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I've always thought of "World
Music" as a phony and condescending genre invented by marketing
reps for record labels looking for new ways to rip off the poorest
of artists. But there's no denying that Ali Farka Touré
is a towering figure in the World Music scene. Touré,
the John Lee Hooker of Mali, died last week. Born and raised
in a kind of poverty that is beyond the imagination of most Americans,
Touré rose from the riverfront slums of Mali to become
one of the most influential electric guitarists since Hendrix.
Touré came to the attention of most westerners after his
Grammy-winning cd Talking Timbuktu with Ry Cooder. Of course,
Cooder is always elevating his own status by inserting himself
on records made by more skilled artists. So instead that record
I recommend Touré's most recent effort, a hypnotic collabortation
with Toumani Diabate, the grandmaster of the kora--the 21-string
gourd harp.
Tenor saxman Archie Shepp may
be the most militant living musician, a true black radical, who
has recorded some of the most aggressive and challenging jazz
of our time. This album, Shepp's immediate response to the Attica
prison riots, was a change of pace of sorts, featuring lyrical
blues-based improvisations and vocal chants. Note especially
his haunting song "Tribute to Brother George Jackson,"
which makes Dylan's tribute to the slain black radical seem almost
trivial.
Trumpet prodigy sneaks into
Havana, hooks up with Cuban jazz players, returns with tapes
that result in one of the freshest Latin jazz albums in decades.
Boston folkie sings songs of
alienation, lust and despair. McKenna's voice won't win any awards
(though it's nowhere near as grating as Lucinda Williams'), but
she has a dark sense of humor that reminds me of Kinky Friedman
at his most understated. Then again perhaps she isn't joking.
Listen to "Bible Song" and get back to me.
Last week, I posited that Bob
Marley was one of rock music's most underrated guitar-players,
prompting a torrent of letters asking if I'd been writing under
a cloud of ganga smoke. I beg the fifth on that, but offer this
raucous (and reggae is so rarely raucous) recording as Exhibit
A in the brief for Marley, guitarslinger.
One of the great and nearly
forgotten New Orleans R&B artists, Frogman Henry, reared
in the Algiers ghetto, mastered a form of piano blues with a
rolling fluidity that rivals the best work of the Fat Man himself.
No one coming from the Delta
to the Windy City packed a more profound blues pedigree than
Robert Lockwood, Jr, stepson of Robert Johnson. But Lockwood
proved no mere imitator. He may have learned guitar at the knee
of his legendary stepfather, but his music is equally influenced
by the recordings of jazz great Charlie Christian and Crescent
City guitar whiz Lonnie Johnson, master of the one-string solo.
It is that seamless confluence of raw Delta blues with the delicacy
of electric jazz that gives Lockwood's music, often recorded
with Johnny Shines and Otis Spann, its distinction. A true titan
of the Chicago blues.
Jeffrey St. Clair's music writings (as well as CPers Ron
Jacobs, David Vest and Daniel Wolff) can be found in Serpents
in the Garden. He can be reached at: sitka@comcast.net.
The Kinks might never record
as a band again, but their frontman is still writing witty, paranoid
character sketches and story-songs. This isn't merely his first
album of new material in eight years; it's his <i>best</i>
album of new material in at least 22 years.
In the '70s, Bobby "Drop
Kick Me Jesus" Bare was the bridge between the outlaws and
the country mainstream. Now, like Davies, he's just put out his
first CD in ages. It isn't as good as Ray's, but it's solid stuff;
and I'm a sucker for any version of "The Ballad of Lucy
Jordan."
At the turn of the century,
Philip Lehman's short-lived Soul Fire label hearkened back to
the sounds of early '70s funk, '60s soul-jazz, blaxploitation
soundtracks, and that Latin-soul fusion called boogaloo. This
mostly instrumental anthology collects the impressive, infectious
results.
Another indie label -- the
Chicago-based alt-country outfit Bloodshot -- marked its fifth
birthday in 2000 with this double-CD set. These songs were recorded
specifically for the album, which means it includes a fair number
of good-natured novelty throwaways: If you ever wanted to hear
a quasi-country version of "Baba O'Reilly," "Bring
the Noise," or "Highway to Hell," this is the
place to go. But there's a lot of earnest performances here as
well, including strong tracks by Moonshine Willy, the Texas Rubies,
and -- another rock cover -- Alejandro Escovedo, who sings a
stellar version of Mick Jagger's "Evening Gown."
It was the rust belt, not New
York or London, that was the true cradle of punk. And it was
Ohio, birthplace of Pere Ubu and Devo, that produced the most
compellingly weird specimens of the genre. Especially Ubu, a
band of 'patarockers with a gift for songs that are atonal and
hooky at the same time.
A septuagenarian custodian
in New Jersey sings some old-fashioned blues songs, then producer
Tom Rothrock mixes them into a Moby- or Burnside-style acid-blues
dance record. It isn't for purists, but what is?
I was at this concert, and
damned lucky for it, too. Because Keith Richards has amulets
and fish-hooks hanging out of his hair, this is ultimately a
freer world.
I have weeks where this album
says everything that I'm thinking, and this is one of them. It's
so easy for me to understand how a girl could retreat into a
sometimes world where nothing exists, except for her guitar,
the piano and The Guy, because they've managed to soak up everything
else that exists. The payoff can be amazing. Sometimes a girl's
greatest asset ain't her diamonds, it's her guitar, and that's
the real bling lies, which is inherently part of the beauty of
Joni Mitchell. On this compilation of her greatest hits, Mitchell
opts to ditch the original versions of three of her past hit
tracks, and instead offers the trinity comprised of newer versions
re-recorded during the present decade. The result is that these
three songs manage to take on some new meanings and deeper resonance,
with Mitchell's now older, reflective and more experienced voice
having been around the tracks (yes, pun intended) some time later.
The result is haunting on these songs have been re-worked three
decades later. And yes, I would love to be a "Free Man In
Paris" about now, too. So if you've got tickets, call me.
On "If I Were A Carpenter,"
the hypothetical questions are asked, "Would you love me
if I was a carpenter?" and " If I was a rock star,
make sweet love to me, would you be my groupie? Would you make
sweet love to me? Come to California?" Those questions aren't
really the issue at the end of the day. Rather, it is whether
or not you could love a man (whether he happens to be a rock
star or a carpenter) who acts like he thinks he's Jesus. So the
down side is not really about whether he's a carpenter or a rock
star, rather it's about his self-inflated stuff that sometimes
seems to show its face, and that is the real dilemma that can
make for a really rough ride. There's a lot you can go through
with someone, but if those are the kinds of issues you are going
to have to contend with as far as any guy, it's a chance this
may not want to take. Leon hammers it out in his own unique style.
Eleven more tracks on this disc that include a jazz tinged version
of the Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses" drag you away.
Featuring one of the most venerated
hard rock singers, this King's X greatest hits package, features
the confessional rocker, "Over My Head," with Dug Pinnick's
confessional vocals, in which he delves into his cathartic jam
about being abused by the people who are supposed to be the most
trusted to protect you, namely your own parents, and also, in
his case, his grandmother, who raised and abused him, after his
parents virtually abandoned him. The track was recorded at Woodstock
II in 1994, yet again, another opportunity where you can find
out that despite it all, you are stardust, you are golden. Pinnick
tells the audience, "If you plan on having kids, make sure
your kids know that you love them more than anything in the whole
wide world. No matter who they are, no matter what they look
like, what they do, what kind of rock and roll they listen to
'cause if you don't, they're going to grow up fucked upAnd I
know what I'm talking aboutMusic, it's over my head." The
best rock and roll is about truth and love, and spreading it
around. Especially in a world where so much else of it has proven
that it is incapable of doing so.
I can't believe that it's the
twenty-fifth anniversary release of this album I'm listening
to right now. Has it really been that long since the DK's brought
the noise? In the current age of prefab music and faux punk,
when it comes to the San Francisco punk scene, this is still
the genuine item. The retrofitted disc features Klaus Flouride
on bass, East Bay Ray on guitar, their drummer, Ted, and the
always entertaining and gifted Jello Biafra on vocals. Digitally
remastered, this disc features the DKs kicking out eternal punk
classics, such as "California Uber Alles" and "Holiday
In Cambodia." The Dead Kennedys were without question, among
the most controversial/feared/hated recording artists of the
1980's. Countless right-wing pressure groups, religious fanatics,
neo-nazi skinheads, Republicans, and Democrats, like Tipper Gore
got their knickers in a twist, and worked overtime ranting in
the press, and behind close doors, trying to get this album thrown
into the big bonfire. Tipper Gore even went on the Oprah Winfrey
Show to attack Biafra, who was the undisputed centerpiece
of the group. Quite literally, back then, this album was
a political party, in itself. Yes, folks, this fourteen-song
disc brings back lots of memories for this rocker chick. I think
every wacko, crank group that was out to ban records (as they
called these vinyl discs in those days) had this album's ninth
track, "I Kill Children," listed in their top ten hit
lists of discs they tried to pressure retailers to stop selling.
After all that is over, now, in later years, it has been way
past unfortunate, watching the rifts and the legal proceedings
that have played out between the band's former lead vocalist,
the deeply political Jello Biafra, owner of Alternative Records,
and the rest of the band. This feud had gotten to be almost as
bad and sadly ironic as Yoko versus Paul. Well, almostbecause
nothing else could get that distasteful. Noting the lyrics
on this album, which was released just two years after the band's
debut, it is hard to believe these lyrics were written at a time
when Schwartzeneger was not the governor. Going back to
the attempts by right-wingers to squash the DKs, I had personally
attended some of the court dates during the Frankenchrist
album court trials, and I still explicitly remember the many
highly orchestrated and torridly pathetic efforts that were calculated
to destroy this band. Sadly and ironically, this original line-up
imploded from the inside of the band. Thankfully, at least, no
one could ever stop this album.
Phyllis Pollack lives in Los Angeles where she is
a publicist and music journalist. She can be reached through
her blog.
Why isn't Jimmy Cliff the biggest
star in the world, rather than a cult figure? If the question
has never occurred to you, it probably just means
you haven't been exposed to enough of his music.
Unfortunately, the people who
helped him make Black Magic appear to have been obsessed with
the same question, and determined to give their hero a "star
turn". Or who knows, maybe it was all Cliff's idea. As the
words to one song put it, "You volunteer, you're not just
a victim". Whatever the case, the project was dead in the
water before it hit the stores.
Which may account for the fact
that if you search for Black Magic on both
Amazon and iTunes, you will find the same title with two different
covers,
two different song sequences, and what sounds like two different
mixes.
On either version, you will
encounter Cliff swimming upstream, with Sting
tied to one ankle, Annie Lennox to the other, and a host of other
"helpers" waving harpoons. Whatever happened to letting
a song breathe a little? It's one thing to transcend roots, another
to hack them to pieces. What I wouldn't give to hear Cliff do
this material with the band he used on my next selection.
The reggae equivalent of James
Brown and the Famous Flames Live at the Apollo, and one of the
greatest live albums ever recorded in any genre. Visit his web
site these days, and you'll find Jimmy Cliff saying that he really
sees himself primarily as an actor. Try not to think of that
when you hear him sing "Many Rivers To Cross".
The composer of "Going
Down Slow" (no, Willie Dixon didn't write that tune, great
as he was) doing his thing, which involves sly vocals and
death-defying piano. Saint Louis Jimmy was what it's all about.
He also
wrote "Can't Stand Your Evil Ways". In fact, if he
were from New Orleans,
he'd be Saint Saint Louis Jimmy.
Yes, it's fun to hear a New
York audience begging the Foggy Mountain Boys to play the Martha
White Theme. But the sparks really fly when they break out "Let
The Church Roll On", possibly the most politically incorrect
song ever performed (and to thunderous applause) at Carnegie.
I met Montoya in the mid-60s,
after a recital at Birmingham-Southern College. His performance
was my first real exposure to the Shock and Awe of great flamenco
guitar playing. After the show, he kindly let me carry his guitar
to his car for him. If I had dropped it, I would have killed
myself.
What kind of world would give
you a hard time trying to find an album by
Alirio Diaz? The last time I saw the great Diaz, he was trying
to bribe his
way onto an airplane in Belgrade. Actually, he had bought a seat
for his
instrument, and the guitar had been bumped. This must have been
1979. I remember the look on his face when Pan-Am wanted to stow
it in cargo.
There was a time when every
college student knew about Ingmar Bergman's movies and Andres
Segovia's recordings. This was before people decided Clapton
was God.
An indispensable American album
by the great self-taught Russian pianist who, by all accounts,
disliked not only America but this recording and, not least,
himself.
CounterPunch
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