With early efforts by Roky Erickson and Todd Rundgren, this signifies nothing.Street dealers who pass the time joking around, they bitch about snitching, and occasionally one of them manages an erection.A problem with the three-artists-per-disc, four-cuts-per-artist format of this estimable series is that it splits one artist per disc between two sides, requiring him to meld with both of the others.Not that I myself would want some number cruncher serving me breakfast.Sad to say, the music that gets split up here is the sharp spillover guitar and tongue-twisted projection of double-threat Magic Slim.What enabled Smith to bring off this coup was his preternatural ability to hear unknown songs that were irresistible to his own people--the bohemians and collectors who have been inflecting pop ever since.Charming at worst and captivating at best, sometimes mild and sometimes wild, the sources range from Cameroon and Nigeria up to Mali, crossing the treacherous boundaries between Anglophone and Francophone, jungle and desert--as if west-central Africa, at least, is all one place.
You could learn as much about Colombia at a restaurant in Woodside if its jukebox measured up.Not really infinity, of course--not here, and not at the Paradise Garage either.As a style, not to mention an industry, of course its repetitive hooks are recycled endlessly.But I swear the notes and song summaries are lively enough to hook the curious, and anybody whose knowledge of Zulu chorale stops at Ladysmith should check out these hymnful shouts, stomps, whistles, yodels, and ululations.After all, I dug Jimmy Castor and Joe Cuba on AM radio, and no matter what hip-hoppers think, I consider soul jazz even cheesier now than I did then.Inferior Sugar Ray, Monica, and Madonna, ringer from the hapless Five, awful hit from the imitable Sarah McLachlan.Ditto for long-winded virtuosos David Lindley, David Grisman, and John Hartford, all of whom can be sharper when somebody jabs them a little.But the spread of local talent and the Big Easy ethos produced pleasurable marginalia in quantities no one will ever sort out.Since 2004 this company has released blues CDs to accompany handsome blues calendars illustrated with old ad, sleeve, and catalog pix.
And even with time out for a few recitations, it never jumps the track of its Berber-plus-Gnawa drive.The federal documentary about rural electrification is pretty surreal too.
In the US that means Ladysmith, period--almost nothing else is in the racks.Thank Jason Bentley and Warren Kalodny for listening to more ambient techno and acid jazz than most humans can stand.But not counting one pathetic twist number, the dance trifles make their presence known, and the full-on jokes are funny every time out.Following rap crossover from Flash to Dre, this deflates big time.Unrevved are the voices, South African baritones and contraltos going on about endless love and rabbit stew as if this was still mbaqanga.
But the most convincing set overall come from the ska guys, and I know why--the polka connection.Harder to find, but believe me, both will satisfy your minimum daily grit requirement.Some might carp that this efficient little celebration of New York punk is both too obvious and too obscure.Inevitably, there are duds, but listen enough and they shift on you.
The ten plagues of Egypt were good for the Jews--brought down by Moses, Aaron, and their boss Jehovah to help those long-ago Middle East good guys get out from under.Danceable if you or any of your flatmates is so inclined, its basic function is environmental--and also, some hustler has convinced Toyota, making young consumers think its boxy little cars are cool.For seasoned New Orleans curiosity seekers, these 24 selections are less essential, especially as they embrace full-on soul.
Laury and the young virtuoso Davell Crawford clearly belong on the same record with him--as do, this time, Tuts Washington, Charles Brown, even Willie Tee and Eddie Bo.Thoughtfully sorted onto diva, sleaze, jack-your-body, and jack-of-all-nations sides, these cuts earn a permanent spot in my reference collection rather than my heart or my somatic memory.So far, their bestseller status is strictly relative--triple-platinum P.O.D. sound like Nirvana plus Public Enemy by comparison.They know how to project and present, and writer-director Duma kaNdlovu orchestrates their flow--home pitch fluctuates from chant to chant, call-and-response patterns shift, sound effects and catchy choruses kick in just when you need them.Handbells and cymbals, rattles and boom-booms, deafening oboes and monster trumpets unite in music that at this distance evokes nothing so much as a four-car accident--and that over there connects to the divine.But this one peaks early and often, with double side-closers by balladic Britons June Tabor and Maddy Prior wiping out the creamy off-taste left by Bonnie Raitt and Shawn Colvin.A wealth of soulful sidemen--Joe Henderson, Bobby Timmons, Bob Cranshaw, Billy Higgins, on and on--never let up.But the civility of the Electrecord material and the raucousness of the Crammed Discs period are vivacious in their own distinct ways, with less renowned recent recordings splitting the difference.
Andkon Arcade: 1000+ free flash games, updated weekly, and no popups!.But even with the Clash MIA, this stupid two-CD hodgepodge is how punk or new wave or whatever the fuck it was hit U.K. rock and rollers--with strong, fast songs by white people with a tendency toward attention deficit disorder.Kudos, then, to organizers Craig Marks and Karen Glauber, both of whom happen to be journalists--even, dare I say it, rock critics.
Although compiler Christina Roden rightly distinguishes between speed soukous and the old bipartite kind that gives the singer some, the thunderbolts she catches in her bottle are all thrown by guitarists.But Nguini sure does make soul journeyman Tommy Lepson sound like he coulda been a contender.Ghanaian-Nigerian highlife was a pop music not just because it was urban and popular, but because it produced something resembling hits and stars--in their world, the Victors Uwaifo and Olaiya were genuinely famous.Twenty-five years ago, Trevor Herman compiled Guitar Paradise of East Africa, 11 dance tracks from Nairobi and Dar es Salaam that joined up to form the most glorious of all his Earthworks Afrocomps--which because he bollocksed the licensing is long out of print.Mos Def sums things up by rhyming in the voice of that boyfriend Macy Gray committed murder for.In general, these tracks are more urban, Northern, immigrant, Jewish, female, female-identified, arranged, literate, timely, faddish, vulgar, sophisticated, expert, confident, compromised, conflicted, and monocultural than their folk counterparts.Neither the elusive Michael Hurley (b. 1941) nor the departed Jeffrey Frederick (b. 1950) found it possible to join the irrepressible Peter Stampfel (b. 1938) on his 40-years-after bid to reprise if not match the accidental masterpiece Have Moicy.Put off by its ethnographic audio, I shelved this as a field reference until my boundless thirst for knowledge induced me to take it out and turn it up.