World Music News Wire

The Metaphor of Everyday Life: African Great Oliver “Tuku” Mtukudzi Returns with New Album, Ongoing Poetic Message

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Oliver Mtukudzi, affectionately called “Tuku” by fans worldwide, has weathered storms with his sharp observations and gracious emphasis on the basic human experiences that unite us all: childhood and aging, respect and hope, women’s rights and AIDS, community and connection.

“My music and art come from the everyday living I do,” Mtukudzi reflects. “I write what I see around me. When I see something, I have something real to talk about. If there is something to talk about, there’s something to sing about, and there’s always something new to talk about.”

Tuku’s latest album Sarawoga proves that the venerable artist still has plenty to say. With a career that spans the birth of his native Zimbabwe and the advent of both Afropop and the global love affair with African roots music, Tuku’s quicksilver guitar work, keen ear for melody, and evocative voice have earned him intense adulation at home. His organic, savvy mix of traditional ways, pan-African influences, and cosmopolitan pop forms became widely known as Tuku Music. It has made Tuku a household name across Southern Africa, as well as across Europe and North America, thanks in part to major releases of his work in the 1990s and 2000s.

Revered as both accomplished musician and public figure, Tuku has explored a variety of media over his long, successful career: launched a popular local arts center, mentored countless local musicians, produced musicals, made films, and spoken out in a soft but persuasive way on key issues in Zimbabwean and African society.

Born into a family of modest means but great musical spirit, Tuku grew up singing with his parents and siblings in a rough-edged neighborhood in Harare, in what was still Rhodesia, a colony dominated by a ruling European minority. “I left school and for three years, I couldn’t find a job. I was one of the few guys among my peers with a fine secondary education,” Tuku recalls. “But I couldn’t get a job because I was black.”

Tuku found unique ways to address and combat oppression. As a young performer in his early twenties, he and his colleagues began confronting the regime through music. He cut his first successful single in 1975 and performed with another of Zimbabwe’s favorite musical sons, Thomas Mapfumo, as part of the legendary Wagon Wheels. Forerunners of the Afropop revolution, the band put an electric spin on long-standing traditions, in songs inspired, among other subjects, by their country’s recent war of liberation from colonial oppression.

“Before independence in 1980, it was the fight against the Rhodesian regime. My music then spoke against oppression and the repressive regime and how we were suffering at the hands of the regime,” Tuku remembers. “My music then helped people identify themselves…who we were and what we wanted to be.”

Though his early work fell squarely into the burgeoning rock- and funk-inspired Afropop of the era, Tuku always felt it as a continuation of older, deeper roots. “Even when I played with electric equipment, I always adapted older tunes,” explains Tuku. “I played guitar like I was playing a traditional instrument.”

After striking out on his own from the Wagon Wheels and recruiting his own band of stylish young performers, The Black Seeds, Tuku experienced the ups and downs that mark the careers of many seasoned musicians. He collaborated with dozens of Zimbabwean talents, worked with South African producers and musicians (including members of the Southern African super group Mahube he helped found), and organically blended musical directions from across Southern Africa.

Yet in one of his most significant creative moves, Tuku eventually turned back to his musical foundation, to traditional sounds, stunning the Zimbabwean scene by playing pop on traditional instruments like mbira (thumb piano) and marimba, alongside his trademark acoustic guitar. “People didn’t think you could have traditional instruments play like an organ or synth,” he notes. “But you can find that sound in a traditional instrument.”

Tuku went about reframing and refining these sounds to make a very clear and passionate point. He hoped to find a new place in the musical culture for these vital, older instruments. “I realized that our youngsters were thinking that these instruments were the worst and were looking down on them. But the pop songs everyone was listening to sounded just as good on traditional instruments,” recounts Tuku. “So I did three albums playing all songs that way, on traditional instruments, to prove the point that our instruments aren’t inferior and our young people shouldn’t feel inferior, either.”

Tuku’s message—from his first songs protesting colonial injustice to his latest compositions calling for respect and kindness—has always been woven from metaphor. Favoring imagery and small snapshots to sweeping political statements, Tuku sees his lyrics as springing from a deep well of vivid metaphor found in Shona, the majority vernacular language of Zimbabwe, just as his music finds its beginnings in traditional sounds. This more literary approach to expression not only had its aesthetic advantages, but embraces the full ambiguity and complexity of life.

“The metaphorical possibilities are part the beauty of my language,” Tuku muses. “It is not only the most beautiful but the best way to express many things. It gives a full view of life, lots of life.”

With five dozen albums under his belt, as well as an ongoing curiosity to explore other media (film, theater) and work with young, aspiring artists, Tuku has kept his passion for musical creativity, even after nearly five decades of work. Still savoring tours and life on the road, Tuku says, “You get to a place and even if you’ve been waiting and travelling, you find something else, something fresh, there. It’s something new and it’s wonderful.”

Now accompanied by a mixed ensemble of young and veteran musicians, Tuku constantly explores subtle new ways of drawing his listeners into greater thoughtfulness, of expressing the universal in life’s little things.

“One of the songs on this album”—Tuku’s 61^st—“is a welcome song,” he says with a smile. “It’s a song that welcomes everybody, including the oppressor, because welcome has got no boundaries.” Much like Tuku music itself.

 

Fun as Hell: Matuto’s Seductive Philosophical Trip through Brazilian Beats and Southern Roots on The Devil and The Diamond

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It’s Carnival in Recife. It’s Mardi Gras in New Orleans. And watch out: That just may be the Devil spinning through the drunken, dancing crowd, trying to get friendly with the saint in disguise, with the diamond in the rough. The rolling drums and quicksilver accordion licks, the earthy vibe and thoughtful reflections mingle on Matuto’s latest refinement of their Appalachia-gone-Afro-Brazilian sound, The Devil and The Diamond.

Matuto’s songs can sway hips just as easily as spark insights. Drawing on Northeastern Brazil’s folkloric rhythms like forró, maracatu, or coco, and on deep Americana—from bluegrass to spirituals to swampy Louisiana jams—Matuto uses unexpected Pan-American sonic sympathies to craft appealing, roosty, yet philosophical tales of love, self-discovery, nostalgia, and true peace.

“The devil is what’s keeping us from our best selves, which is the diamond we have the potential to become,” Ross explains, spinning the narrative thread that ties the album’s pieces together. “That dichotomy, that tension exists in all of us. In a loose way, this album outlines the journey we take, when we wrestle with the devil and find the diamond.”

What wide-ranging Americana and jazz guitarist Clay Ross and accordionist Rob Curto, one of the movers behind New York’s Forró For All (when not touring with folks like Lila Downs and David Krakauer) began as a curious exploration of their shared musical loves, Matuto (a Northeastern Brazilian slang term for “bumpkin”) has blossomed into a platform for expressing broad truths, ideas inspired by Buddhist sutras, personal epiphanies, and the musicians’ down-home upbringings. It felt like the perfect way to celebrate ten years for Motema, an open-eared and broad-minded label featuring music that crosses genres and takes listeners on a journey thanks to stellar musicianship, and wise and intriguing lyrics.

Matuto are part of a broader, loosely defined movement of hard-to-define acoustic innovators, musicians savoring their own heritage as they commune across genre and cultural bounds. Hailing from different parts of the country, Ross and Curto first met in Brooklyn’s genre-defying music scene. After laying down tracks on each other’s albums, they headed to Recife together and became fast friends as they played music, listened to local ensembles, held workshops in favela community centers, and won over local fans.

Friendship and co-creation honed the original Matuto idea. They turned what could have been little more than a wacky side gig into a serious musical venture, in which seemingly disparate threads and brainstorms are woven together organically. “Our sound has really gelled,” explains Curto, “and our style had become more codified, from a musical stand point, especially in the use of the accordion and fiddle.”

Matuto can start with an unexpected arrangement of an old chestnut like “Wayfaring Stranger” (resulting in “Diamond”), or with harmonium lines from a jam session with an Indian vocalist (“Tears”). Inspiration may come from Recife (“Toca Do Sino”) or from Carolina childhood horseplay sessions (“Horse Eat Corn”).

But it all comes together, as far-flung sounds converge in coherent, seamless songs, in music leaping beyond the fun of fusion, to express a bigger artistic picture, be it a tale of thwarted desire or the challenge of tussling with inner demons.

“Trimming the fat, that’s the idea of the record, both lyrically and sonically,” Ross notes. “Musically, it was more about editing instead of layering, more about things that we took away, as opposed to things that we added. The last record has this massive band, whereas we simply use the sound of our six-piece live band this time around. It gives the songs real continuity, as there’s a similar sonic palette.”

Ross, whose parents thought he’d grow up to be a preacher, and Curto found they were both deeply moved by the practices of Buddhism, in particular the self-observation and compassion that are cultivated by meditation. Images arising from the Diamond Cutter Sutra and life lessons gleaned from long sessions sitting in silence guided the shape of the album.

Yet another current—the sensual danger and madcap renewal of the pre-Lenten carnival season across the Americas—sidled up to the songs’ suggested spiritual journey. The juxtaposition and tensions make instrumentals like “Demon Chopper,” a title suggested by a high-strung acupuncturist’s announcement of her powers, poignant and catchy at once, as rippling guitar, fiddle, and accordion solos shine against a backdrop of earthy Afro-Brazilian beats. “Tears” feels as ear-catching as a well-crafted, bittersweet pop song, though based on afoxê beats connected to the Afro-Brazilian religious rituals of candomblé and powered by modal, distorted blasts of accordion.

The mix of bluegrass and forró, of Mehta and Mardi Gras, has proven to have real legs, taking the band from club dates in the Deep South to diplomacy-minded State Department tours across Eastern Europe and West Africa. A showcase in Copenhagen got the band a gig at one of the most staunchly traditional festivals in Recife, the Feast of St. John, Brazil’s biggest forró event. The traditionalists get it: Matuto has distilled some of the spirit of the music, even as they have blended it with other sounds, and kept its steamy, sensual dance side intact.

“Matuto does what we do out of love,” reflects Ross, “and our message is simple: Follow your passion, if it leads you to Brazil, or to Cajun, klezmer, or hip hop music, it doesn’t matter. Just follow your bliss. Follow it and don’t worry.”

“We feel that way playing music together,” Curto adds. “We can just look at each other and start laughing. There’s a lot of humor and joy, even in the most serious moments.”

 

Soul Soother: Rural Jamaican Bluesman Brushy Puts the World Together with a One-Stringed Guitar

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When filmmaker Luciano Blotta walked out of a rural Jamaican recording studio, way off the beaten path of tourists and music hounds, he saw something wildly unusual: a man with an instrument. Even more surprising, the instrument in question—a battered but resonant acoustic guitar—had only one string.

Blotta had encountered Brushy One-String (born Andrew Chin), son of a musical family who despite his challenging life had a seemingly innate ability to inspire and move even casual listeners—including millions of people who have watched and shared Brushy’s videos on YouTube.

On his very first studio album, Destiny, the veteran musician evokes the sweetness of soul singers like Percy Sledge and Louis Armstrong, the grit and wit of Delta bluesmen, all woven together with a Jamaican pulse and ingenuity that shows that the island’s music is about far more than reggae. Heartfelt blues combine with dancehall-style vocals on “Grey in my Blue,” while uplifting, catchy ballads like “Life is for Every Man” channel a soulful intensity and profound faith.

“If we can change the words and melodies and bring back the love, we can have a balance between God and man,” Brushy reflects. “That’s what we need to put the world together.”

Brushy did not have it easy: Orphaned at an early age, the thoughtful singer-songwriter did not learn to read until adulthood. But he came by his musical abilities honestly. His father, revered Jamaican soul singer Freddy McKay, passed away when Brushy was still very young, but his mother, Beverly Foster, sang all the time (she had toured with the likes of Tina Turner as a backup singer). Brushy tried his hand and voice at many styles, including playing pans on the street as a child. He even played guitar for a while as a youngster. “I didn’t really know how to play, and I played so hard, all the strings broke,” he recalls. “So the guitar just went under the bed.”

That is, until Brushy had a vision, a dream in which he was told to play the one-string guitar. Shaken, he told some friends, who scoffed, but one insisted it was fate, and that he had to make that dream come true. Within a day, Brushy had created his one single-string arrangement of a popular tune on the radio. “The next day, I took a big broad hat and sunglasses and went to the market, and started to sing,” Brushy remembers.

It was the start of musical trajectory that soon showed that Brushy’s unconventional playing style was no mere gimmick. Citing Freddy Pendergrass and Shabba Ranks as major touchstones, his lively mix of influences and full sound—buoyed in part by the string’s pleasant buzz, Brushy’s array of percussive taps and knocks on the guitar’s body—made him utterly self-sufficient, in a scene where most performers long to be hip-hop MCs or dancehall style DJs. Brushy recounts a time when he turned derision for his peculiar instrument into applause, when the local government cut the power to a stage show. Brushy convinced the promoter to let him play, to keep the crowd there. Lit by a dozen flashlights, Brushy won the audience over—and played for more than an hour, even when the lights came back on in a blaze. (An evening that inspired, “One String Play”)

Though talented, Brushy struggled to find modest success. Songs came to him intuitively, based on the life around him. “The songs come from the situations I’m in,” like the title track “Destiny,” that chronicles Brushy’s struggles. “It’s like magic: From the situation, I don’t search for something, not in my head or nowhere else. The song just comes.” After a brief touring stint that included shows in Japan, he wound up kicking around his hometown of Ochos Rios.

Then destiny struck.

Blotta was wrapping up a five-year engagement with three young, emerging artists in Jamaica, filming their lives and portraying their struggles to find success and recognition, material that eventually became RiseUp, an award-winning documentary. But there was Brushy: “Brushy was sitting outside that studio with the guitar, and he said let me sing for you,” Blotta says. “He sang 'Chicken in the Corn' I was already almost done with my film, and I couldn’t add a new story to it. But I filmed that song, which made it into the documentary. That was it, and I just walked away. Back in the States, I realized that this man is incredible.”

Blotta returned to Jamaica, determined to shoot more footage of Brushy. He managed to track the musician down, even though he had no idea how to contact him. The two hit it off, and though Blotta had never tried to represent a musical artist before—his expertise lay in film, where he worked with directors like Spielberg, Soderbergh, and John Woo—he took on the task.

Putting the pieces together proved challenging, but Blotta watched in awe as Brushy’s videos, simple yet poignant presentations of the musician performing his songs around his hometown, garnered hit after hit. Comments and emails and offers poured in, as people around the world connected to this once obscure man with one string.

One listen, though, will tell you why. There’s something in Brushy’s gritty, warm voice, in his pensive words and upbeat grooves, that hits at the heart and comes from somewhere profound: “It makes me tingle inside when I sing the songs that I’m singing, because they come from the soul. I’m singing, my voice is there and my guitar is there, but my mind, soul, and body are transcending,” notes Brushy. “It’s like someone’s speaking through me.”

Counterpoint to Conflict: Festival in the Desert’s Musical Call for Reconciliation in Mali

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The Festival in the Desert has been postponed due to the upheaval in Mali, but its music lives on with a new live release.

Held outside Timbuktu, the Festival in the Desert has long been where cultures come together in unexpected ways. Artists from the Arctic Circle to the small Pacific Island of New Caledonia, from rock stars like Bono and Robert Plant to traditional musicians from remote communities, have all found a warm welcome at the Festival, helping to put little-known Saharan music on the global map.

The thrill of the festival is palpable on Live from Festival au Desert, a collection of prime cuts from established names and intriguing newcomers. Tracks include intense live performances by innovative Canadian-Indian singer Kiran Ahluwalia backed by desert blues icons Tinariwen, Afropop legend Habib Koite, hip ngoni virtuso Bassekou Kouyate, Timbutku songstress Khaira Arby, Touareg rockers Tartit, and a plethora of stunning musicians from around the Sahel and West Africa.

Music from Mali has been flourishing for decades in the West, moving from an object of niche interest into the European and American mainstream, thanks, in part, to artists like Tinariwen, Salif Keita, and Amadou and Miriam. The striking lineage of Malian griots (Kouyate among one of the most popular), the multifaceted music of Mali’s north (as heard in Arby’s songs), and the rumble and grit of Saharan nomads with electric guitars (Tartit/Imharhan) have captured ears and imaginations worldwide, sparking an intense fanbase for Mali.

Now times are tough. Turmoil has enveloped Mali. Everyone´s ability to work has been extremely limited due to the fighting in the north and the mobilizations in the south.

What began as a nationalist uprising in Mali’s north—not far from the Festival’s site—was hijacked by hard-line fundamentalists. Conditions rapidly deteriorated in the region. Invaluable historical monuments were sacked and destroyed and music was banned under a strict version of sharia law. January 2013, fighting intensified. France and other countries have intervened.

However, the country’s woes did not stop musicians and music lovers from singing, playing, and speaking out for peace and freedom. In solidarity with the Festival in the Desert many musicians are determined to take a message of peace across Mali and abroad.

Musicians and festival organizers want the conversation to move beyond violent conflict into a more productive conflict resolution. In recognition of this desire and the Festival’s ongoing efforts, Freemuse, the preminent NGO supporting freedom of musical expression around the world, just announced that its 2013 award is going to the Festival.

“In spite of extreme Islamists’ attempts to silence all music in Mali, the Festival defends freedom of musical expression and struggles to continue keeping music alive in the region,” says Marie Korpe, Executive Director of Freemuse.

 

Fresh and Timeless: Putumayo’s Vintage France Offers a New Spin on the Best of French chanson

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Though echoing the past, Vintage France proves how alive and hip classic French chanson remains. Several generations of musicians continue to find inspiration in tunes that were first popularized in the early to mid-1900s. On Vintage France, sultry songstresses such as the iconic Juliette Gréco (singing the Belle Époque beauty “La Valse Brune”) and Madeleine Peyroux (with a cheeky renewal of Serge Gainsbourg’s “La Javanaise”) join newcomers Francesca Blanchard (“Sous le Ciel de Paris”) and Dutch jazz harmonica whiz Martijn Luttmer (“Les Parapluies de Cherbourg”). Old master Norbert Slama’s swinging “Nany,” is full of Gypsy jazz energy and retro warmth, and demonstrates the connection between Paris of the 1940s when Slama first performed, and the vibrant French music scene of today.

“French artists have created this beautiful, melodic music that has stood the test of time,” reflects Putumayo’s founder and CEO Dan Storper, who has visited France many times in search of universally appealing French and world music. “Perhaps the greatest surprise,” notes Storper, “was discovering Norbert Slama, a blind octogenarian accordion player who performed with Josephine Baker and Edith Piaf, in my backyard in New Orleans. His performances in a small, vintage café in the Marigny transported me to a bygone era.”

This harmonious collection has deep roots. From the outdoor guingette dances where the waltzing musette instrumentals of early French popular music began, to the cabarets where Edith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier and other legends entertained a country struggling with the recovery from World War II. Over the last 100 years, the French chanson tradition has undergone a process of evolution, yet retained an inimitable charm.

The musicians featured on this collection, such as Slama, have kept the tradition of rich harmonization and rhythmic nuance alive. “Norbert isn’t stuck,” explains Raphael Bas, Slama’s close musical collaborator, and a masterful guitarist whose rendition of the jazz standard “Confessin’” is also featured on Vintage France. “He has a very open mind as to how the music can evolve. He leaves room for evolution in the interpretation.”

This open-minded evolution is captured on the interpretations of classic songs on Vintage France. “Originally, we were going to focus on vintage recordings of popular French songs. But there were many challenges to using old recordings and it just wasn’t clicking,” Storper relates. “Then, we began to discover some wonderful, contemporary versions. We even asked Francesca Blanchard to record a cover of one of the most popular French songs of all time.”

Fans of Piaf and Gainsbourg, or new listeners looking for an introduction to France’s classic gems, will find exactly what they are looking for on Vintage France.

Pushing the Boundaries: Freshlyground’s Catchy Global Pop Inverts the Remix and Expands Sonic Horizons on Take Me to the Dance

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From the hot banter of a late-night radio DJ (“Mina noBhiza”) to the blistering bass of kwaito house (“Nomthandazo”), from American country-inspired harmonies to urbane beats, South Africa’s Freshlyground welcome it all. From wildly diverse raw sonic materials, the band crafts catchy, danceable songs that shimmer with layers of guitar, rich strings, and multipart harmonies on Take Me to the Dance, produced by Steve Berlin.

Wry and sensual, deeply personal yet taking on political complexity, the music of this seven-member collective has finally embraced every sound the band loves. “We opened up our sound with this record, really tapped into something else and spread our wings a little bit,” recalls violinist Kayla-Rose Smith. “We captured diversity of the band, and found a more global, cosmopolitan feel, while keeping a common thread running through the record.”

Some of the band’s signature elements—outspoken, vivid lyrics; sparkling afropop guitar; irrepressible grooves—unite songs that dance from club anthems (“Take Me to the Dance”) to delightfully quirky Xhosa/Afrikaans rockers (“Party Time”). The band’s looser, upbeat jams have tightened up, finding a taut energy that pushes at but never violates the boundaries of a damn fine pop song.

This energy bursts out of Take Me to the Dance, and will be in full effect at Freshlyground’s live shows, which American audiences in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Northampton, MA, and Burlington, VT will get to savor.

Caught in South Africa’s remote, arid Karoo region, camped out in a small local theater, Freshlyground threw caution to the wind and simply got into the groove. Guided by the low-key, spot-on advice of veteran rock producer and Los Lobos keyboardist and saxophonist Steve Berlin, the band got to places in the studio they’d never quite managed before.

Known for their collaboration with Shakira (the infamous World Cup anthem “Waka Waka”), Freshlyground came together in the bohemian Cape Town music scene, made up of players from different ethnic and musical backgrounds and of different generations. Fronted by a dynamic, big-voiced singer and lyricist of Xhosa heritage, the band hails from across Southern Africa and incorporates instruments that rarely take the lead in pop configurations.

“We’ve always been different from other bands, in part because we have the flute and violin as mainstays,” notes the Zimbabwe-born, classically trained Simon Attwell, who plays flute and mbira (thumb piano) in the group. “That’s always been integral to what we’re about and what people enjoyed: the mix of different influences and instruments.”

But the band’s freewheeling, democratic approach need an injection of new energy. Turning away from their usual open-ended jam sessions, the band had worked separately on material, cutting rough demo tracks on home computers, or working out parts by sending files back and forth. Hunks of this gritty, sometimes lo-fi material made it into Take Me to the Dance’s finished track, adding a fresh dimension to the band’s sounds.

“Some of the songs were in almost finished form, but the setting influenced what came out,” explains lead singer Zolani Mahola. “Even though there was time pressure, there was also a feeling of this generosity of space. It informed the recording. It’s not a tangible thing, but it really lent the whole process an ease that shows.”

The process was eased by Berlin, who flew down to South Africa for a few weeks to record. His guidance proved vital to getting the record done. “Democracy, even with only seven people, is cumbersome, and we needed him to put his foot down, as someone we respected,” says drummer Peter Cohen with a laugh. “We might have needed two years if left to our normal ways.

“With a band of seven brilliant musicians, sometimes you really just need an arbiter who doesn’t have a stake in the game, who doesn’t have an emotional history tied up in the proceedings,” Berlin reflects. “It wasn’t so much a fresh approach, but another voice, someone who wasn’t part of the band.”

Yet Berlin did encourage experimentation that proved both fruitful and fun. “When we were trying to record ‘Party Time,’ we were all in the control room discussing it with Steve and talking about how we’re going to do it. While we did, we started jamming. Peter was playing a box and Simon took up the ukulele. Steve thought it sounded great, so we recorded it, right there.”

“We wanted to make that song work, but we couldn’t really find the way,” Cohen notes. “Steve had us just try it, so casually, and it finally clicked.”

They also tried an innovative approach to collaborating with a dancefloor DJ, South African DJ Headroom, known for his trance tracks. Instead of sending a finished set of tracks for Headroom to remix, the band opted for something different, that lends songs like “Take Me to the Dance” their distinct balance of organic and electronic.

“The band decided we should just send Headroom demos, the cool and not always finished ideas they had,” explains Berlin. “He would send it back to us and we would make songs from the building blocks he had treated. That made it much closer to what the band is. It was a remix inverted.” By turning things on their head, Freshlyground has pushed the boundaries of global pop.

The Unforgettable Barefoot Diva: Cesaria Evora’s Thirteen Last Songs Finally Available on Mãe Carinhosa (Mother Affection)

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Cesaria Evora’s velvet-and-grit voice flowed from her humble beginnings and from her striking intuition for interpretation. Evora put Cape Verde and its characteristic musical form, the bluesy and bittersweet morna, on the global map. When she passed late in 2011, the world lost one of its most distinctive artists.

From her career as a bar singer in the Cape Verdean city of Mindelo to her triumph on Europe’s foremost stages, Evora kept her trademark style. Engaging but never pandering, she managed to woo the world, often performing with no shoes to earn the name “the barefoot diva.” Over the course of eleven studio albums, Evora and her close collaborators—including producer and longtime champion Jose da Silva—gathered a plethora of high-quality performances, songs that worked on their own but didn’t quite fit on a particular album. Now these gorgeous, characteristically subdued yet passionate tracks are finally seeing the light, with Mãe Carinhosa, Mother Affection.

With exquisite instrumentation behind her, Evora’s voice sounds as fresh and melancholy, as sweet and heartfelt as ever. With songs by Evora’s favorite songwriters and with cameo appearances by musicians like Manu Dibango (who plays marimba on “Esperança”), Mãe Carinhosa draws on Evora’s love for mornas (the lush “Dor di Sodade”) and rollicking coladeras (“Tchon da Franca”), for wry lyrics (the almost goofy but instructive culinary mix up in “Cmê Catchôrr”) and deep emotion (the touching “Mãe Carinhosa“).

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No one would have guessed, had they walked in a bar in Mindelo and looked at Evora, what surprising stardom lay in store for the singer. No one, except Jose da Silva, a producer with roots in Cape Verde. He heard the singer, crooning in a bar for a few bills from the folks who came through port, and encouraged her to cut an album. She did, reluctantly at first due to her family obligations. Then she cut another, and another. A few years later, after she and da Silva found the perfect sound to buoy her distinctive voice, she was selling out major venues and winning major music awards. (Evora has both a Grammy and a Legion de Honneur to her credit.)

When not touring intensively, she was recording. Without meaning to, Evora collected a small store of unreleased tracks from her work in the studio. Following her death in late 2011, da Silva felt reluctant to release a posthumous album. Until he saw the surge of tributes and sadness at diva’s passing, and the unrelenting interest in follow-up albums.

“I was flooded with ideas and projects after Cesaria died,” da Silva recalls. “People suggested we do cover albums, fancy tributes, that kind of thing. I decided we should keep it simple, and give the world a new album of songs that, for various reasons, had never made it onto an album before.”

da Silva insisted on maintaining Evora’s demanding standards for album cohesion, and tried to craft an arc, a seamless experience for listeners, be they dedicated fans or recent converts. With many of the tracks nearly complete, it was more a matter of finding a unified, harmonious whole from pieces sometimes recorded decades apart.

The result captures Evora’s many facets, from the earthy and ribald to the sorrowful yet passionate. Filled with tales of longing and distance—the call of Cape Verde to the many homesick migrants who have been forced to leave the islands—Mãe Carinhosa channels all of Evora’s toughness and tenderness.

 

The 200% Generation: Wild Tales, Catchy Tunes, and Chosen Identities on Del Exilio’s Pop-Driven, Latin-Grounded PANAMERICANO

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“Don’t let biology determine who you are,” exclaims David Sandoval, the songwriter and musician behind alt.Cuban-American band, Del Exilio (“From Exile”). “Latin, Cuban, or American identity is not some scientifically determined thing. If you feel it, that’s what you are. You have a choice.”

On PANAMERICANO, Sandoval and his band offer creative, catchy proof to back this joyful claim of self-determination. The indie-inspired, Latin-hearted group chronicles the journey of a young Latino turning toward his roots, wandering through strange cities and remote mountains, across two continents, in search of himself and social justice. The songs follow his progress, thanks in part to the lush but funky touch of producer José Luis Pardo of Venezuela’s Los Amigos Invisibles, moving from funkified anthems (“200%”) to alt.tangos (“Santa Maria del BuenAire”) to earthy Andean explorations (“Peruvian Groovin”).

PANAMERICANO is powered by a strong narrative that runs through the album. It’s the story of boy meets girl, loses girl, loses himself in a new land, then finds the will to spark a revolution back home in the U.S., bringing about the advent of a long-awaited immigration reform (the upbeat and punky “L.A. Revolution”). “I wanted to create a composite character,” Sandoval explains, “a protagonist who could put a human face to the experiences of so many young Latinos, and take what I wanted to say beyond slogans, into something more personal and emotional.”

Each song is a new chapter in the story, and this narrative approach lets Sandoval get at aspects that resonate with his own past—the double consciousness of Cuban-American life, the complexities of cultural identity—and at more universal issues of love, hope, and migration. It has also sparked a “videonovela” version of the same tale, with a different, locally produced music video/short film set in each country represented in PANAMERICANO, adding another dimension to Del Exilio’s storytelling (follow the series via delexilio.com). All set to a vibrant, multifaceted, multilingual, and danceable soundtrack.

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Sandoval grew up squarely in the Cuban exile community—the language, music, and vibrant family life—near Union City, NJ (the biggest U.S. hub of Cuban life outside of Miami). As a boy, he was urged to dance and savor music by his piano-playing mother and urged to think outside the box by his artist/philosopher father. Like many second-generation teens, however, Sandoval turned away from the Latin music of his childhood, raging on his guitar with bands in high school and college, or hitting the New York clubs and diving into dancefloor sounds.

Yet one day, Sandoval heard the old-school Cuban superstars of The Buena Vista Social Club and knew he was missing something. He asked his mother to lend him some music—and she handed over her entire library of vintage Cuban classics and hot Fania favorites. “My friends and college roommates were like, ‘Why are you listening to the cha-cha? Are we in a retirement home?’” Sandoval laughs. “But I was in heaven, so I didn’t care.”

True heaven came when Sandoval realized he could combine his two musical passions—Cuban and Latin sounds, and indie and club tracks—while speaking his mind. He found bands like Latin Grammy-winning Los Amigos Invisibles, who shook up the Latin music world and helped launch the Latin indie craze. “I first heard Los Amigos when I was living in New York for the first time, and the club scene and the dance scene were big in my mind. When I heard their mix of rock plus Latin plus dance, it felt like the perfect intersection, this seamless synthesis of all those directions coming together,” recalls Sandoval. “I couldn’t believe it, that that kind of music was possible.”

Little did Sandoval suspect that he’d one day be working with Pardo of the Amigos. After opening for savvy Mexican pop darling Natalia Lafourcade, Sandoval approached Pardo, who had just collaborated with the female singer. Sandoval asked humbly if the Venezuelan star would consider mixing his next album. Pardo declined—but only because he insisted on producing the project, not merely mixing it. Adding a layer of sparkling pop sheen and witty, funky sonics, Pardo brings his signature hip, grooving vibe to Sandoval and bassist Justin Goldner’s thoughtful, dynamic songwriting and to the Latin beats and flourishes of Havana-born conga master Igor Arias.

This mix is a reflection of Sandoval’s vision for a new Latin identity, one that allows you to be 200%--completely American, yet completely committed to your heritage. Sandoval sees, and creates through the album’s hero, a cultural future that allows us to be both, not either/or. “You can identify with something in music, regardless of your genetics,” explains Sandoval. “No matter what your background, you can just have a love and passion for Latin culture. It’s something that can be learned, and that speaks to my 200% concept: Culture is a choice.” And not a zero-sum game.

Choices—cultural and otherwise—echo throughout PANAMERICANO: The protagonist, prompted by an upsetting accusation that he is not “Latin” enough, changes his name back to its Spanish form (Fernando) and sets off on a journey to discover his own dormant culture, a rebuttal of sorts to Guevara’s motorcycle tour. Fernando winds up in Caracas, where he meets and falls for a Cuban diplomat, a young woman playing the political game while secretly fighting for free speech. (Their romance is reflected on “I Got a Mobile heart,” a high-energy duet with Del Exilio female vocalist Sarah Gaffey.)

Yet their ways part, and though she beckons Fernando to follow her as she’s transferred to Buenos Aires, she stands him up. Wandering around at loose ends, Fernando falls in love once again, this time with the city itself. A chance meeting leads him out into the countryside, to speak with a traditional healer (whose role is reflected in the Andean traditional sounds and Quechua lyrics of “Peruvian Groovin”). Fernando eventually finds his fire, a passion for activism (audible on the wry, sarcastic “Tacos”). He returns to the States, sparking a global movement to reform immigration, and finds a haven at last, in South Florida’s perfect balance of Latin and Anglo America (the sunny “Vida Florida”).

The level of detail—and its reflection in the music that propels the tale—evolved as Sandoval worked on his songs and discovered their common thread, with help from writer and playwright friends. Though a complicated concept album of sorts, “A lot of it just flowed naturally, over the course of a year,” muses Sandoval. “I wanted people to connect and identify with the characters so that the message will resonate.”

Del Exilio has long worked to connect with people, to promote this message of cultural openness and better immigration policy, by writing singles to protest Arizona’s draconian immigration law, working with Amnesty International and Voto Latino, and sending cell phones to encourage free expression in Cuban youth, as part of the empowerment initiative of the non-profit Raices de Esperanza. Much like the album’s hopeful conclusion—the happy ending comes for the hero, but for his reformed, more just country—Sandoval and Del Exilio want to speak proudly and joyfully across imagined boundaries. “That’s why it’s pan-American,” Sandoval notes. “There’s a new generation of English-speaking, 20- and 30-somethings who share the experiences I deal with in my music, and that, in part, is who I’m trying to connect with.”

Call (and Response) of the Heart: Puerto Rico’s Plena Libre Finds New Thrills and New Hope in Afro-Caribbean Roots on Corazón

http://www.worldmusicwire.com

 

Plena Libre, the venerable, high-energy ensemble that help put Puerto Rican roots musicon the international musical map, stays true at heart to the island’s unique plena and bomba pulse, all while flirting unabashedly and engagingly with music from across the Caribbean and Latin world. Dancing with genres from smiling merengue and Cuban songo to Latin jazz and rock, Plena Libre takes a no-holds-barred approach to tradition on Corazón, keeping the rhythmic core of Puerto Rican music and adding layers of complex, good-spirited brass, strings, and hard-hitting hand percussion.

“We emphasize the sound of the drum in the eternal dialog with the voice and the rest of the musical ensemble,” says bandleader, bass player, and founder Gary Núñez, “as we adapt elements of jazz, rock, and other Latin and Afro-Carribean music to our roots.” Intense horns meet Plena Libre’s lush, traditional vocal harmonies, and gritty, salsa-inspired arrangements take plena gems to the next level (“Huracán”).

Paying homage to greats like Mon Rivera (whose big hit “A Papa” got revamped by Celia Cruz and now returns to its vintage plena roots) and Don Rafael Cepeda (responsible for bomba classic “Habla Cuembe”), Corazón reveals the decades-old group’s deep knowledge while revealing its ongoing joyful innovation. Plena Libre has nurtured young talent over the years, and this album brings newcomer Emanuel Santana, a young, street-savvy bomba and plena singer with the flexibility to handle Plena Libre’s diverse repertoire (He shines on traditional tracks like “Qué es la Vida”). At the same time, the band has striven to redefine the performance possibilities for a group playing traditional Puerto Rican music. Plena Libre has performed everywhere from Morocco’s Fez Festival to the Playboy Jazz Fest and Lincoln Center.

But this isn’t just about playing music and winning hearts among new international audiences. It’s about making music with heart, with a core of integrity and dedication to the community. Plena Libre has long spoken boldly for change at home, a role that fits perfectly into the community-oriented genres of plena and bomba. Traditionally, as this music evolved in the early 20th century, plena and bomba acted like the local paper in Puerto Rico’s barrios, keeping people informed and sparking discussions of current events. Plena Libre maintains this side of the music, in outspoken, evocative calls for more thoughtful, incisive approaches to the island’s problems.

“We need stop looking for ‘outside’ solutions,” notes Núñez. “We need for Puerto Ricans to take a closer look to our situation, to look to our own talents as a center for the development of new pride in ourselves, because we are capable solving our problems as a society.”

On tracks like “Que Bonita Bandera,” a tribute to Puerto Rico’s flag and by extension its history and culture, the band points to Puerto Rico’s assets, to motivate listeners beyond complaining and backbiting, to concerted action. All with a touch of the island’s rural jibaro (the Puerto Rican answer to Country) grooves.

“The answer for all of us, everywhere, is to take a hard look to what we can do for ourselves, working hard with a clear vision of creating a new society based in our own talents, resources, a feeling of pride in ourselves as a nation, and lots of courage and work,” Núñez reflects. “From there we can then look to the enormous possibilities we have as people, for ourselves, and make a contribution to a better world.”

This joyful possibility, tempered by years of hard work and technical excellence, lies at the center of Corazón and expands plena and bomba’s traditional role as a platform for challenging the status quo and providing encouragement. It’s the heartfelt universal message of a centuries-old Afro-Caribbean art.

A Fresh Frame for a Hot Sound: Lula Lounge Nurtures Toronto’s Burgeoning Latin Scene, Struts its Salsa Stuff on Lula Lounge: Essential Tracks

http://www.worldmusicwire.com

In a cozy corner of a working-class Toronto neighborhood, you can step off a cold evening street and into the full-on joy of an eleven-piece Cuban dance band, complete with sparkling horns and some of the island’s best musicians. You’ve just walked into Lula Lounge, a striking, bubbling hub of culture, resonating with the hottest dance music of the Caribbean and Latin America.

Founded on a fluke by a dedicated arts instigator, Lula Lounge goes far beyond your average venue, incubating émigré big bands, packing the dancefloor with salsa converts, and nurturing one of North America’s most vibrant Latin and world music scenes. Now Lula is sharing the energy and good times on Lula Lounge: Essential Tracks, a collection of Latin dance-oriented artists who frequent the venue. It reflects the concentration of Cuban talent, the cross-pollination between scenes and cultures, and the dedicated, fun-loving community that has turned Toronto into an unsung Latin music hotspot.

Lula has harbored and supported major names like Alex Cuba (as part of the Puentes Brothers; “Oye Ruberito”) and Juno-winning Afro-Latin pianist Hilario Durán (“Cuando Me Toca a Mi”), as well as Cuban artists like revered arranger Roberto Linares Brown (“La Crisis”), sweet salsa vocalist Yani Borrell (“Latinos”) and jazz great Luis Mario Ochoa (“La Fiesta”). Lula has helped foster a range of multicultural and multilingual ensembles like Caché (“El Sonero Llego”), Nigerian-heritage salsa queen Lady Son (“Cantame Sonera”); and saxophonist, Latin music advocate, and force of nature Jane Bunnett (“Ron Con Ron”).

“Before we started Lula, there was a whole community of creative people who didn’t have a place to do things,” recalls Lula co-founder Jose Ortega, who moved to Toronto from New York and fell in love with the city. “There was also an attitude about art that tended to exclude a lot of people from enjoying the process, as well as a whole lot of raw or not-so-raw talent in Toronto that was underappreciated. We worked together to build something. Lula is just a frame around all this activity and creativity.”

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Lula is more than a venue; it’s a multifaceted, party-friendly arts organization. Though dedicated to good times—dance lessons and big, full Latin dance bands are de rigueur at the nightspot—it has also become a cultural incubator.

It has brought together Cuban diplomats with defectors—for a night of music and intense discussion. It has plotted cross-cultural collaborations like Salsafrica, an Afro-Latin band—and then cold-called Congolese/Angolan singer Ricardo Lemvo (who agreed excitedly to get involved). It has organized jams for jazz artists that led to new projects and supported newcomers to Canada as they forged careers. “We work with artists more than many venues, to harness their creativity and pair them up with new opportunities,” notes Tracy Jenkins, Lula Co-Artistic Director.

Lula was born when Ortega and partner-in-art Jose Nieves negotiated on the fly with the owner of a space in a working-class, traditionally Portuguese neighborhood of Toronto. Through trial and error, Lula built a first-class performance space, with strong sound, a great kitchen, and a warm atmosphere, a combination many Latin artists had little access to before Lula. The space attracted diverse acts, including big names like Broken Social Scene, John Cale, and Norah Jones, and harbored a wave of Cuban émigrés, defectors who left big-name touring groups to start a new life in Canada.

The biggest wave of Cuban musician-immigrants came in the mid-2000s. Leaving behind some of the island’s strongest bands—Cubanismo, Valentin y Los Del Caribe—they arrived with stunning chops as instrumentalists, arrangers, and bandleaders, inspiring local Toronto performers to up their game considerably. “They really raised the bar for everyone,” Jenkins says. “They really put some steroids in the scene,” adds Ortega. “We wouldn’t be here without that.”

Cuban émigré artists like Hilario Durán, Roberto Linares Brown, Yani Borrell, and Jorge Maza began building their ensembles and repertoire at Lula, often moving from classics and covers to original, locally minted material, songs that chronicle their Canadian experience while drawing on their Cuban roots. Their stellar performances and technical prowess inspired other Latin music devotees, like Lady Son, a singer of Nigerian heritage who pitched Lula for three years, until she and her band perfected their NuYorican-inspired style and became regular performers.

The combined forces of new, masterful artists and local talent have led to one of the biggest Latin music scenes in North America—and to a new sound The combined forces of new, masterful artists and local talent have led to one of the biggest Latin music scenes in North America—and to a new sound. “Toronto salsa has a less commercial vibe, though still hits hard on the dancefloor. Although the Cuban influence is dominant, it's mixed with cumbia, soul, jazz and reggaeton,” explains Jenkins.

“The cool thing about Toronto, and one of the things I feel here that’s exciting, is that most things haven’t been done here yet, and people are willing to try new things,” Ortega laughs. “In New York City, everyone thinks everything’s been done and it’s so expensive to experiment. I think a lot of immigrants feel the potential here, really feel that they can do new things and try things out.”

Yet there’s another element to this Toronto sound: the growing ranks of diverse dancers and Latin music fans who turn out in droves for dance lessons and hours-long salsa sessions, the passionate regulars who support Lula’s artists and help them hone their sets. “Toronto is a fresh, receptive place. A lot of our audience is not Latino, but from all different backgrounds,” Ortega states. “There is a very open population willing to try new food and music, and for that, I credit the politics in Canada. The discourse is inclusive, not divisive.”