Great review by Maya Henderson in a recent Chicago Now post:
Sometimes, I really enjoy music during my yoga practice. When a teacher plays a song that you absolutely love, it’s suddenly like you know them a little better and it can give you an extra push of motivation to go deeper into your practice. I listen to music to start my morning on a positive note or to get pumped to go to the gym, but a few months ago, I realized there was nothing on my iPod to help quiet my mind and get me ready for a deep yoga practice.
I’m late to the game with this album (it was released on January 1), but the Yoga Sessions by EarthRise SoundSystem has mastered the balance of being able to go from yoga practice to iPod to chill evening with friends no awkward transitions. From yoga instructor and DJ Derek Beres and producer David “Duke Mushroom” Schommer, the Yoga Sessions is Thievery Corporation’s amazing Mirror Conspiracy album meets dubby electronica and global beats that has something for all your moods (I’m personally digging “Rama” and “Marom” featuring Basya Schechter).
While I understand the plight of the Western classical world in trying to sustain its heritage, this type of music never really grabbed my attention. I could appreciate its beauty from a distance, but so much of it, not the least its presentation, never sat well with me. It wasn’t until I found Indian and Persian classical music in the nineties that I really latched onto traditions that I could appreciate on an empathetic level.
There’s something about watching musicians at the peak of their culture’s folk song sit cross-legged on Persian rugs with their instruments across their laps or in front of their shins that brings the concert down to earth. Their dress is colorful and diverse, ranging in colors from red to green to blue and yellow. It’s infinitely more inviting than the uniform black-and-white starched suit stuck in the middle of rows of chairs, formed in a semi-circle and closed off by the conductor, whose back faces the crowd. The sentiment splits the performers from the audience, whereas in Indian and Persian concerts, there is much more of an invitation to partake.
Perhaps this is why Masters of Persian Music can come to the US and fill concert halls, as the seven men did at New York’s Skirball Center on Thursday, February 18th, while many of their Western counterparts have trouble filling home turf venues uptown. This is not to over-generalize: the recent Unsound Festival was a huge success, and outfits like Brooklyn Rider, and its excellent recent release Dominant Curve, are bringing a much needed fresh image to the Western classical world.
The key to the success of any music genre is evolution. Granted, Unsound is a futuristic attempt at many different styles of sound (some of which are nothing close to styles yet), and a few happen to lean on classical forebears. The festival represents a rapid acceleration of music forms. Pre-existing genres are generally much slower to react, though artists who push the boundaries even subtly can often find tremendous shifts in their culture’s understanding of an appreciation in the tradition. When Ravi Shankar allowed Allah Rakha to perform a tabla solo in an Indian classical concert, it was akin to Bob Dylan wielding an electric guitar as a folk musician. Today the Indian world wouldn’t dream of a performance without it.
Kayhan Kalhor is one man who has attempted to both evolve and bridge his Iranian heritage. He teamed with Brooklyn Rider for Silent City in 2008 in an exploration of Persian and Western music, and has recorded with Indian sitar player and vocalist Shujaat Khan as Ghazal for a gaze into the Indian-Persian common ground. During this recent Masters tour, he introduced an upgrade to his kamancheh by adding a fifth string, making it comparable to the viola. Likewise, his longtime partner in this project, Hossein Alizadeh, expanded upon his lute with the creation of his shour angiz.
Kalhor and Alizadeh are the Masters, integral components of the original recording and live project that emerged under that name in 2000. They broke through to American audiences in 2002 with Bi To Be Sar Nemishavad (Without You), and again in 2005 with the two album-set Faryad (The Cry), alongside vocalist MR Shajarian and tonbak player Homayoun Shajarian. For the new tour and decade, Kalhor and Alizadeh have introduced an entirely fresh crew, featuring Shajarian’s vocal student, Hamid Reza Nourbakhsh.
If I’d had closed my eyes, I’d have sworn it was Shajarian taking flight on stage. Considering Nourbakhsh’s teacher is considered the finest vocalist in the Persian world, that’s not a bad thing. His inspired performance allowed the romance language and its accompanying lyrics–translated from Farsi, “As the instrument weeps/This smoke that the character of the cloud behind it/As the indigo of the sea’s eye/Out of anger the fist strikes a face/From that late journey that left me/That gave the woman’s flirtatious glance and the instrument’s coquetry/I have on familiar pretexts/Captured an image of her”–to take flight amidst the instruments.
The most surprising addition was nay player Siamak Jahangiry, who floored the audience during his first solo a third of the way into the movement. One of the main instruments of Sufi ceremony, I’d previously been enamored with Turkish artist Kudsi Erguner’s ritualistic career, not to mention Mercan Dede’s Sufitronica. As Jahangiry climbed higher and higher, the tension created by Kalhor’s subtle strums heightening the moment, you could envision the circling white robes and graceful pirouettes. You could literally feel the music from the inside out.
Kalhor and Alizdeh also took solos, with the kamancheh player reliving the feel of his exceptional album, The Wind. The support cast–santour player Hamidreza Maleki, bass tar player Fariborz Azizi, and tombak player Pezham Akhavass (who closed with a frame drum)–held the foundation down for their friends to take flight.
Dubbed Three Generations, this twelve-city American tour served as Kalhor and Alizadeh’s chance to introduce the world to the next two waves of Persian masters. Given the pin-drop silence in the hall that evening, no one would argue that the mission was accomplished. The next wave of the Persian tradition has arrived.
This article originally ran on the Huffington Post.
Earthrise Sound System – “The Yoga Sessions” (White Swan)
If, like me, you don’t practice yoga and haven’t yet been “enlightened up”, a full length recording called “The Yoga Sessions” might sound about as appealing as a CD called “The Meat Sessions” would for a vegan. And if all of those schmaltzy new age CDs you associate with yoga also have been etched on your brain you would be forgiven for any initial resistance to Earthrise Sound System. So OK, we’re not the target market here but beyond the yoga association this is a divinely conceived project that one could enjoy while doing any number of things other than yoga. Earthrise Sound System are two accomplished musicians — Derek Beres and master percussionist David “Duke Mushroom” Schommer. Their creation is a sublime and soothing blend of vocals, organic acoustics and rhythm suitable for relaxation, contemplation and whatever happens in your bedroom. Guest vocalists and musicians play a big part of “The Yoga Sessions”: France’s Morley adding her earthy and mellifluous voice to two of the CDs more soothing songs (accompanied by cellist Dave Eggar); Lucy Woodward sings a mantra to a new day on ‘Daylight as Sunset’ (chanting the concept of reincarnation in the Bhagavad Gita “only at the end is where we begin”); Morocco’s Hamid Boudali provides his Arabic vocals backed by lush instrumentation on the Gnawa-inspired ‘Makyen Ghrir Allah’ and Eccodek adds flute, xaphoon and electric guitar to ‘Sombience’. This is forward thinking yet organically formed music: a percussively and melodically rich multi-ethnic soundscape (thankfully they didn’t go so far as a Celtic song). Earthrise Sound System have created a recording worthy of the yoga mat, the lounge or whatever zenful place your heart desires: I’ll take a tropical beach and a sunset (there are two feet of snow on the ground, as I look out the window). – by J.C. Tripp
There’s that old sentiment, about being so close to something you cannot see the totality of it—you know, four blind men and an elephant, the forest for the trees. That’s the sense one gets when reading through former Spin staffer Marc Spitz’s otherwise remarkable take on the life and art of David Bowie. The word “thorough” is an understatement, referring to the book’s 400+ pages. So is the word “fanboy.”
Spitz readily admits his “Bowie-ist” nature. The project started off fortuitously enough: Spitz’s agent pitches the idea of a Bowie bio while the writer is in the midst of a near-middle-age crisis; the writer leaves thinking no way until spotting Bowie himself crossing 10th St. He took it as a sign, walking straight by the rocker instead of gushing, confirming with his agent immediately. Bowie was not interviewed for this project, or ever by Spitz, who did talk with (or attempt to talk to) everybody related in any way to the man.
In that sense, Spitz reconstructs the forest around the trees. From Bowie’s early fascinations with Little Richard right through to his electronica a la Trent Reznor and Goldie, Bowie’s life has been one lived in front of the curve, always anticipating, always three steps ahead which, often to his chagrin, meant being too early to capture the elusive fame he declared to be his birthright. No victory without struggle. By the time Ziggy Stardust dreamt moonage daydreams over pre-disco Euro-America, one of the biggest and most flamboyant pop figures of the twentieth century had emerged.
Knowing very little of pre-Ziggy Bowie, Spitz’s keen eye and exhaustive research spins a fascinating yarn. True, his speculations of what Bowie might or must have been thinking or doing gets a bit tiresome—psychoanalysis does not necessarily fill gaps. Then again, given that Bowie has long been an enigmatic and elusive character, Spitz seems to use his best judgment when making declarations, and does admit that they are no more than educated guesses, whether it be about Bowie’s much-discussed sexuality, or the relationships he held/holds with formers: managers, girlfriends and/or boyfriends, and so forth.
The problem? In his introduction Spitz warns the reader of his “interludes,” or “palate cleansers”: personal experiences relating to why Bowie is his god. Normally, I enjoy and invite this sort of journalism. Having written about music for sixteen years, I readily admit that love for music is why I do it; I looked forward to hearing the reasons why Spitz does what he does. But when statements like, “Like losing your virginity, you can really only unleash your inner Bowie once,” emerge, or when reading through his egoistic sprawl concerning his ascension at Spin from glorified intern to cover story writer, the eye quickly tires, the heart loses pace. When keeping the topic Bowie—and disregarding the seraphic status he’s awarded—Spitz has created a wonderful book about one of the more slippery figures in pop music. It certainly made me dig into my Bowie catalog and appreciatively reminisce—the highest honor a music biography can offer its readers.
This review originally ran in Mindful Metropolis.
To say Rupa Marya’s two worlds don’t merge would be inaccurate: the life of the hipster Bay area vocalist, and that of the busy hospital doctor. Witnessing firsthand inordinate amounts of suffering has to make it to her lyrics; so does the joy and togetherness that tragedy fuels. Her band’s follow-up to the unique debut, eXtraOrdinary rendition, este mundo, continues both her penchant for lowercase letters, not to mention the Gypsy, Indian, French, and Latin American musical influences. Her fishes make accordions sound great; her French recalls memorable chansons heard round the world. San Francisco has long been a cultural simmering pot with innumerable ingredients, and she has taken the best of intimate club music and churned it back out, globally. Brilliant, all of it. Marya is a presence, tender yet voracious. She honors day laborers, women crossing borders, falling in love, even overcoming life’s trouble spots, the latter with a cover of an old Columbian cumbia, “Soledad.” “Soy Payaso” pays tribute to the Indian raga, starting off with Bansuri and tabla before getting a tequila kick into hyperspeed with klezmer accordions and muted trumpets. “La Linea” is the band’s study in reggae, with an especially melodic hook and reliable low end. Marya started writing “L’éléphant” the week she got married; she finished the tune when the marriage ended eighteen months later. It pays tribute to the Indian philosopher Krishnamurti, one man never for the flowery adornments of religious blather; Marya too cuts to the point on this brilliant song. You start to lose track of where one culture ends and another begins: her point. Healing day and night, Rupa Marya continues to produce local medicine that spreads worldwide, with minimal carbon footprinting to boot.
This review will run in the Spring 2010 issue of Sing Out!
While banjo player Béla Fleck’s most recent global journey features a long title, the actual album is more expansive and thought provoking than what those thirteen words allow. The record blew out my head on first listen, when my fiancé bought it on iTunes before I had a chance to get it from the label. To claims it is an “all star” project is an understatement and undermines the integrity of this diverse roster of artists: D’Gary, Afel Bocum, Vusi Mahlasela, Oumou Sangare, Richard Bona, Baaba Maal, Toumani Diabate, Bassekou Kouyate, Djelmady Tounkara—it would take the status and stature of this banjo player to even pull such a thing off, not to mention dreaming up such an ambitious undertaking. Yet pull it off Fleck does, eloquently, gracefully, beautifully, with a second volume soon to his shelves. Treat it more like a compilation and you’ll understand: there is no linear voyage to be found. The distance between D’Gary and Sangare itself is a bit of a hop (explained in the documentary of the same name); the next step, to the childlike Anania Ngoglia, requires even more of a step of faith. Some tracks, Fleck is the most prominent feature; at other times, he steps back and lets his guests take center stage. There is a power to this that the entire ensemble exudes. The title track, featuring n’goni player Kouyate and the Haruna Samake Trio, is heartbreaking. Sangare sounds like the queen she is. I haven’t heard D’Gary sound this good in years, especially on the song that bears his name, “D’Gary’s Jam” (which also features another dozen artists). Fleck should be commended for these eighteen efforts. While every one does not hit the mark, the mere scope of what he’s accomplished is honorable, and eighty-percent of the time spot on. Perhaps an even higher percentage should be offered to the wonderful DVD that accompanies the album. The documentary follows Fleck through his travels in Uganda, Tanzania, the Gambia, and Mali, where he stops off at each locale and learns a bit about the sonic folklore as well as the people. Those moments you always wish are caught on tape are: Béla finding the banjo’s ancestor and jamming along; his sessions playing alongside percussion players; walking through n’goni virtuoso Bassekou Kouyate’s home; doing the same with Malian legend, Oumou Sangare, in a much more high-tech fashion. Most inspiring about both Fleck the performer and Fleck the movie subject is how much he moves out of the way of himself to let these African musicians shine. His humility comes out in droves, only adding to his musical prowess, which, when the scenes cut to the song making, is larger than life. Thank goodness the man making the sounds would not say the same.
This review will run in the Spring 2010 edition of Sing Out!
Bebel Gilberto talks with her hands. Perhaps it’s because her voice cannot contain the excitement she feels when discussing music. It seems ironic, simply because that instrument says so much to the millions of people that bought her first two recordings, Tanto Tempo and Bebel Gilberto. With her latest, Momento (Six Degrees), the woman whose name has become synonymous with Brazilian music itself, returns with the sultry, breathy syllables we long to hear.
Some artist’s personal mythology bespeaks their presence. Such is the case with Gilberto, who comes from royal lineage. Her father, João, helped create the bossa nova form, and her mother, Miucha, was considered one of her country’s top singers. On stage she is fiery and focused, and yet as she opened the door to her East Village apartment, she proved sweet and cordial. As we sat down she asked as many questions as I put forth to her. There’s something in her charm, her personable character, that’s as appealing as the music she creates.
This closeness is what drives fans to record stores and download sites. When Bebel sings, she’s singing your story – she knows the pain in your heart, the longings, hopes, desires and dreams. Most importantly, whatever your condition, she’s there for you. In many ways this is the focus of her latest outing, which translates as “in the moment.”
“I’m forever living in the future, as it’s my favorite place to be,” she says, nursing the Starbucks in her hands. “But there has to be a time when you say let’s take care of this moment here. Live the moment and enjoy the moment completely. That’s what I’m doing.”
True to her word, Bebel has always been up to date. Since releasing a mediocre Brazilian jazz record in 1991 titled De Tarde, Vendo O Mar, she began honing her craft in earnest. She cut a dance track called “Technova” for Deee-Lite DJ Towa Tei, and when Tanto Tempo made her name household, she commissioned remixes of the entire album – a trend which has continued with Momento. Having learned to respect and understand the electronic realm thanks to the late producer Suba, and later Thievery Corporation, she exists comfortably in many domains.
Besides creating soft and durable music, Gilberto has opened an important floodgate for numerous musicians to step through. She has befriended numerous acts growing from East Village club Nublu, owned by Turkish musician Ilhan Ersahin. She’s recently appeared on albums by the Nublu Orchestra and Forro in the Dark, and works regularly with members of the Brazilian Girls. Her ex-keyboardist, Didi Gutman, co-founded the Girls and produced much of Momento, while vocalist Sabina Sciubba joins her on “Os Novos Yorkinos,” a tribute to New York City.
“[That song] was more Sabina’s idea. We were jamming and wanted to write a song together. She wrote the first part of the lyrics. Novos Yorkinos is a joke with this band Novos Baianos. They came out in the ‘70s, right after Tropicalia. They were the craziest people I ever saw in my life. They totally took over the music business in Brazil. They were crazy about my father, and my father was crazy about them. They would hang out at our place, with lots of guitars and lots of pot, like a little community. Novos Baianos named an album with a phrase that I made up, so I recorded this song as a tribute to them.”
An acoustic guitar-led track with a light, floating drum rhythm, her hometown tribute relies on a patently Gilberto trademark: the hook. Her songs remain in your head long after they end, regardless if in English or Portuguese. The softer side of Bebel, such as on the gorgeous “Azul” and heartbreakingly hopeful “Close to You,” not to mention the saxophone backdrop of “Night and Day,” invite you inside, to sit down, relax and contemplate. Or, more precisely, to feel.
The upbeat tracks are equally easy to slide into, with the presence of ambient elements indicative of the Brazilian spirit. The pan-Caribbean textures of “Tranquilo,” featuring Orquestra Imperial, and the oft-remixed single “Bring Back the Love” move quicker to the hips than heart. The guitar-drum interplay on “Cacada,” possibly the album’s most hyper number, is mixed beautifully. Listening to Momento is a complete body experience.
“I took so many risks, more than on other records, so I also take responsibility,” she says. “For the first time, I co-produced most of the tracks. I let myself go into the possibility of not being perfect. Instead of being frustrated because I could not have the exact conditions that I wanted, I worked with what I did have.”
For Gilberto, to follow the success of her previous albums is no easy task. They became staples in coffee shops and lounges globally, and introduced audiences to the next phase of Brazilian music. Younger artists like Cibelle, CéU and Tita Lima can all thank Bebel for paving a road into international territories. Momento is gorgeous in each of its poetic curves, in its lyrical and musical simplicity. It takes a great artist to make something so easy on the ears and beloved in the heart. Gilberto credits the wide range of hands that helped tweak the masters as much as her own input.
“I worked with so many people this time, and I think you can hear that. There are little subtleties in there, throughout. You can master and re-master, but I was flying around constantly, and had so many people with access to these files. In the end, I liked that. I wanted to be truthful. I wanted to get away from the perfectionist and purist attitude I had in the past.”
We both laugh when I ask her what artists are inspiring her. “It’s funny, because singers don’t like singers,” was her initial reply, with a smile. That story didn’t hold completely true, though, as she replays her love for the excellent Marisa Monte, as well as country mates Alexandre Kassin, Moreno Veloso, Otto and Marcelo D2. She becomes especially wide-eyed while discussing Charlotte Gainsbourg, the daughter of the inimitable prankster of French poetry and chanson, Serge.
As our talk winded down, as the coffee left caffeinated expressions in her tone and hands, we conclude by talking about her creative process. This is, to most artists, the crux of their passion: what makes them do what they do, and how they get into the frame of mind to do it. While Gilberto tells me she “can have an idea at any time,” there are certain situations – certain moments, you might say – that really stick out. She had one such story for the album’s closer, a luxurious and patient ballad entitled “Words.”
“One day Didi and Sabina were here, and I had just finished the words for ‘Words.’ I put the paper here [points to dining room table]. Later on, Sabina put the papers in her bag and left, not realizing she took those lyrics. The next day I was looking for the paper and it was gone. I looked where I put most things, which I call “the mouth of the frog” [points to record player]. I thought it was inside of the frog’s mouth. I had to go to record that song, and the lyrics were gone.
“One month later we go to a U2 show, and Sabina comes up to me and pulls out the paper, telling me she forgot to give it to me. Well of course I had rewrote the lyrics by that point. When I compared the copies, against the one I had to rewrite at 5 p.m. – nervous, no coffee, no joint – they were the same song. I couldn’t believe that I had written the same lyrics almost word for word.”
While the mantelpiece of her NY Times article “When Chocolate and Chakras Collide” focused on the new-ish phenomenon of culinary sampling straight off the yoga mat, the heart of Julia Moskin’s piece resided in the ongoing argument of whether or not yogis are practicing yoga if they happen to be eating animals. The contention: ahimsa, one of the ten precepts (restraints and observances) a yogi undertakes. The argument: as wide and varying as the true intentions of Jesus Christ.
In another words, it’s a mess.
Much less than theologically inclined peers in America, those who have turned to Eastern thought — whether in full or in part, complete devotion or occasional sampling — have accomplished much the same idealism: my telling/hearing of this philosophy is the right(eous) one. That’s what happens when a creature still wired for tribalism moves into the global village.
Most disconcerting about the argument is the invoking of a golden era, an Edenic never-world, something familiar to the religious; the latest National Geographic cover story features fundamentalist (read: polygamous) Mormons claiming this life to be a mere pop quiz before the post-life real life. That forever-ago era to yogis is marked as 5,000 years ago, a consensus popular in the common imagination with no factual evidence. The translation reads that ahimsa, or non-harming, implied vegetarianism, leading to the widespread diet famous in India.
Problem is, crowd control and not spiritual foresight caused a large number of Indians to green their cuisine. The spiritual “reason” came after, something well known to followers of Lent. Brahmans and priests continued to eat meat for centuries after the lay population upturned noses, both for sacrificial reasons and probably more carnivorous ones. Only after Muslim invasion threatened the country’s stock did the high caste feed their foes the excuse they had perfected for their neighbors.
The danger of a religious/spiritual path happens when adherents are reading scriptures without flipping through history books. Texts that survive millennia are not created in a vacuum. To know the cultural circumstances that informed such seekers is as important as whatever revelations they experienced. Regardless, when modern yoga teachers invoke “ancient” texts and then cite contemporary changes to accommodate their own point of view, something is amiss. Evolve, yes; be lazy, not quite. As teachers of anything, what matters most is what you do, not what you say. If those two things don’t gel, conflict reigns. Like Mos Def said, “Don’t talk about it, be about it.”
Understanding the cultural conditions that created the teachings we put into practice today is an integral part of the discipline. And yoga is just that: something we practice, not something immediately perfected. We cannot, as Richard Dawkins noted regarding the religious, use our last name as a religious affiliation without practicing the precepts. Yogis have certain ethics to abide by. If you are adding yoga into a pre-existing spirituality, great, but you should recognize what the practice entails.
So yes, I agree with teachers who claim that ahimsa does not necessarily entail vegetarianism. Vegan fanatics frighten me; fundamentalists of every stripe miss some essential balance. I’ve never responded well to teachers that demand anything; an invitation suffices. Self-observations are the most relevant, not second hand smoke. I’ve traveled to enough countries to recognize that meat is an indispensable ingredient to many cultures. I hope I’ve evolved enough to realize my way is not the only one.
Thing is, I also recognize that there is a lineage of tried and tested paths forged by men and woman who cared about the planet and its inhabitants. These journeys started with a looking out into the world and assessing their revelations against what was going on around them. To live in America today, with its agricultural monoculture wreaking havoc on our digestive systems and fueling our soaring health care bills, with the corporate world’s flagrant disregard for animals and their blaring trumpet of dollars over disease, it is impossible to ignore that something is severely and unforgivably wrong.
If yoga teachers fail to recognize the damage being done around them — and worse, claim that “real” yogic knowledge forgives such travesties — then we are losing an essential community of voices who have to help reverse this agricultural monoculture. (Rather than spouting off statistics, there are plenty of resources available, from the book that inspired the title of this post, Eating Animals, to the dozens of meticulously researched books covering a wide range of topics from Marion Nestle’s food labeling to Peter Pringle’s carefully researched corporate muckraking.)
Our spending dollar is part of our power, and in situations like this, growing pains live up to their name. As one teacher of mine always says, every posture in an asana class should be at least somewhat uncomfortable, or else we never grow. By mimicking the motions we only fool ourselves. No progress without sacrifice.
Avidya is the Sanskrit word for nescience — not only ignorance, but a completely misinterpretation of reality. Without irony — as these linguists realized that every cure lies close to the malady — vidya means knowledge. Turning a blind eye to the state of American livestock and our incessant meat cravings that inspire other countries to desire the same are not helping anyone. This cannot be the model any teacher aspires to: promoting your students’ laziness because you refuse the work yourself.
By now it’s pretty well known that the American meat industry is the most damaging catalyst instigating global warming, as well as hijacking our health care system and ruining our land. At this point, the topic has to mean more to us than simply sating our bellies. If teachers in this community do not speak up, then the practice is truly degraded to what one NY Times commentator claimed: “just stretching.”
This article originally ran on the Huffington Post.
Indian mythology asserts a rather dreary forecast when contemplating time. A regular kalpa lasts 16,798,000 years, and depending on what kalpa you are describing, that number could go as high as 1.28 trillion, with each kalpa representing a differing phase of existence in the universe. It’s a sinister concoction, like lying in the bowels of the sand monster Sarlaac in Tattoine’s Dune Sea for innumerable years, with you slowly digesting, alive yet helpless, for an eon.
That’s kind of what it feels like waiting ten years for a new Sade album.
Yet when the wait is over, you can breath easier. You feel that listening to Soldier of Love. “In Another Time” is one of those life-soundtrack songs recalling her greatest: “Smooth Operator,” “Jezebel,” with a comparable saxophone to boot. These days, it’s hard to throw a sax into R&B and not make it sound gratuitous. Sade (which is the band’s name as well as the singer’s; here she is referred to as the singer) has never been an island, something she recognizes and extends to those around her. The instrumental team, led by guitarist/sax player Stuart Matthewman (aka Cottonbelly) is highly skilled; bassist Paul Denman and keyboard player Andrew Hale complement her voice graciously. Yet these men need her too: alter-group Sweetback has its moments, but I rarely return to their albums. Sade at times merits a daily dose.
Only right now it’s an hourly medication. On top of that, the album arrived with high expectations. Lover’s Rock was a breakthrough for a number of reasons. Firstly, it was her first deep foray into reggae. “Slave Song” still sits atop my all-Sade list, though truth be told, I can envision, on certain days, that either “Skin” or “The Moon and the Sky” could sneak into that coveted position. Nothing on Solider offers as hard a beat as her previous outing (though “Bring Me Home” and “Skin” come close). Reggae is predominantly absent, though we do find a sliver of country permeating the melody of “Be That Easy.” I was not, however, looking for Lover’s Rock Vol 2. What I wanted was Sade 2010, and fortunately she was listening–not to me, but to herself. She has this thing about not repeating herself, and she lives true to it.
My friend Fabian commented that it’s a “sexy” album. I agree, though prefer “sensual.” Then again, I’ve always preferred that word: sexy is an overused adjective that applies to way too many things that it shouldn’t, like churned pop singers and liquor ads. Sensual still salvages a bit of the intended meaning: an energetic resonance, a heartfelt connection to something greater than yourself, whether experienced in private with a lover or in the solitude of bass-heavy earbuds–the sense that more exists than our individual cravings, and to find music that speaks to those needs is the highest art. We need that warmth in our lives. We have to revolt against tinny computer speakers and the static that over-trebled made-for-Billboard music creates. More specifically, we must balance agitating frequencies in our lives with soothing ones. Sade’s voice is a salve for such affliction.
Sexy, too.
Which is probably why this album is an organic masterpiece in the overproduced contemporary music world. Soldier of Love is not twiddled and murdered like a pop record, though with any luck (and cultural sanity) it will outsell the drivel. It comes across like the most soulful of Soul records. Sade has always been masterful at creating singles. Everyone knows “The Sweetest Taboo” within two seconds. Ninety-five percent of us can agree that we know exactly what she’s singing about on “Never As Good As The First Time,” and easily fall in love with her for recognizing that feeling so beautifully. I can only hope that every one of us has lived through a moment of life in which “No Ordinary Love” perfectly captures. Tragic, if not.
Yet Sade never created a full album until Lover’s Rock. Sad as it is, her entire catalog does not stand the test of time. She lived through the synthesized eighties; she went the cool jazz route. Her later voice begged forgiveness, rooting itself in our Cavaricci and leather prom-era photos. We gave it to her. She returned the favor, ten years ago creating a monumental album. This year, another. Sade sits among that rare pantheon of vocalists who embodies the archetypes of human emotions without sounding contrived or cheesy, without coming off as an auto-tuned prototype lifting lyrics from the book, The Secret.
Credit the intention, celebrate the presentation, like Jeff Buckley being Van Morrison better than Van Morrison. It happens. Sometimes we have to move our egos aside, more often than we do. “I’m a soldier of love, every day and night of my life” could fail miserably as a lead single. Here, the military march is a call to arms. Ambiguous, it has a broad touch. Her hope is to positively affect as many people as possible with an assured and skillful hand–her loss of ego for the greater good. I’m not divinizing her. She just finds routes to your heart quicker and more effectively than most, and does not capitalize on that.
How could she, releasing an album a decade? The woman rarely appears for media opps, except to tell the world about something new. She does not allow remixes, outside the epic Cottonbelly take of “By Your Side.” Any other I’ve found is white label, and suffers the consequences of bootlegging. She dresses simply, elegantly honest. Very often she appears in your life at the perfect moment: a throwback inside a winter café, a soulful serenade lying on a sultry sandscape. Here, “Long Hard Road” could very well be that track you never forget, that warms you when things grow cold.
Sade could take twenty for the follow-up to Soldier, and bets are little will change. In the meantime, we have a new mantra to attune to, and pray a speedy return.
This article originally ran on the Huffington Post.
AZZDDINE
Massafat (Barbarity)
Given the bass-heavy nature of Gnawa music – often no more than guembri (three-string bass lute), krakebs (metal clappers), chanting and maybe percussion, such as the bendir or tabl – it’s a wonder more low-end hasn’t appeared on modern recordings. Replace the guembri with Bill Laswell’s penetrating bass lines and a solution instantly presents itself.
Such is the case on Azzddine Ouhnine’s latest recording. The vocalist does triple time, also jumping on oud and darbouka for this 63-minute dubbed-out sojourn. The range of influence on these 14 tracks is tremendously expansive: hip-hop, reggae, trip-hop and other digital modalities, as well as traditional Moroccan music. It is a heavily synthesized effort with only spare classical instrumentation, although a very ancient feel reveals itself. Most of this is due to Ouhnine’s able virtuosity on oud; if you thought Hamza El Din jamming with the Kronos Quartet was innovative, we’ve entered a whole other realm here. Background vocal assistance by Noura and Naima add a pleasant feminine undertone, while Boualem’s rap on “Britou” lends an urban edge.
Massafat, however, belongs to Laswell. Ouhnine is obviously front and center, but it’s the production work that takes this from solid to exceptional. Recorded in Africa and New Jersey and glued together in Basel, Switzerland, the heavy, heady bass tones pulse with constant determination. While Laswell has worked on the Moroccan soundscape before (The Master Musicians of Jajouka and Ahlam), Massafat is new territory. It does borrow the trad feel of the Jajouka project (sans mizmar), and adds a smoother rock edge than the Ahlam disc purported. Fuzzy, driven guitars appear all over, as on the rather hyperreal “Ana Ou Enta,” but never loses itself in the thick walls that genre can exhibit. Even in the midst of seeming chaos, subtlety prevails.
There are no standout cuts here. The string-heavy “Fine” and oud-laden “Al Mouktab” are high choices, while the house-based track, “Goa Rozali,” is the most unique (and obviously danceable) included. As a mood setter, it rivals the strength of Laswell’s best, a la Ethiopian jazz throwback Abyssinia Infinite’s Zion Roots and the surreal Bob Marley reconstruction record, Dreams of Freedom. Alongside recent work on Cheb i Sabbah’s Algerian/Moroccan digitalist La Kahena, Laswell is taking Marrakech to whole new levels. As for Azzddine Ouhnine, he couldn’t have picked a better introduction to the world outside North Africa, one we only hope he continues to explore. (This review originally ran on Afropop.)
