me from side to side, and the timbre of the krar is uniquely pleasant, golden and sunshine-y.
Beraki is also another one of those national heroes
we never hear about in the West -- her concerts drew people all the way
from Ethiopia, and her involvement in the Eritrean Liberation Front,
along with her politically charged lyrics, put her at odds with the
government. She had to leave for Rotterdam in the 80s, and though it
seems she was able to get back to Eritrea at some point, she passed away
in Rotterdam in 2018. It's wild to me that she meant so much to so many
people, and yet it is incredibly hard to find any English language
sources about her on the internet. I did some digging and have only
found a few odd snippets, such as this website
that explains how the songs on this album are from different periods in
Beraki's life, and which mentions that she plays three different
instruments. Guess I will have to get my hands on this CD with its big
informational booklet to learn more!
Evst is a grand, dramatic album that, for the slowness of its music, doesn't sacrifice an ounce of heaviness. It's carried along by deep, powerful chords, measured, calculated drums, and Jón Aldará's incredible voice, which leaps between a gnarly roar and a pure and rounded tenor. He also sings in Faroese, which is cool as hell. From beginning to end, Evst is brimming with emotion, from heart-wrenching to apocalyptic, yet somehow it still melts your face at the same time. I learned, from doing some reading, that Hamferð draws inspiration from the long, brutal Faroese winters. I was happy to come across the performance video above, which is of decent quality and shows what an incredible stage presence this band has.
FRENCH POLYNESIA
One
of the things I'm coming to appreciate about metal as a genre is that,
though the sound of distorted guitars etc. is so domineering, people
from other cultures can take it and make it so distinctively their own.
Of course, sometimes you wind up with bands that waffle between flamenco
and metal, for example, but never manage to make it work. Then there
are bands like Te Ruki. The album starts with an introduction: the sound
of fire, drums pattering like a heartbeat, a flute, a voice, chanting.
Then, with little hesitation, it launches into fast and fiery death
metal. All throughout the album there is this delightful intermingling
of traditional instruments and accomplished, powerful metal. There are
moments where the traditional music takes over and then slips back into
metal, showing the similarities and contrasts between the two styles.
Though, of course, Te Ruki blends the styles as much as it separates
them, letting hand drums take over from the drum kit at points and
incorporating fiercely shouted chants. They also through in a bit of a
symphonic metal flair with the synths, lending the whole album an epic
quality that already has me putting tracks in my writing playlists. Te
Ruki also sings in Tuamotuan,
a language with fewer than a thousand speakers left, a fact which makes
me appreciate how the music is EQ'ed to showcase the clarity of the
vocals. The ultimate result is like riding a wave of fire while, of
course, having your face melted off.
As it turns out, the band called Karantamba is just one of the many projects that Gambian guitarist, Bai Janha ("Sweet Fingers") has been involved in. He was a seminal figure in the creation of a psychedelic guitar sound in Sene-Gambian music, and his music remains influential today. It seems Karantamba was a school for musicians that he worked with, and that this album was a live recording at a club in Senegal. Though there are a few small flubs, this performance was obviously rock solid. These 9+ minute long tracks carry the listener along on rolling, restless polyrhythms, which are as hypnotic as they are difficult for me to parse. The guitar struts along, there's occasional back up from the horns and organ, plus the odd guitar solo, and the vocalists have a high, raw quality that cuts through the rest of the music like a shining knife. You can hear the elements of Western funk, blues, and rock in this music, but it is its own beast, singular in tone and sound even among the many stellar African albums I've picked out here.
GEORGIA
This was my first foray into Depressive Black Metal, so I may just be a noob, but Neurasthenia taps
into something me. Like, idk my mental illness. Shocker. Anyways,
Psychonaut 4 show themselves to be a band with range, thrusting forth
brutal, headbanging metal, then weaving in melodic guitar, then sinking
into resonant sections that aren't much heavier than a heavy alternative
rock song. Graf's vocals (which mix English and Georgian) are so
crucial to this: his screams have a wailing, anguished quality that
viscerally convey the feeling of a mental breakdown, especially when
they tend towards anxious, unhinged gibbering. Then, as a bit of sugar
on top: certain songs flow seamlessly into the groaning of an accordion.
By all rights it shouldn't work, and I'm sure some would say it
doesn't, but as a total accordion slut, I am HERE for it! Even if, in my
inevitable journey into Depressive Black Metal, I come to view
Neurasthenia as pretty basic, actually, I believe it will always hold a
place in my heart as my first, and as a hell of a good introduction at
that.
I
remember I first listened to this album on a balmy summer's day, when I
was constructing new window screens for our house. I was swept away:
the plants seemed greener, the air felt so soft, the act of measuring
and cutting and piecing together felt beautiful. The album is short. I
listened to it twice. Maybe even thrice. The depth and fullness of the
cello, Fratti's breathy but well-rounded voice, the gentlest electronic
accents, are built into experimental and abstract forms. It's a dreamy,
spring-summertime experience, an adventure into a mystical space made
musical.
I am naturally inclined towards Mande music, especially anything that involves a kora,
so of course this album hit the right buttons for me. It's
well-recorded, so the music has a depth of field, as if the instruments
and singers are arrayed around you. Jawara's kora playing is precise and
accomplished, and his voice is luxuriously resonant across its
remarkable range, with just a hint of scratchiness. This is backed up
with the jaunty arpeggios of the balafon and well-timed interjections from female singers, forming a thoroughly pleasant whole.
Super Mama Djombo had to travel all the way to Lisbon to record this album, but I'd say it was a worthwhile trip. Na Cambança
is catchy all the way through -- no, beyond catchy. It's utterly
entrancing, magical, a spell that won't let you sit still. The warbling,
constant guitar casts a spell in the way it interacts with the
polyrhythms and repeated lyrics. There's heartfelt emotion here, a
catharsis in the dancing and fun. After a point, I have to admit I'm
shit at describing music, especially if I really like it, and this is
one of those times when words fail me. This is one of the best albums
I've discovered through this project, and the shortness of this
description should be a testament to that.
I'll
admit it: I am totally biased in favor of Giovanni Pierluigi
Palestrina. His compositions, especially "Sicut Cervus," defined my
college experience, so as soon as I hear anything by him I get all
nostalgic, even if it wasn't something I ever listened to while I was
actually in college. This is the case with this lovely album.
Palestrina's style is distinctive, even among the other polyphony-loving
composers of this time. I'm sure a Western musical theorist would be
able to speak more specifically about what I can only guess at
intuitively. To me, it's the way the heavenly lightness of the pieces,
the way the (usually four) vocal parts open up into separate strands,
allowing radiance to vibrate between them. It feels like sunbeams
hitting marble, like architecure, the way you can take a building for
granted but, if you take the time, focus on it and observe the genius of
its construction. It's also in the cadence at the end, the way the
voices, which have been wandering different spaces, come together in a
moment of satisfying concord. I could never be disappointed with a
Palestrina album, especially one as well-recorded as this: clear, with
just the right amount of echo.
ICELAND
I had heard Björk before, but never understood the appeal. Then, in January 2013, I was preparing a playlist for a friend and I to trip on mushroom chocolates to. I poked through their iTunes, and came across the Björk section and on a whim I clicked on "Pagan Poetry." A spray of bell-like tones sounded out, ringtone-like but far more intriguing. What instrument did that come from? I put it in the playlist and I hoped it showed up in the shuffle. I don't remember if it did, or what it was like to listen to it while tripping, but that was how I got into Björk. I took all the files from my friend's iTunes and dove in. She's been important to me since. I'll admit, my approach to Björk was very randomized -- I didn't listen to albums in full, just came across the songs in my shuffle. So, it was lovely to revisit Vespertine (not for the first time) and make an effort at listening to it as an album.
Björk
is excellent at creating albums with a cohesive sound, and in my mind,
Vespertine is the white, cold-but-cozy, ultra-detailed microbeats album.
It is unshakeably a winter album, not just because of the songs
"Frosti" and "Aurora" but also because of the icy peals of modified
music boxes, the under-the-blankets gentle eroticism of the lyrics, and Björk's
breathy, in-your-ear vocals. It's one of those albums that is rewarding
even with a casual approach, but which also rewards close attention.
There are so many details, from little rattles to tiny whispers to the
varied inflections of Björk's
voice. Then, of course, "Pagan Poetry," which to me remains a crowning
jewel in my mind: so powerful and vulnerable at the same time, an anthem
to holding onto your individual self even when love calls you towards
obliteration in an your lover. Even the music video is incredible --
though, be warned, incredibly graphic, with pearls and needles piercing
skin and footage that is just altered enough to make you question, "Hey,
is that--?" (It is. Here's a non-music video version if you don't want to see any genitals).
I got into gamelan music via the Akira soundtrack,
and soon found that it is easy to get tangled up in the kind of gamelan
music that appears to be created with a more Western appeal. Not that
it isn't pleasant and fun, but still, how frustrating! Well, this album
here appears to be the real deal. K.R.T. Wasitodiningrat,
also known as K.P.H. Notoprojo and many other names, learned gamelan
from his father, and directed a palace gamelan orchestra. This album is
uncompromising to a Western ear but gentle, like wandering through a
dream. Birds can be heard singing in the background, placing this music
in its context -- played outside perhaps, as is common for gamelan
orchestras. The first track was included in the Voyager Golden Record,
but I was drawn to the second, longer track, for its extended hypnosis,
the windings of the rebab and the complex play between the choir of
voices and the metallophones wandering beneath. If you aren't acquainted
with gamelan music -- and you should be! -- this is an excellent place
to start.
This album is apparently one long improvisation, with Kayhan Kalhor on the kamancheh and setar
and Ali Bahrami Fard on the santur. It certainly flows in that
improvisational way, one melody flowing into another, explorations of
emotions evolving and meshing. For so few instruments, there is shocking
depth to every song, a shimmering like sunlight off clear water. I
suspect that, for people who aren't well-acquainted with Middle
Eastern/Iranian music, this would be an excellent place to start. Its
meditative and emotional qualities strike me as accessible. Find
yourself an introspective task -- reading, writing, or simply listening
and feeling -- and put this album on. See where it takes you, across
what valleys and mountains, into what depths.
It
might not be very flashy, but this is a damn good album. These
compositions are rendered so neatly, so tightly, but still with a
substantial flair and drama. Naseer Shamma coaxes multiple sorts of sounds out of his oud,
morphing it to match the occasion. At times, it's like beams of
moonlight, the flight of a dragonfly, or else it flutters and whips
through impressive solos and improvisation. Many tracks incite
irresistable head-bobbing and leg-bouncing because, despite the
historical look of the cover, this is overall a fun album.
Though, in my opinion, some of the most fun albums are historical
reconstruction with boring covers -- this one is a delightful addition
to the list.
I'm
not really a reggae person, to be honest. I'll listen to it and enjoy
it if it's on, but I rarely seek it out. Even so, I'm not one to deny
that Exodus is a classic and a top notch album. From what I understand, Bob Marley and The Wailers fused rock and reggae in ways that feel like second nature now, but which were new to the time. That is on full display in Exodus,
which so seamlessly includes distinctive pedals and guitar solos
amongst the wobbling bass and backbeats, creating a diverse sound that
spans the intense, psychedelic crescendo of the title track and the
warm, tender caress of "Turn Your Lights Down Low." The lyrics cover the
revolutionary, religious, and romantic in an album that is nonetheless
cohesively united. I found myself drawn in by the catchy minor key
darkness of "The Heathen," for which I found the searingly epic and
erotic live version above. Even if you don't like the music (somehow),
you may be drawn in by the handsome sweaty men in tight pants. What more
could you want?
This
is a fun album. To describe it as math or surf rock would be to miss
the distinctively Balkan flair that permeates all the swift strumming
and precise drum kit pattering. I'm not sure how exactly that vibe is
communicated, but others seem to agree. Perhaps it's something about the
scales or rhythms that I am not educated enough to speak on, perhaps it
is timbre of the guitars, which feels more fiery and flavorful than
your average math/prog rock guitar. The background shouting, which feels
improvised, reminds me specifically of Romani music, though I have no
idea whether that relationship is direct or not. In any case, this
unique little album is full of complex rhythms and groovy tunes that are
hard not to bop around to. The wheel of legs on the cover feels
appropriate: it's music that just goes and goes, rolling forth
relentlessly.
As
a pretentious enjoyer of medieval music, I was skeptical of this
album's title at first. Too often, people slap the label of "medieval"
onto music that was more inspired by movie soundtracks and Renaissance
Faires than any actual interest in what medieval European people were
actually listening to. So I was pleased to find that Fatima Al Qadiri
appears to have made a conscious and well-informed effort to meld
medieval inspirations with modern electronic instrumentations and beats.
Again, I'm not educated enough to be terribly specific. Some of the
melodies, the curious sparseness and resonance of the music, the use of
synth-y string and bell sounds -- that all strikes me as having a
medieval sensibility. This is effortlessly blended with plunging synths,
the occasional trap beat, and Al Qadiri's smooth vocals, which are
often just a word or two repeated. It all works together, somehow, to
create a moody but relaxing whole: a peaceful courtyard garden with some
MIDI synthesizers playing nearby and neon lights shining through the
roses.
This is the album that I have listened to the most since discovering it. It's one of my favorites. At first, I thought, "That was lovely, but kind of all sounded the same." But the melody of "Kecki eskeruu" had wormed its way into my head, and it accompanied me to bed like a lullaby. I listened to the album again. And again. And again. I added it to several playlists. I first listened to the album in August, but by November, multiple songs appeared on my Spotify Wrapped, and high up too.
It's simple music, "just" Salamat Sadikova and her komuz, except for the last two tracks, which are full orchestrations. To be honest, I don't pay much mind to those two tracks. There's something about the simple strummed melodies and Sadikova's voice that pull at my heart: it's full of nostalgia and longing and the mystery of love -- not just romantic, but the love of things, of places, of life. Sadikova's voice is gorgeous. At first I was impressed by the effortlessness of her sustained high notes, but I've come to adore all its nuances, from the shivering solemnity inspired by her low notes to the way she can drop her voice to what feels like a voiced whisper to the bird-like warbles of "Aytsan bolo (Please Tell Me)."
Sadikova is another one of those national treasures that we hardly know about in the West. "The Voice of Kyrgyzstan" is her nickname, not just the title of the album, and she has won multiple awards for her music. It's a pity we don't often hear about these treasures. Where had Salamat Sadikova been all my life? This is the kind of music that has spoken to me since I was a child. My only complaint is that I didn't get to hear her sooner.
If
you dislike cheesy orchestra hits, this isn't the album for you. I'm an
adult with good taste and I think cheesy orchestra hits are awesome.
Not that cheesy orchestra hits are the only thing going on here, but I
think their use in the second track, "Gelty," encapsulates a lot about
the album -- the synthy, earnest 80s-ness that might be delightful or
rub you the wrong way depending on your preferences. But, almost anyone
can do that. Ahmed Fakroun's special flair is in bringing in Libyan
instruments (many of which seem to have been played by Fakroun himself)
and melodies so effortlessly that it never seems contrived or something
so weak as "fusion." No, it is groovy and funky, or else breezy and
charming, with a touch of New Wave/Britpop. Don't get me wrong --
nothing about this is derivative. Mots d'amour is truly a unique treasure.
Alone at My Wedding
Kočani Orkestar
"Fantaisie for Clarinet"
I've
been stuck on what to say about this one. I think that, though I like
plenty of music that includes elements of Balkan brass music, I'm
actually a bit of a noob when it comes to the real deal. But of course I
like it -- derivations of Balkan brass have been filling my ears since I
was 14. Alone At My Wedding sounds like it took a lot of
coordination to make, whether it's fast or slow. There's a simplicity to
the melodies, the way a lot of the instruments play essentially the
same notes, that belies an irresistible rhythmic complexity, a ringing
vibrancy. It's hard not to bop around, lift your heels, attack your
projects with a little more vigor. I also love how this album
demonstrates, from my uneducated point of view, what a melting pot the
Balkans are, drawing instruments and styles from every cardinal
direction and tying it all together with something special, something
uniquely Balkan. Of course, this is presumably so high on the Macedonia
chart because the first track, "Šiki, šiki baba," was used in the Borat soundtrack
(never mind that Kazakhstan is a long way away from Macedonia. The
whole Borat thing is racist as hell, don't @ me). But there's so much
more here than that, and I hope people are drawn into listening beyond
that first track.
This
is a subdued album, gentle and warm all the way through, consisting
mostly of lightly strummed guitar and D'Gary's sweet voice. Despite this
simplicity, D'Gary's virtuousity shines through: complicated little
strummed phrases, moments of resonance, melodies that are played with
and experimented on. Despite the fact that I only discovered Malagasy Guitar
in 2023, the music is wrapped in a haze of nostalgia somehow. It has me
thinking of spring and summertime, a breeze through the window. It's a
balm to the heart.
This is one of the albums that I knew beforehand, but I was glad for the opportunity to deepen my appreciation of it and learn more about it. When it comes to Toumani Diabaté's work, I've always been more of a In the Heart of the Moon and Mandé Variations person (though admittedly I can hardly ever listen to the latter because it's such an emotional experience), and I haven't explored Ballaké Sissoko's music nearly enough.
If
you don't know what I'm talking about, here are the most important
facts: two of the world's greatest kora musicians of our time came
together and recorded this album in tribute to their fathers' album, Ancient Strings, another effort where the world's two greatest kora musicians at the time came together and recorded an album. New Ancient Strings was recorded in one take in a marble hallway in a conference center in Bamako, Mali.
The resulting audio quality is precise and crystal clear, perfect for
picking up the complexity of these compositions, in which the two koras
weave and twine together in ways that defy the idea of a simple unifying
melody. Because of the versatility of the kora, these two instruments
often sound like four, and it's hard to believe human fingers could move
so quickly and delicately. Beyond this, I don't know how to describe
it. This music is so light, so beautiful, so transcendental, that it
leaves me at a loss for words.
Get out your big speakers for this one. Though the recording quality is a bit distant at times, Perpetual Mockery
will batter you around like a sonic moshpit. The rhythms here are
excellent: pounding blast beats (I learned that term for this, yay!) and
swaying, shockingly groovy intervals. The crisp drumline holds together
the hazy guitars, which introduce a tasteful melodicism at just the
right moments without compromising the sheer heaviness of the overall
experience. I especially appreciate the above track, "Inborn Lust," for
the rhythmic changes and the moments when the vocals devolve into
demonic chattering. The whole album reeks of hellfire and sulfur.
Fuck
your duduks and tabla drums, this is what actual desert (or semidesert,
which is also part of Mauritania's geography according to Wikipedia)
music sounds like. Deep drums punching out irregular-feeling yet
compelling rhythms, the dry, rhythmic plucking of the tidinit,
voices with that flat but piercing quality that others apparently find
annoying, but which I find entrancing. I admit, I was taken in by "Art's
Plume," Dimi Mint Abba's
most famous hit. Though the electric guitar (?) isn't as present in the
rest of the album, the rolling, joyous, hopeful sound of this song puts
a warm feeling in my heart. It doesn't hurt that apparently the lyrics
state, "Art's Plume is a balsam, a weapon and a guide enlightening the
spirit of men" -- raising art above war. But the rest of the album is
excellent too, and I was struck especially by "The Tortoise's Song" upon
revisiting it. Another wonderful fact about this: Dimi Mint Abba, "the
diva of the desert," was the main vocalist and the star of the show,
while her husband, Khalifa Ould Eide played the tidinit and provided
occasional vocals. Dimi Mint Abba died far too young at the age of 52.
I vividly remember the first time I listened to 450 d oi. I was sitting at my desk, working on my writing or something, and for the first few tracks I was enjoying myself, thinking "oh, this is nice!" Then, in the middle of "Ciobanas," the breakbeats hit me. Then the bagpipes. My head exploded. With the last remaining chunks of my brain, I thought, Holy shit, where has this been my entire life? Since then, I've listened to the album many times, to the point that, like The Voice of Kyrgyzstan, most of the album appeared in my Spotify Wrapped for 2023, even though I'd discovered it only a few months before.
Even
listening to it yet again, it strikes me how unique every track is,
from the ethno-rock party hit "Everybody in the Case Mare" (which I think features Romani singer Vasile Dinu) to the cheerful mixture of a children's choir and sunny post-punk vibes of "450 de Oi" to
the chunky masculinity of "DJ Vasile" (named after Vasile Dinu) all the
way to the effortless shepard-coded cool of "Ciobanul vrea de sa de
desparata de oi." I have never heard any music that is similar to this
album. Sure, Gogol Bordello did something similar, but the result spun
off in a different direction. Sure, you can point to hardcore and punk
influences, then point in another direction to the Moldovan and Romani
influences, but with this album Zdob şi Zdub created something entirely
their own.
Despite
my various ramblings up top, I am not against the melding of music
styles from across the globe, even when it involves Western music. Zazal
is an example of such fusion done well. The Western elements, such as
violin, act as support for a wide array of traditional instruments and
musical styles, including the throat-singing -- khöömii -- that
has been gaining popularity over the past decade. The throat-singing on
this album is particularly good, featuring incredibly sustained notes
that sound almost more like the whistling of the wind than something a
human could produce. Also
delightful is the inclusion of a female vocalist -- a feature that
doesn't seem to commonly appear in the Mongolian music that makes it to
the West. The result is sonically engaging and adventuresome, with
tracks that feel like they were made for the movies (or for fantasy
writers like me).
I seriously recommend watching the video above if this entry catches your eye. I enjoyed the album and the song I chose from it before I went looking for any live recordings, but as I watched this performance I was awed. No, I can't pretend to fully understand what it is that people do with guitars, but I know enough to see that Mdou Moctar is doing some absolutely wild stuff, all with the precision of a scientist. Everyone else is excellent too -- the cool composure of the rhythm guitar (Ahmoudou Madassane) and bass (Michael Coltun), and holy shit, Souleymane Ibrahim on the drums! The way he holds such complex rhythms down, the intensity, the sweat on his brow!
Okay
-- about the album itself. In theory, I like the idea of the desert
blues/assouf genre, but somehow I find myself struggling getting into
it. Something about the addition of rock to the traditional elements
that I genuinely enjoy makes it a bit too palatable and same-y for me.
Well, Afrique Victime blew that out of the water. There's
powerful moments of face-melting deliciousness, as in the title track,
there's more mellow tracks that trot along on a base of clapping and
singing, and there's moments of warm gentleness too. The whole album is a
wonderful adventure that will definitely have me back to explore
Moctar's music more.
I
had heard a lot about Fela Kuti and his musical and political
importance before embarking on this project, but had never listened to
his music. So, I was excited to get to Nigera and find out what the fuss
was about. Well! I wasn't disappointed, except in that this delightful
EP is so short! I don't know that I could do better than the extensive
ink that has been spilled describing Fela Kuti's music, so I will simply
say: it has me bopping, it has me bouncing, all while engaging the
brain. As for the lyrical content -- at first I thought "Expensive Shit
-- yeah! Everything's so damn expensive." I don't speak Pidgin English,
so I didn't fully understand the lyrics. Boy was I barking up the wrong
tree! Evidently, the title track was inspired by Fela Kuti's experience being framed by the Nigerian police,
who planted a joint on him. Kuti ate the joint, and the police
imprisoned him to wait for him to shit so they could examine. He used
another prisoner's shit, and was released, and so wrote this song that
essentially says "Everyone knows to avoid shit because it smells. Well,
not some people." Incredible. Still, I preferred "Water Get No
Enemy" slightly, for its earworm of a main melody, its mellow groove,
and the prominence of the sax.
Look, I'm as surprised as you. I assumed that North Korean propaganda music wouldn't be that good, and I was deeply taken aback by how much I enjoyed it. But, before I get into that, it's necessary to describe what a complicated case North Korea was. When I originally looked at the chart for North Koreea, the top 20 or so albums were mostly from the Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble, but they aren't on Spotify. I was sure I'd have to go with something super far down the list (I think it was the Isag Yung album, which is now at a more acceptable #4 -- but I'm not trying to keep up with the ever-changing RYM charts here). But, RYM is sometimes wrong about where music is available, so I went to Spotify and looked for "Pochonbo." To my surprise, I found an account called North Korean Archive that uploads compilation albums, including one for Pochonbo. So, I took that as a general representation of the top Pochonbo albums -- which included a lot of the same songs.
Even so, I felt uncomfortable. I wasn't comfortable listing albums by right wing extremists, should I be comfortable with North Korean propaganda music? I may be a dirty pinko, but it's not like I'm down with everything the North Korean government does. I looked at the chart, and couldn't see much that wasn't propaganda/state-approved. If I am reaching down to #15, am I not ignoring most of the cultural output of the country? Norway produces lots of wonderful music without Burzum's help, but what else are you going to find in North Korea?
Okay, fine. Pochonbo it is. I probably won't like it anyways -- wait, what's happening? Why am I enjoying this? It is objectively very cheesy, but I'm having fun? FUCK! I listened to the album again, sure it would lose its charm. Nope, that just drilled the earworms further into my head. I couldn't deny it. This propaganda music is successful. It's catchy, rousing, and the vocalist (I think Kim Kwang-Suk in this case) has an incredible, full voice. The use of synths is unhinged in a way I've never heard before, from the squeaky bird-like sounds that punctuate "That's Thanks to the Leader's Care" to the gusty, 80s news station intro plus bubbles that kicks off "Excellent Horse Like Lady." Then you get the incorporation of huge, excited chorus lines, dramatic piano interludes, circus-like rhythms -- boy, does Pochonbo have range! I was excited to find the above video, which not only shows an obviously fake perfomance of "Are We Living Like in Those Days" but which has some translated lyrics, which are interesting on a sociological level.
So,
do I find it simple to enjoy Pochonbo? No. Not at all. But I find it
strangely irresitible, and even my leftist ass won't lie for the sake of
political correctness.
There's a good chance you've hard Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's voice before without even realizing it. He's collaborated with Peter Gabriel and Eddie Veder, he appeared on the soundtrack to The Last Temptation of Christ, and in general he's appeared in a fair few New Age/"world music" adjacent projects. So, when he starts to sing, you may find his voice familiar, for it was extremely distinctive: powerful, cutting, bright as polished metal but just a touch rough at the right moments.
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan was the product of a family that practiced qawwali for about 600 years -- qawwali being a form of Sufi devotional music with specific practices, structures, and themes. There are, as ever, people out there saying it's too repetitive/unvarying. To that I say: buck up buttercup, forget your three minute pop song sensibilities, strap in for 11 minutes (or more!) and let yourself slip into the flow. Lose yourself to the rhythm, the improvisational soloing, the transcendental drone of the harmonium. You may not be a Sufi, you may not understand the language, but you will understand the feeling.
So, yes, you should watch the 25 minute video above. All of it. I love how it shows that it's not just Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan who is the star, but the rest of his qawwali party too: so many talented vocalists and musicians performing passionately. Even so, it's interesting to watch how they look to Khan, the way space clears for his powerful voice, the gestures he makes. I also love how much fun they're having, the smiles and excitement, especially with the chant of "Sahi sahi!" ("Truth, truth!" according to what I can find). It's a long album, but an entrancing and beautiful one, and worth every second.
Arabic is a uniquely wonderful language to hear rapped, and Shabdjeed is especially gifted, delivering lyrics in a percussive, tight, rolling way that is extremely engaging even though I don't know what he's saying. This is supported by Al Nather's production, which is icy, electronic, and sometimes is reminiscent of a 90s childrens' toy, but at other times has a synthetic moaning quality that pulls at the heart. The beats are excellent as well: computerific chattering and clapping that pushes the music forward. To my frustration, I haven't had luck finding translations of the lyrics, just mentions of their general subject matter and the fact that Shabdjeed is smart and playful with his bars. That much feels clear, from across a vast language divide, through a sense I can't describe. Still, this music evokes emotions without the words: the delivery and production feel gloomy, sardonic, nostalgic. Even to a Westerner who speaks one lousy language, it's an immensely successful album.
In 2011, I was 17 and in the worst mental health crisis of my life to date. The diagnoses I needed wouldn't come until many years later, so I didn't understand why I was afraid of everyone, why I hated myself every moment that I was awake, why I couldn't sleep, why I needed to be so far from my body just to get through the day. I turned, as many teens do, to music. Specifically, Claudio Arrau's renditions of Chopin's nocturnes. I threaded my headphones through my shirt and hid them in my hair, keeping one ear in so I could brave crowds between classes, and sometimes the classes themselves. Chopin's nocturnes, along with Reinbert de Leeuw's Satie: Gymnopédies and Gnossienes, kept me mostly together.
So, suffice to say: how the Nocturnes are played is important to me. I think it's an interesting issue in general -- how does one decide which version of a classical piece they like? I'm persnickety about my St. Matthew's Passions and Carmina Buranas, and it isn't always a matter of "the version I heard first is better."
Well, who knows? My point is that this Rubinstein recording is excellent, and every bit as satisfying and delicate as the Arrau recording was to me at 17. When I got to Poland on this journey, I got stuck: every nocturne is iconic, and every recording on this album was perfect. How could I choose a "best" one to represent the album? I listened to it repeatedly for a week. In the end I chose based on how I felt that day.
So, if you liked those lovely piano pieces that get played behind so many video essays (I think they're usually No. 2 in E Flat Major Andante and No. 3 in B Major), now is the time to listen to all of the nocturnes. They are beautiful, playful, emotional, highly engaging, and Rubinstein played them wonderfully.
Somewhere between 2010s indie pop and indie rock, jazz, psychedelia, and a mix album is Those Who Throw Objects at the Crocodiles Will Be Asked to Retrieve Them. Unique samples and loops, floating voices, distorted guitar, brass, and a hundred other things (such as a flugelhorn, apparently)
flow and roll and weave together in a creative, fun, sunshine summer
tumble. The rhythm section needs to be commended too, whether it's
samples or drummer João Correia. The beats can get delightfully
complicated while still being ridiculously boppable. Plus, there's bits
of poetry woven in too -- just for spice.
I
love it when someone from a country I've never heard of produces some
of the best music I've ever heard. I love it when I find music that is
difficult to classify, that slips out of the constraints of genre. Orchestre Univers,
Labelle's debut album, is a singular combination of modern
classical/orchestral music, with influences from the distinctly
Réunionese genre of Maloya. Sprinkled in are some electronic touches and
some appearances by lap steel guitar player Prakash Sontakke. This
description tells you nothing about the experience of the album. Go,
listen to the track above. It's the first track, and opens like a call
to a beautiful adventure, tender as the opening bud of a flower. The
rest of the album absolutely delivers on that promise, leading you from
dreamy minimalist tracks reminiscient of rituals at night, through
dense, anxiety-inducing barrages of Maloyan drums, to a resolution of
blossoming divinity and peace.
Specialist in All Styles
Orchestra Baobab
"Bul Ma Miin"
Utekočinjeni prestol preprostih (The Liquified Throne of Simplicity)
Širom
"A Bluish Flickering"
There is little information available about Abduvali Abdurashidov, but one thing is clear: he is a master of the sato,
a bowed tanbur, and he has worked hard to revive Tajik maqâm music.
This sounds pretty cool on its own, but what's cooler is that
Abdurashidov was a student of Turgun Alimatov, who was responsible for
reviving use of the sato, which hadn't been played for centuries. When
listening to this, you are listening to something rare and apparently
reconstructive. But that's not the only reason to do so. Really, it's
about the resonant peace of many of the tracks, accentuated by ringing
chords from dotar
player Sirojiddin Jurayev. It's about the masterfully controlled vocal
stylings of Ozoda Ashurova, which are full of masterful yet subtle
flourishes. And, of course, it's about the sato's unique twisting and
shrilling, the way the strings sing with sympathetic vibrations. It's a
meditative, soothing album, and it may take some patience, but I promise
it's worthwhile.
From the first notes of Siti of Ungaja (Romance and Revolution on Zanzibar), I was like "oh yeah, I'm gonna like this." It was new to me, as a manifestation of a genre I'd never heard of (taarab)
and familiar, by virtue of taarab's roots in colliding cultures:
Indian, East African, Arabic. Throw in some ominous saxophone and some
modern electronic production that knots together a naturalistic feeling
with some sounds that feels distinctly mid-2000s, and you have yourself
something special. This is all without mentioning the backstory of Siti Muharam, the great-grandaughter of the famous Siti Binti Saad,
the one responsible for bringing taarab out of royal courts, and the
first East African woman to put her voice to record in 1928. Yes, this
can be found online and on Spotify -- the recording quality is of its
era, but the listening is still fascinating, and the two womens' voices
sound similar, across so much time: a touch nasally, pure in tone, and
ageless -- old and young at the same time.
I'll
admit, I have yet to absorb the full impact and meaning of Anthony
Joseph's lyrics/spoken word poetry, but I've understood enough to grasp
that there is a lot to dig into even in just this one album. So
far, I have grasped the scraps of images and ideas: an immigrant finally
at home in London after 60 long years sharing his photo album, a
funeral in the Santa Cruz valley, a manifesto on how to be a musical
medium for change in lieu of a violent revolution. These images, boldly
spoken and clearly pronounced, swirl over big, bold, sax-heavy jazz,
sometimes groovy and cool, sometimes descending into well-coordinated
chaos. Listening on good speakers is worthwhile: the music has depth,
like colors floating through an abyss.
Astrakan Café is
one of those classic albums you've probably never heard of.
Instrumentally, it's very simple: oud played by Anouar Brahem, clarinet
played by Barbaros Erköse, bendir and dabouka played by Lassad Hosni.
These instruments, though they are mostly Middle Eastern/North African,
produce a sound that is clearly jazz, but definitively unlike any
Western jazz you've ever heard. The combination feels so natural that I
hesitate to call it a combination. Moody but exceedingly soft, vibrating
with subtlety, delicacy, and mastery. Music that connotes, to me, a
lazy afternoon and late night wanderings.
Geoffrey Oryema
spent the majority of his life in exile from his home country of
Uganda. At the age of 24, his father was assassinated by Idi Amin's
security forces and Oryema was smuggled out of the country in the trunk
of a car. Hence the name of this album, and the subject matter of some
of its songs. Despite alternating between the deepest, most poignant
melancholy and light, almost frenetic mbira tracks, plus the dirty,
dusty blues-adjacent "Ye Ye Ye," Exile is a cohesive, if all too
short, masterpiece. Oryema had an iconic, beautiful voice, that
scrambled all over the range from buttery low notes to lilting
falsettos. It's hard to know how else to explain or describe it. Exile
has been in my life for almost a decade now, and the big hit from it,
"Makambo," has inspired my writing since I was a teenager.
I grew up listening to Radiohead thanks to my father, who has been a fan since the 90s. As a child, I had no interest in their music whatsoever. It did not strike me. When I was in 6th grade, my dad drew my attention to "Fitter Happier," off OK Computer. He liked showing me odd, quirky, offbeat things, and he thought I would like the novelty of the robot voice. He wasn't wrong, and I also latched onto "No Surprises," a gentle, tuneful, bittersweet track with obvious, easy appeal. The rest of the songs off that album, though? No interest. They were only so much noise to me.
One day, in or around 8th grade, he was driving me to my friend's house and he put on OK Computer. All of a sudden, I heard it. Layers of complexity and detail, space age soaring guitars ringing and tearing through the area, creating a wide open space. Building intensity, dips into melancholy and warmth that trod through colors of blue and grey and orange and red.
"This is good!" I said, or something like it. He laughed and teased me -- why hadn't I ever liked it before? I reached for a reason. "I've just never heard it this loud before!" I said.
In retrospect, that was just the moment my brain had developed enough for Radiohead. Not to sound like a pretentious jerk off who thinks Radiohead is unparalleled in complexity and depth. Really, you can go a lot further, and I can make the point that my brain didn't develop enough for Arca and Ho99o9 until I was in my mid 20s, and didn't get on board with metal until I was about 30.
Still, it was a magical moment in which the ho hum became the extraordinary, an important step in my development as a listener. I stitched every song from OK Computer into my life. Summer afternoons spent wandering the fields behind the middle school in a state of angst and derangment, listening to "Karma Police" and "Electioneering," agonizing over unrequited love to "Exit Music (For A Film)," spinning out my little fantasy stories to "Climbing Up the Walls" and "No Surprises." Over the course of my teenage years, I absorbed every Radiohead album, including new releases, letting them define my various eras.
Some
music that you obsess over as teen doesn't hold up when you become an
adult. Radiohead, however, definitely does, and their music, especially OK Computer, speaks to me as much as it did then. Well, except for Pablo Honey. That one can stay in the past.
Not many albums in this project aligned with a certain side of my musical taste: electronic, experimental, abrasive, erratic. *1
absolutely fits the bill. Breakbeats scattering like shattered glass,
synths pressing like sunshine, snatches of birdsong and human voices,
electronic murmurings sewn into the chaos. What I especially like is
that it's very pretty for an avant garde electronic album: sentimental
and emotional, bright and sweet. It's such a short album too -- an
unfortune 29 minutes. Listening to it is like slipping an opalline shard
into your day: it glimmers with a hundred hues.
The stated goal
was to force a collision between two incommensurable styles of music,
force them to make themselves work together. Well, in making good music,
French garage/punk band, Cheveu, and Western Saharan electronic
blues/rock (for lack of a better term) band, Group Doueh, succeeded
immensely. As far as their stated goal goes -- well, they made something
that feels absolutely seamless, more seamless than they perhaps
suspected. Searing guitar riffs that will melt your face like the sun's
corona, distantly hollered French mingling with warbling Arabic (?),
hypnotic synths that feel a few decades out of date and yet perfectly
appropriate. Psychedelic, manic intensity, a feeling in many songs like
you are descending into delightful madness.
It feels appropriate that the first album of this project is a five star album, and the last one is too, and that both of them are excellent in different ways. For this, it is the instantly enfolding sense of peace, as if one has woken into a sweeter world. Sure, one song may initially sound similar to another, but listening more closely it's impossible not to notice how the mbira, hosho, and voices layer and play off each other in a rhythmically complex way, especially as they build to moments of dizzying musical and emotional intensity, pinning down a bittersweet feeling somewhere between melancholy and hope.
This album, as with many here, led me to learning some fun and interesting stuff. Such as how the mbira is a complex instrument that doesn't fit well into a Western understanding music, how it has its own modes and how individual instruments are often unique from each other, containing "odd" notes that don't fit into the scale. Also, I learned how Dumisane Maraire brought Zimbabwean music to the Pacific Northwest, teaching (presumably mostly white) students at the University of Washington in Seattle and Evergreen College to play marimba and mbira. Because of him, an annual music festival called Zimfest is held to this day on the West Coast.
It's
a nice note to end on: breezy, peaceful music, and an image of music
crossing races, cultures, and borders. For this, we are lucky to live in
the world at this moment. One can listen to an album from an artist who
came from one country to another, and be touched deeply.
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