Various Artists
Luaka Bop’s 21st Anniversary
Rating: 3.5
Label: Luaka Bop
While I was working for a Barnes & Noble a few years ago, we received a counter-top display of Putumayo world music compilation CDs. Each profiled some particular enclave of the Southern hemisphere’d sounds and sported colorful, folksy-looking album art paintings by English artist Nicola Heindl. The discs were played almost non-stop for a period of two weeks at the store. It was terrible. I fully realize that the standard reaction of educated, music blog-reading individuals might be some kind of down-turned-mouth recoil at my cultural insensitivity, yet I shall persist. Those compilations, however well-intentioned, represented the worst of the “world music” genre; they were the unavoidable reduction of the cultural traditions of faraway lands into one catch-all genre that fetishized authenticity, resulting in an unapproachable listening experience that, in my beating white heart, I felt guilty hating. I know Dostoevsky might be good for me but I could never get further than two pages into Notes From the Underground, you know?
Putumayo’s collections were less handfuls of bitchin’ songs and more dosages of cultural literacy. David Byrne, on the other hand, seems to have the music as his focus with his Luaka Bop label, its name taken from an English package of tea, perhaps a sly, knowing reference to cultural colonialism. Byrne has used the vanity label to release music ranging from his own solo records to 1970s soul recluse Shuggie Otis to Brazilian legends Os Mutantes. This spring sees the release of Luaka Bop’s 21st Anniversary compilation, for all intents and purposes a best-of of Byrne’s musical odysseys.
There’s a lot to like here – note that these are pop songs from their respective countries, not collections of impenetrable throat-singing. The Brazilian samba-rock of “Ponta de Lanca Africano” features a flanged-guitar romp about soccer, while Marcio Local’s efforts to combine samba and soul are showcased on the slinky “Samba Sem Nenhum Problema.” Zap Mama represents Africa via Belgium with the nocturnal breeze of “Sweet Melody,” while Nouvelle Vague’s bossa nova take on Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” sounds wonderful taken in a bite-size portion, lacking the unifying new wave gimmick of that band’s full-length recordings. The collection and the label aren’t limited to other countries; Floridian Jim White appears with “Static On the Radio,” a track that recalls David Essex’s “Rock On,” were the trip on the highway and not on Quaaludes.
As it is a compilation, there will also be things one will have no desire hearing again after an initial listen. Byrne’s own “Fuzzy Freaky” from 1997′s Feelings sounds like the kind of limp funk a professor might put on the hi-fi while entertaining guests at a summer dinner party. Los Amigos Invisibles’ “Sexy” is as slick as greased lightning and Susana Baca’s “Valentin” comes close to Putumayo territory with its uptight flamenco stylings. The inclusion of Shuggie Otis’ “Aht Uh My Head” is somewhat disappointing, as though the Information Inspiration track’s island flavor won out over the always-astonishing psychedelic soul serenade “Strawberry Letter No. 23.”
The record is certainly a satisfying look at Luaka Bop’s catalog and a decent peak into music one might not normally come across paying attention only to Pitchfork. Were you going to hit up the iTunes store for only a track, I whole-heartedly recommend the wild “Keleya” by Moussa Doumbia, a kind of Malian Curtis Mayfield. The saxophonist/arranger/composer recorded this, the longest song on the compilation, with a ten-piece band and producers who knew not what the hell they were doing, all of which resulted in a supremely raw slice of otherworldly early ’70s funk worthy of crate-digging.
Most surprising is the inclusion of one-hit goofballs Geggy Tah, whose ode to defensive driving, “Whoever You Are,” was one in a roster of amazing singles during the summer of 1996, a.k.a. the Last Year MTV Played Music Videos. Their selection by Byrne to appear here among Shuggie Otis and muso darlings Os Mutantes casts the oddball jazzbo rockers in a different light, making them look like arteests in spite of themselves. That stupid song is undeniably catchy and along with the Mutantes’ “Baby,” helps to end the compilation on a giddy, satisfying note.
by Chris Middleman
