Somali musician K’naan plays a rhythmic stew of hip-hop-influenced poetry that borrows from ancient Somali culture as much as it does from contemporary American influences. A refugee who fled his home at 14, he retains the quiet dignity of his heritage and yet fires lyrics with a swagger that has been compared to Eminem. At 28, the slight, curly-haired performer lives with a foot in both worlds and works to pour the dissonance of such an existence into his music.

“I often have a hard time defining my music,” says K’naan, seated on his tour bus after an explosive show opening for Stephen Marley. “I can’t really call it one thing. It’s something that comes out of real experiences.” And experiences don’t get any realer than surviving the bloody civil war outbreak in Mogadishu. Growing up in an area dubbed “river of blood,” a young K’naan witnessed the brutalities that accompany war and oppression. He was accustomed to clouds of AK-47 bullets ripping through the air and grenades and fires swarming the streets. He and his friends were often chased by militia, most were killed. When he and his family escaped on the last commercial flight out of Somalia in 1991, he was torn about leaving relatives and friends who probably wouldn’t survive.

It was that pain and the blood-stained memories that drove him to create music that would bear witness to all the people left behind. “Writing songs is therapeutic,” he says. “It’s pain first, then you write about it and it becomes a song. And that’s it. You transform the pain into art.”

Leaning back in an easygoing manner and frequently sliding into a gentle smile, K’naan’s demeanor belies the jolting potency of his lyrics. His just released CD, The Dusty Foot Philosopher (Sony/BMG), quivers with the rhythms of resistance. From the oft-quoted “What’s Hardcore?”: “We start riots by burning car tires/they looting and everybody starts shooting/bullshit politicians/bullshit politicians talking about solutions/but it’s all talk/you can’t go half a mile without a roadblock/and if you don’t pay at the roadblock you get your throat shot/So what’s hardcore, really?/Are you hardcore? Hmm . . . ”

Of course, the tune’s resemblance to gangsta rap is exactly the point K’naan wants to make, and despite the djembe drum beat, it’s worth noting Nas’ Illmatic served as a blueprint for the tune. He listened to Rakim and Nas tapes as a child, mirroring the seminal MCs’ lyrical precision, despite not understanding a word of English. Two decades later, K’naan recreates his childhood experience with a nod to his roots as well as his North American influences. With only guitar and percussion backing the album’s 18 tracks, the purity and purpose of his words shine through. “I wanted to do something that encompasses my two worlds,” he says. “I use the drum of Africa and the guitar of North America because I’m half and half. I’ve lived 14 years in North America (in New York and Toronto) and 14 years in Somalia.”

After the CD garnered Canada’s 2006 Juno Award for best rap recording as well as a BBC World Music Award nomination for Album Of The Year, the U.S. finally gets to hear The Dusty Foot Philosopher, and it’s like discovering relief from an illness that has menaced your body for so long – you’ve stopped searching for a remedy. That illness is called American Top 40 music, and K’naan’s finely crafted songs provide an exhilarating reprieve. Opening with the soft strum of an acoustic guitar and building into a rousing drum beat, K’naan shoots out half sung/half-chanted lyrics on “In The Beginning,” tackling freedom and the value of children while easing into a danceable groove. It’s a studied outline for the CD’s song structure: hard-hitting words against a catchy, melodious background. “I Was Stabbed By Satan” follows the same pattern, with a soothing, bouncy, rhythm embracing painful lyrics. “‘I Was Stabbed By Satan’ is the perfect conflict. The words are really hurtful but the music and melody is joyful,” he says. “I can’t make dark music with the lyrics I have because it creates immobility.”

Immobility is something K’naan, which means traveler in Somali, tries to avoid. Despite refusing to classify his music as political, it has served to promote change. Whether it’s capturing listeners who don’t like hip-hop or calling out the United Nations for its incompetence, as he did with a poem at its 50th anniversary concert, K’naan has inspired awareness. “I don’t consider myself a political artist. I hope there’s a time when I’m not protesting,” he insists. “I think there’s a certain sanctity that’s not in politics. I just say things that are honest. I don’t think about inspiring change when I write a song, I just think about that moment. I think it’s arrogant to expect a change.”

Listing “the two Bobs” (Marley and Dylan), as well as Fela and Somalia’s most famous singer/poet, Magool, as heavy influences, it seems protest music will remain a part of K’naan’s repertoire. Poetry and protest is in his blood, as Somalia was called the “land of poets” by the ancient Greeks, and K’naan’s grandfather and mother are famous Somali poets. It’s brilliantly illustrated in the standout “Soobax,” an uptempo anthem that asks if you should cry or dance.

“I’d like listeners to examine where they stand in terms of justice,” he says. “Are you part of those that hinder or are you a part of those that help?”

On that note, this is the last “Foreign Exchange” story, and I’d like to thank all the readers who have followed this column’s musical journey for the last five years. I’ve enjoyed the chance to introduce new sounds and new cultures.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Flamenco music deeply reflects Spanish culture, from its elaborate vocal ornamentation, to its vivid expression. The roots of flamenco stem from gypsy or Rom immigrants, who arrived in Spain in the 15th century, as well as Jewish and Arabic refugees who holed up in the Andalusia Mountains, away from the Catholic Church’s forced conversions. The music of the three groups fused, creating a singular sound that was preserved through the Rom oral tradition. Although a flamenco artist may be payo or non-gypsy, the most acclaimed performers came from noted Rom cantaora (flamenco singer) areas or families. After flourishing for most of the 20th century, the tradition declined from the late ’50s to ’70s and was regulated to a few clubs and tourist spectacles.

The ’80s resurgence built a significant mainstream presence. Artists such as Ketama, Pata Negra, and El Camaron de la Isla shone the spotlight on the modern possibilities for the folk genre. Ketama was credited with introducing rock and salsa to flamenco, and Pata Negra blended it with blues. The ’90s brought the nuevo flamenco movement that featured artists such as Carmen Linares, Duquende, and El Potitio, who continue to define the genre today. Flamenco music boasts many styles, or palos, including the upbeat fandango, solea, which is considered the foundation for all forms, and tango, which originated in Cuba and is typically presented with the sensual dance. But none of flamenco’s new generation draws from quite as many of these as Ojos De Brujo.

On their third CD, Techarí (Diquela), the group stretch past the revelation of 2002’s groundbreaking Barí. Whereas Barí dazzled with an explosion of sounds and textures, Techarí expands on the concept with more detail and depth. Not only does the 14-track album explore flamenco’s mestizo roots to India, Africa, and the Caribbean, it also offers a visual journey in the form of a CD-ROM with four videos featuring art from 14 globe-spanning illustrators.

Each of Techarí’s tracks is a highlight, bursting with traditional flamenco palos as well as contemporary musical influences. The first track, “Color,” kicks off with lead singer #Marina Abad commanding “Mira! Aqui!” And “look here” is exactly what you do as a jumble of horns swirling, percussion pounding, and Abad spitting out rapid-fire Castellano snares your attention. Vestiges of funk and jazz float around the flamenco rhythm for a striking sonic mix. From there the journey continues to flamenco rumba with “Sultanas de Merkaillo,” a smooth track that flows with Arabic undertones. “Todo Tiende” laces furious flamenco guitar licks with Asian Dub Foundation drummer Pritpal “Cyber” Rajput’s tumbling dhol playing, effortlessly blending bhangra beats with hot rapping. Abad uses her voice like the miraculous tool it is, at times wrapping it around the pulsing rhythms and other times, shooting out raps or exclamations of “ole!”

“Runali” changes it up with soft harmonies spiced with Senegalese hip-hop star Faada Freddy’s dancehall-tinged rapping, while “Respira” delivers languid, 12-beat, seguirilla-style flamenco with touches of reggae. The guests featured on Techarí make ODB’s expected global music carnival even more colorful. Besides Freddy and Rajput, there’s Indian fusion artist and British TV star Nitin Sawhney, Cuban pianist Roberto Carcasses, and Cuban tres/flamenco guitarist #Raul Rodriguez, from Son de La Fontera.

Aside from their arresting soundscape, ODB are also noted for their sharply socio-political lyrics, written by Abad, who previously worked as a punk rock/flamenco performance artist. Thanks to the 16-language translations on the CD-ROM, non-English speakers can glean the depth of the lyrics. Though immigration remains a touchy issue in Spain, they tackle it head on in “El Confort No Reconforta”: “Human rights die silently day after day/people without papers can’t manage to live their lives legally/immigrants locked in churches, in hunger strikes/does God not exist or have they cut the cable for non-payment?” And on “Piedras vs. Tanques” they send a scathing attack on the war in Iraq: “Going around flaunting your wealth/look! Such offensive joy/dear president, your people do not want to fight anymore/send your own sons to the front if you want to win with wars.” Both tunes appeared on the compilation Bush No Le Va A Gustar (Bush Isn’t Going To Like It), recorded in protest of Bush’s presence at the Summit Of The Americas in Mar del Plata, held in Argentina in 2005.

Ultimately, Ojos De Brujo hope to spread their philosophy of freedom. They have launched their own label, Diquela, as well as their own publishing company. Their artistic freedom also extends to touring; they travel where they please, when they please, with no consideration of economics. Fortunately, the U.S. must offer some pleasure because they will tour here in June and July. Bouncing with eclectic sounds, visions, and perspectives, Ojos De Brujo don’t just represent the future of flamenco, but hopefully the future of the world.

– Rosalind Cumnmings-Yeates

Legacy and familial inheritance has always played a significant role in African society. Whether dictating marriage, social position, or profession, the rules and expectations of family lineage have changed very slowly. And being the son of an internationally famous father does not help matters. This is the situation Vieux Farka Touré, son of late Malian guitar master Ali Farka Touré, faces with the release of his pivotal, self-titled debut. Not only must he address the huge Touré legacy, but also the expectations of his noble family and his country. It’s a super-sized order for a 25-year-old, but Vieux appears up to it.

Ali was Africa’s most celebrated guitarist. With searing, soul jangling riffs, he revealed the centuries-old source for pure Delta blues. His three-decade career brims with genre-defining albums such as The Source, which featured a blues homecoming collaboration with Taj Mahal, and the Grammy-winning Talking Timbuktu, which blew the lid off narrow world music categories by topping indie charts. Last year’s posthumous Savane was crowned a masterpiece and named best album of 2006 by rock and global critics alike. Despite all this, it was never easy for the elder Touré. Born into a famed noble family that traces its roots back to the royal family of the ancient Manding Empire, he was not encouraged to play music. A person of noble birth playing music in Africa was similar to a blueblood in the States becoming a janitor. So Ali had to fight to play music, struggling through the corruption of the music industry and battling to change traditional attitudes about musicians. Even with all his success, his mother never approved, and he rarely played in front of her.

Vieux carries all this history on his slender shoulders. If that wasn’t enough, he also fought to play his music. His father’s disillusionment with the music industry made him want another life for his son, so Ali forbade Vieux from becoming a musician. He played in secret until he was certain of the path he had to take. When he enrolled in the National Arts Institute in Bamako, a notable arts school where Habib Koite studied, Ali refused to pay for transportation. “There wasn’t cultural resistance, I just had to persist against my father,” says Vieux through a translator. “I wasn’t intimidated by my father. I just continued and persisted.”

It took years before his father relented and that was only after family friend and master kora-player Toumani Diabaté convinced him of Vieux’s musical gifts. Possessed of a soulfully nimble skill that echoes his father’s, Vieux’s sound embraces the foundation built by his dad while still reflecting fresh influences such as rai, Touareg music, and reggae. “My music is organic, it’s whatever comes to mind or my fingers,” he says.

Soaring and full of energy, he calls his music “Koroboro Rock,” which means rock from his Sonrai ethnic group. It’s an apt name because his 10-track CD literally rocks with the rhythms and essences of his Niafunke, Mali home.

Vieux Farka Touré (World Music) sounds like next-generation desert blues. Filled with proverbs and dedications to elders, including his father, as well as splashes of funky afro- pop references, it smoothly bridges the distance between old school and new school. “I started to walk this path when I enrolled in the Arts Institute, but I never really committed to it until I went into the studio,” says Vieux. “When we recorded the album, everything just came together.”

With a rough-hewn voice that belies his youth, Vieux guides listeners on the journey from the swaying blues guitar and njarka (spike fiddle) of “Dounia” to the skankin’ reggae beat of “Ana.” All the tunes are sung in Sonrai, Fulani, or Bambara but transcend cultural barriers with an emotional intensity that needs no translation. The CD also boasts Ali Farka Touré’s last recordings, a haunting father-and-son duet, “Tabara,” and a sizzling electric guitar rocker, “Diallo.” Diabate also makes an appearance, elevating “Touré de Niafunké” into sublime kora rock.

The elder Touré always insisted ancestral spirits bestowed him with his musical talents, and he performed the rituals and sacrifices that honored them, including placing fetishes inside instruments. Vieux appears similarly blessed, and although he belongs to a less superstitious generation, he’s taking no chances. “Vieux is touring with his father’s electric guitar from the ’50s,” explains the album’s producer and musician Eric Herman. “The jack was rusted and I took it in to be repaired. As soon as he heard that, Vieux stood at attention. ‘Make sure that when they change the jack, if they find anything inside the guitar, not to take it out.’ The fetishes give magical powers to whoever plays the guitar,” Herman says.

Magical powers or not, Vieux Farka Touré must forge his own legacy, even if it is on his father’s firmly laid path. “I feel pressure from all corners of the world,” he says. “Wherever I go, people say, ‘I knew your father and you have to do things that will do his legacy justice.’ But I will do what I feel is right.” His debut illustrates this belief clearly, with respect for his history and dedication to his individual interests. When asked what an African musician’s main role should be, he didn’t hesitate to describe the path that he has already undertaken. “An African musician should transmit the wisdom of Africa and its people, as my father did.”

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Since the ’70s golden years of Ethiopian music, popular music has meant a fusion of some kind, and recent releases by popular singer Gigi and the sundry crew of Bole2Harlem stay true to this concept. Both Gigi’s Gold & Wax (Palm) and Bole2Harlem Volume 1 (Sounds Of The Mushroom) serve up funky, layered grooves that represent modern Ethiopia as well as nod to tradition.

Gold & Wax, picks up where she left off with an esoteric offering of tunes inspired by Genna (Ethiopian Christmas) and traditional dancing. Super producer/bassist Bill Laswell, also Gigi’s husband, lends his sonic touch with innovative arrangements. He creates a restrained Indian backdrop of master tabla and sarangi players that perfectly showcases his wife’s shimmering vocals.

The opening track, “Semena-Worck,” lays the foundation for the album’s jazzy, funk-filled direction. A stuttering beat and punchy horns deliver just the right uptempo backdrop for Gigi’s angelic vocals. Swerving from high-pitched wails to throaty chants, the fluidity and nuance of her voice takes center stage. A sense of spiritual redemption floats across the ethereal, midtempo melodies of “Jerusalem,” reminding listeners of Gigi’s church choir origins. With former P-Funker Bernie Worrell supplying organ leads on the high-spirited “Salam,” Gigi can’t help but sound like an Ethiopian Aretha Franklin, calling up the spirits of gospel, jazz, and soul in Amharic. The sophistication of Laswell’s production and Gigi’s skill at melding styles are highlighted on “Hulu-Dane.” India’s master sarangi (bowed string instrument) player and vocalist Ustad Sultan Khan provides an ancient, tribal flair to Gigi’s cross-cultural finesse.

If there’s one thing missing from Gold & Wax it’s lyric translations. The title alone references an ancient Abysinnian tradition (sam-ennawarq, literally wax and gold) of double entendre that proved very valuable for avoiding political censors during the military dictatorship of the ’80s and early ’90s. It would be nice to understand exactly what Gigi has written, but she has only left us with lovely songs that transcend cultural, if not linguistic, boundaries.

Producer David Schommer exhibits a markedly different perspective on Ethiopian music but with similar references. With a father who was one of the American founders of Addis Ababa’s first university, Schommer grew up in the U.S. but was entrenched in Ethiopian culture and folklore. He embarked on his first trip to Ethiopia six years ago, accompanied by Ethiopian American Amharic MC Maki Siraj. In Addis Ababa they discovered weak imitations of American hip-hop culture instead of traditional Ethiopian references. They decided to create their own vision for what contemporary Ethiopian music should embrace. The result, Bole2Harlem, bounces with African rhythms, Amharic rapping and singing, and electronic beats.

The title is also significant here because the album expresses as much about Ethiopia’s rich musical culture as it does Harlem’s dynamic African Diaspora. Gigi’s younger sister, Tigist Shibabaw, supplies vocals (she also appears on Gold & Wax), Bahia-born Davi Vieira provides percussion, Ethiopian bass player Henok Temesgen serves traditional licks, and Malian Balla Tounkara adds elegant kora playing for a truly multi-cultural mix. It’s significant that among all the added elements, the Ethiopian focus is never lost. Even over the unrestrained, booty-shaking funk of the title track and the hardcore, horn-accented rhythm of “Ensaralen Gojo,” Shibabaw and Siraj’s Amharic singing and rapping ensures Ethiopia is well represented. It throws a little dub (you can’t properly honor the land of Ras Tafari without at least a small nod to reggae), a little hip-hop, and a lot of funk into a pot with Ethiopian traditional music and never loses the essential flavor. Bole is the main entry point for Ethiopia, and Harlem is the main exit; Bole2Harlem seamlessly draws them together for the enjoyment of listeners everywhere.

– By Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

As with the best magic-realism tale, Aterciopelados took a long, colorful journey to arrive at their musical pinnacle. Founding members Andrea Echeverri and Hector Buitrago joined forces in 1990, amid Bogota’s fledgling rock scene. While Buitrago’s background featured playing in the punk band La Pesitilencia and soaking up sounds from Yes, Deep Purple, and Led Zeppelin, Echeverri had been studying ceramics and hanging out with art-school scenesters. They turned out to be a lively match indeed. The pair opened one of Colombia’s only rock clubs and set out to make their own brand of rock: heavy on the guitars and bass but with a distinctive Colombian flavor. The punk drumbeat gave way to the more organic rhythms of llanos, jaropo, and boleros. By the time they released their second CD, El Dorado, in 1995 their music was being played on MTV Latino, and they were superstars all over Latin America.

Unlike fellow Colombian icons (Shakira, Juanes) however, Aterciopelados maintain a different sort of image. Echeverri (vocals, guitars) for one, refuses to trade in on her sexuality, eschewing provocative clothes and seductive moves for long, un-styled hair and various tattoos and piercings. Shy and unassuming, Buitrago (bass, producer) concentrates on arrangements and production that’s decidedly more challenging than the typical Latin pop blockbuster. The results of all this have earned the group reverential status unchallenged by even a five-year hiatus and critically acclaimed music that addresses political/social concerns while simultaneously pushing cultural and musical boundaries.

Technically, while Aterciopelados the group have been absent for awhile, Echeverri and Buitrago each released solo albums in the last year, with Echeverri’s self-titled feminist ode to pregnancy and motherhood garnering two Grammys. It seems the two solo projects were just a warm-up for the real thing, however. Commanding attention from the title onwards, Oye (listen) rewards listeners with an elegant mix of swirling folkloric rhythms, ironic lyrics, and a pure rock beat.

The opening track, the contagiously bouncy “Complemento,” is all clangy guitars and urgent singing, losing no time in assuring doubtful rockeros Aterciopelados are back with a vengeance. Despite the peppy delivery, the tune boasts political undertones disguised as a love song: “You give me what I lacked/what before I didn’t like/the other half of my orange/you being where I leave off.” At first glance, it’s about soulmates balancing what the other lacks. On another level, it addresses the need for tolerance. “Don Dinero” questions consumerism over a rousing hook decorated with mariachi horns and joyful yelps. The riveting “Cancion Protesta” glides with an anthemic chorus and Andean flutes. Condemning a trailing list of problems, from terrorists to the fumigators who spray poison on Colombia’s cocaine plantations and kill large areas of national parks, the song calls for change in the guise of Echeverri’s supple alto.

Echeverri’s vocals prove to be as effective as Buitrago’s innovative arrangements in creating a nuanced, emotionally accessible album. Famously feminist, Echeverri’s voice leaps beyond any expectations of sexual musical roles. At times luminous and soothing, her voice can also sound aggressive and discordant, making it the perfect tool for a CD that effectively straddles elements of rock, sensuous boleros, and traditional Latin rhythms.

A call for peace, “Paces” is a straightahead cumbia track that delves deeper into Latin roots than the group have ever dared, successfully uniting electric guitars with indigenous percussion for an updated version. The ethereal “Majestad” actually dabbles with Indian tabla and chanting, while “Oye Mujer” uses a new wave riff and Echeverri’s gruff delivery to ask women if it’s O.K. to look like a Barbie doll and be an erotic fantasy for men.

Although Aterciopelados have all the expected trapping of success, from platinum sales to a “Tonight Show” appearance to multiple Grammy nominations, the band’s focus has never been about fame or success. Living in a country torn by a never-ending civil war, they have been resolute about expressing their Colombian identity and sending a message of hope and awareness. Oye was recorded entirely in Colombia, with local musicians. They have turned down record label offers to move to the States and sing in English. In the end, their allegiance to their roots has brought them many achievements but in their words, la musica es amor, and that’s the best reward of all.

2006 Best World Albums:
1. Tanya Stephens, Rebelution (VP)
2. Thandiswa, Zabalaza (Escondida)
3. Sara Tavares, Balance (Times Square)
4. Aterciopelados, Oye (Nacional)
5. Salif Keita, M’Bemba (Decca)
6. Asha Bhosle, Love Supreme (Times Square)
7 Morgan Heritage, Live: Another Rockaz
Moment (VP)
8. Sergio Mendes, Timeless (Concord)
9. Mary Jane Lamond, Suas e! (turtlemusik)
10. John Holt, I Can’t Get You Off My Mind : 18
Greatest Hits At Studio One (Heartbeat)

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Rebelution: A Movement Of Truth Without Denial Or Regret may sound like the latest political soundbite, but it’s actually the title of the most foundation-shaking Jamaican dancehall album in the last decade. The fact the CD addresses touchy topics never explored within the genre warrants acknowledgement alone, but the fact a woman dares do it in such a notoriously sexist culture suggests a revolution indeed.

Tanya Stephens, a patois-spitting, husky-voiced, dancehall star, gave the first hint of her transformative talents with 2004’s stunning Gangsta Blues (VP). Before its release, Stephens was known primarily as a slack-lyric DJ who challenged Lady Saw’s title of dancehall queen and for her sexual frankness. But Gangsta Blues switched her direction. The critically acclaimed CD showcased Stephens’ supple vocals as well as her songwriting skills. Leaving the sex songs to just a few of the albums 17 tracks, she tackled the pain and frustration of failed relationships, as well as the crime and corruption that plague Jamaica. Gangsta Blues paved the way for Stephens emerging image as an empowered reggae singer-songwriter but it did little to prepare fans for the shock of Rebelution.

Rebelution is a two-disc extravaganza, complete with 20 songs, a DVD of acoustic performances, and a cover pose of the singer wearing fatigues, a red communist beret, and a don’t-fuck-with-me expression. It all sounds a bit much and it would be for a less-talented artist. At 33-years old, half of them spent in the music business, Stephens has developed her musical skill and self image well enough so there is never an inkling of doubt or hesitation hovering around her performance.

With verses like “Save me from this musical slavery/when non-believers try to nail my hands/to the mic stand . . . fake leaders claim thrones/without building kingdoms/ same as the music business in Kingston,” you had better be able to stand behind every word. Stephens manages to deliver that and more, stirring up an unlikely brew of political/social commentary, spiritual allusions, and of course, sex. The singer refuses to abandon her raw sexual overtones completely so she combines it with her machete-sharp wit, emotional vulnerability, and political awareness for an unapologetic portrayal of a modern woman taking control of who she is.

The opener and title track announces her mission plainly, with echoes of marching and a crowd yelling: “You’re not a statistic/no matter how many or few/in reality all I need to change this shit is you/came to pass in the days of glorifying/everything wrong/that the standard for girls became a bra and thong.”

Clearly aware of dancehall’s requirement for throbbing riddim’s and sexy toasting, Stephens makes sure the initial few songs follow this prescription. “Put It On You” relates a steamy tale of a one-night stand and “To The Rescue” elicits emergency tactics with the lyrics “Well if yuh sex life is dead boss/we a the first pon the scene/like the Red Cross.” A masterful chatter, she performs with power and clever metaphor, but these aren’t the tunes that stand out. By the seventh song she moves to tracks that reflect her emotional range and richly evocative vocals. “Damn You” recounts the pain of a rejected lover attending the wedding of her former partner over a rockin’ drum and bass, and “The Truth” flows over a hip-swaying rhythm with lyrics conjuring the regret of an affair that still lingers long after it’s over.

The catchy pop groove of “Spilt Milk” eloquently combines Stephens’ toasting and cocoa-butter-smooth crooning. The melancholy ballad “Cherry Brandy” showcases the singer’s ability to seamlessly translate suffering and emotional longing in one clever verse: “Well if me drinking a yuh problem/ FU then/me best friend a Mr. Wray and him nephew dem/and if some Heineken a freeze/me haffi rescue them/when it comes to passing the bar/I’m not the best student no.”

“Cherry Brandy” serves as a sort of turning point. After that, the album’s tone glides into unflinching spiritual/political/social analysis. “Sunday Morning,” another spoken-word track, takes on Jamaica’s strident Christianity: “It might come as a shock to you but not everyone worships the God of Moses,” she says. She goes on to assail the King James Bible for not having one verse from a woman. This is serious stuff in a society that clings to Christianity as closely as it does its class system, but she goes further. The breezy “You Keep Looking Up” proclaims God is everywhere, not just above, and charges of sin and imperfections are false.

“Come A Long Way” throws political grenades worthy of the best pundits. “So we’ve come a long way from picking cotton/many never thought they’d live to see the day when Bush pick Rice/but if all you’ve become is another house nigga/baby tell me was it worth all the sacrifice.” The searing commentary continues with “Do You Still Care,” a detailed examination of racism and homophobia. In a country where being gay is against the law, blatantly dismissing homophobia can be deadly.

Like America, Jamaica’s recording system is extremely sexist; only a few women ever make it beyond background singer and sex pin-up. Stephens has managed to leap that obstacle as well as turn a keen eye toward political and social progress. It sounds trite but no reggae artist has accomplished this in the last decade. Even Damian Marley’s 2005 hit, Welcome to Jamrock, simply retread the path his father laid out 30 years before. In a true rebel mold, Stephens has broken new ground and guided dancehall toward a potentially enlightened future.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

A distinctly American hybrid, soul music traces its illustrious creation to gospel, R&B, and jazz. While classic soul was produced in the ’60s and ’70s, the ’80s and ’90s witnessed the neo-soul movement. The British have proven to be much more reverent to American music than Americans; when classic soul gave way to disco in the late ’70s, they kept the music (and careers) of icons like Al Green and Bobby Womack alive. In the late ’80s, British soulsters such as Sade, Loose Ends, Mica Paris, and Soul II Soul laid out the framework for neo-soul while their American counterparts paid close attention. Artists such as Maxwell, Erykah Badu, and D’Angelo burst into the ’90s with music that reflected the style honed by the Brits – classic soul’s emotional power delivered with a contemporary twist. The U.S. rightfully claims James Brown as the Godfather Of Soul, but the Godfather Of Neo-Soul title goes to Britain’s Omar.

With short locks sticking up on his head, a trademark eyebrow ring, and a silky voice that flows like hot cocoa, Omar Lyefook fits the image of a neo-soul icon. His classic 1990 midtempo groove, “There’s Nothing Like This,” ushered in the neo-soul movement and set the stage for a bevy of silky-voiced, new jack soul singers. Sometimes called acid jazz in Britain, Omar stood at the forefront of a movement that included Brand New Heavies, Icognito, and Groove Theory. Though his Canterbury brogue and Chinese and Indian Jamaican heritage set him apart from American performers, his buttery vocals and funk-filled arrangements easily translated. Erykah Badu reportedly listened obsessively to his CDs before she blew up and Stevie Wonder famously declared, “When I grow up I want to be just like Omar.”

Whether he’s labeled a British neo-soul pioneer or an acid jazz icon, Omar’s influence on American neo-soul unfolds plainly on his new CD, Sing (If You Want It) (Ether). Besides the soulful crooning, jazz-toned melodies, and hip-hop beats he referenced 16 years ago, there are the appearances by neo-soul favorite Angie Stone, soulful MC Common, and a much heralded Wonder. Tossed with some Latin and afrobeat influences plus a touch of grime, Sing sounds like neo-soul for the millennium.

“I like to mix a lot of styles like Latin, funk, jazz, reggae, and soul,” explains Omar. “The older I’ve gotten, the broader my influences have grown.” At 37, he’s journeyed a long way from when his primary influences of Level 42, Jeff Lorber, and Wonder (maybe not so far from him) helped him form melodies in music school. Growing up with his father, Byron Lyefook – a session drummer for the likes of reggae legends Horace Andy and Bob Marley, as well as The Rolling Stones, Omar absorbed a musician’s sensibility early. He mastered the coronet, percussion, and piano by the time he reached adolescence. As a teen principal percussionist for the Kent Youth Orchestra he was focused on becoming a solo artist. “I had an inclination I’d be a performer when I was touring with the orchestra in Brazil, playing the tympani,” he recalls. “I made a big production of it and I got a lot of attention. I could have been an orchestra player but I’ve always been a bit of a show off.”

It seems he has been showing off ever since, gathering a fawning herd of fans in Europe, Japan, and the U.S. along the way. Even though it has been six years since he released his last album, the critically acclaimed Best By Far (Naïve), he has continued to pack concerts and even managed to build a studio in his garden, change labels, and produce other artists in the interim. He has managed all of this without much help from mainstream media or radio airplay. “People at record labels, TV stations, radio stations, are really closed,” he says. “They’re not bothered about people starting out or who haven’t been in the spotlight.” Omar sees the popularity of outlets like MySpace and independent labels as a result of big business being out of touch. “There’s so much choice now. YouTube is doing something new and it’s the same thing with music. People are expressing themselves.”

Sing is definitely all about the singer’s personal expression, with 14 tracks that glide from classic neo-soul tracks to an upbeat anti-gun anthem to a vintage-sounding tune penned by Wonder. Partly produced by his brother, Scratch Professor (fresh from a Grammy win for producing Damian Marley’s Welcome To Jamrock), the CD offers Omar’s patented neo-soul sound accented with fresh touches. Stone’s strongly brewed vocals figure prominently, acting as the centerpiece for sultry ballad “All For Me” and delivering a flavorful balance to the electronic bassline of “Stylin’.” Except for British singer JC Bentley’s standout vocal chops on the sizzling “Be A Man,” the rest of the CD’s spotlight is all on Omar; Wonder’s two-second ad lib and a handful of MCs scattered verses barely register over his masterful scatting and singing. The driving percussion and punchy horns of “It’s So” represents Omar’s recent interest in Fela Kuti’s afrobeat tunes and “Ghana Emotion’s” Latin jazz vibe vaguely recalls the music of his parents’ adopted West African homeland.

Despite his position as a neo soul originator, Omar is a strong advocate for contemporary British music, from grime to British hip-hop. He sees the cultural differences between America and Britain as a big reason for establishing an authentic British sound. “I’ve been hearing kids say that they can’t relate to the American rappers being pushed all the time,” he says. “They don’t know anything about driving down Sunset Boulevard in a Cadillac. They’re fed up with that. In the last year, Channel U has finally started showing local stars. Things are beginning to change.”

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Melodic also describes Tavares’ newest album, Balance (Time Square). Full of lilting arrangements accented by Tavares’ sweet, multilingual vocals, the CD serves as an aural postcard for Cape Verde’s transplanted community. Because the country rarely has rain, a majority of the population is forced to emigrate to find sustenance and a better standard of living. Indeed, although they’re not related to Sara, the popular ’70s soul group Tavares claim Cape Verdean ancestry. Many Cape Verdeans flock to Lisbon because the island nation was once a Portuguese colony. Tavares has lived in Lisbon all of her 27 years but has only recently started composing music that reflects the various layers of her Cape Verdean heritage.

“I was expressing myself through another language before,” she says. “I’ve matured in terms of consciousness and being comfortable with who I am.”

Identity plays a major role with Cape Verde immigrants. There are more Cape Verdeans living outside the country than in it, and this often creates a shaky self image. “We have a certain lack of self esteem because we don’t have our own references, food, or language. It’s all Portuguese.” What Cape Verdeans do have, however, is a rapidly evolving culture that picks up bits of influence from wherever its members land. “Our culture is very fluid,” she says. “Cape Verdeans have a particular lifestyle and it’s reflected in our dialect, Crioulo. It’s ever changing, it’s different wherever we are; in Cape Verde, in Lisbon, in Boston, or in the Netherlands.” Tavares uses the softly inflected dialect throughout *Balance* but it’s supplemented by verses in Portuguese, English, and Angolan slang.

The singer’s breezy, childlike voice floats through Balance’s 13 tracks, weaving all the disparate languages into a charming web of sound. Although she draws from traditional Cape Verdean styles like the pulsating coladeira dance rhythm, there’s no one uniform sound save for the languid, feel-good, tone also found in reggae, bossa nova, soca, plena, and various other forms of island or tropical music. The title song opens the CD, and its joyful melodies establish the soft grooves that appear throughout the rest of the tracks. Touches of reggae, afrobeat, and the Angolan semba style are mixed with healthy doses of jazz to conjure deftly nuanced offerings. “Bom Feeling” serves up a light-hearted, gently percolating effect while “Poka Terra” features a flavorful duet with velvet-voiced Melo D that throbs with percussion and flowing harmonies.

A self-taught guitarist of only six years, Tavares deftly uses it as a percussive instrument, and her skills are showcased on “Dam Bo” where echo effects deepen the riffs and “Ess Amor” where she creates a dreamy, string-laden landscape. “My sound is very personal,” she says. “It’s an intimate process; I take my guitar and go very slowly. I improvise the melody in my head and I go to the guitar to bring it out. It’s very Lusophone; it’s the Portuguese/African influence. The music has lots of flavor from all of the countries of the Portuguese world.”

It was that Portuguese/African world that proved most challenging for Tavares when she was growing up in Lisbon. All of Balance’s songs are about self-love and affirmation because those were the toughest battles for her. “My greatest challenge was growing up without my parents. I was raised by a Portuguese woman and I was always pointed out as different. I had to defend myself all the time. I was in the middle of all these Portuguese people and learned the pride that comes from rebellion.”

Appropriately, it was music that helped her discover her roots. When she was 14, Tavares won two national Portuguese TV contests similar to “American Idol.” The media exposure attracted a host of Cape Verdean musicians, and they led her home. “I got the opportunities to do this TV contest, which led me to musicians, which led me to Cape Verde,” she says. “I saw the place where my parents were born, the streets they walked. It helped define my identity.” The music industry, however, did not do much for her in the area of identity. After recording albums of funk, R&B, and gospel, she decided to step back. “I thought I was getting into the music world but it really wasn’t about music,” she says. “I had to pull myself away from the media and focus on the music.”

For Tavares, focusing on her own music meant singing in Crioulo, Portuguese, Angolan slang, and some English – the languages she uses when she’s with her friends in Lisbon. “My first language was Portuguese, then came Crioulo in my teens, and then English from MTV. I think in Portuguese and Crioulo and English are my creative languages. I write songs, read books, and listen to music with those.”

Although she’s traveled a long road to get to the deceptively simple songs on Balance, she wants her listeners to experience the pleasures of Cape Verde’s island culture with each tune. “I just want people to get a positive vibe from it. I want it to be like a perfume that makes you smile.”

–Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

You’re older/shorter of breathe/ and one day closer to death.” Pink Floyd’s overview of how quickly time ravages is certainly true for most everything and everyone except of course, the iconic album from which those verses were taken: Dark Side Of The Moon. Originally released in 1973, the legendary concept album spent almost 15 straight years on Billboard’s Top 200 album chart and continues to be one of the top-selling CDs of all time. What with incessant tributes, from Phish’s fabled live treatment in 1998 to The Squirrels’ 2000 Not-So-Bright Side Of The Moon, the record shows no sign of becoming irrelevant.

So when the Easy Star All-Stars‘ Dub Side Of The Moon (Easy Star) was released in 2003, the concept of a reggae version of the classic album inspired lots of eye rolling but little surprise. The thing is, Dark Side Of The Moon’s foreboding, psychedelic tone actually lends itself well to stripped-down reggae rhythms. Although dour lyrics on life, death, and class struggle may seem misplaced to the casual fan because of reggae’s deceptively easy-going rhythms, reggae has always been about suffering and battling Babylon’s spirit-killing system. It’s a notion Roger Waters surely identified with. Dub Side Of The Moon’s translation reinvents the total experience, from the sequencing to the reverb, from the irony to the surreal quality – all with a reggae beat. And for those who still consider such a non-traditional re-working sacrilege, remember the very name Pink Floyd comes from the first names of obscure bluesmen (Pink Anderson, Floyd Council), a genre that birthed both rock and reggae.

While the CD remains on the Billboard Reggae Catalog Chart three years later, a mere audio rendering was apparently not enough. A concert DVD, Dub Side Of The Moon Live (Easy Star), was recently released, giving fans a multi-dimensional trip through a psychedelic haze of sound, lights, and animation. Filmed last year in Falls Church, Virginia, the DVD supplies such an evocative experience you can almost smell the clouds of herb.

Opening inside an animated spaceship (aptly named U.S.S. Syd Barrett), a “rasta-naut” in a green spacesuit with yellow stripes down the side awakens to a flashing sign that announces he is “entering the dub side.” The slow rumblings of congas introduce the Easy Star All-Stars as the rasta-naut watches a transmission of the concert. The All-Stars, a seamless group of eight New York-based musicians, some of whom never even heard of Pink Floyd, perform with slowly building intensity that draws viewers in.

“Breathe (In The Air)” gets a decidedly hip-rolling treatment as bassist/singer Ras Iray glides over the lyrics like they were splashing ocean waves. The instrumental “On The Run” cascades into a full-throated, jazzy interpretation of “Time” by bare-footed vocalist Tamar-Kali. On the darkened stage, with strobe lights flashing and a projector streaming various images, the multi-ethnic band conjure a chaotic, free-flowing vision that works well with the psychedelic theme.

Although Dub Side Of The Moon Live is sequenced exactly like Dark Side, (even down to the notorious Wizard Of Oz timing) there are some differences. Most noticeably, the sound effects and audio clips that defined Dark Side are generally absent. Instrumentation, such as a drum solo instead of a heart beat on “Eclipse,” and the roaring clatter of unrestrained riffs and percussion rather than sounds of a plane crashing on “On The Run,” act as substitutes. That’s not to say there are no sound effects, they’re just sparsely and more effectively placed. The shining example of this is concert show stopper “Money.” Instead of the cash register ringing we hear a bong being lit along with deep inhale and cough. On the spaceship, the rasta-naut is warned with a flashing signal of “dub intensity reaching critical.” Critical indeed. He inhales into an oxygen mask but who’s to say what he’s really inhaling?

As the plodding strains of “Money” echo from the stage, Iray lends just the right amount of soulful abandon to his vocals while Jenny Hill’s sax solo underscores the tune’s raw frustration the way a guitar never could. DJ Menny More’s righteously skankin’ toast deepens the socio-political impact of the lyrics as he insists, “Me nah put no money/ before me brethren.” Closing with Junior Jazz’s ragged guitar licks, the tune attains perfection from beginning to end.

There are a lot of sublime moments on the DVD where the fears and moods of the ’70s meet the global reality of the new millennium. “The Great Gig In The Sky” is re-christened “Great Dub In The Sky” and accordingly sports a new bass line that, along with Kali’s wailing vocals, creates a whole new dimension. “Us And Them” also stands out with an almost spiritual feel thanks to Jeremy Mage’s throbbing keyboards and the slowly rocking band members. Jazz’s meditative vocals accentuate the song’s inward focus, but the All-Stars still manage a simmering rocksteady beat.

Visually, there’s nothing outstanding; it’s purely a musical performance. The bonus features are also mundane: pre-show footage, a photo gallery, and short interviews with the All-Stars. But Dub Side Of The Moon Live does exactly what it set out to do. It offers up a brilliant interpretation of Dark Side, not an overly-reverent cover or a cheeky tribute.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

With just 90 miles between them, the Caribbean’s two most musically prolific islands, Cuba and Jamaica, aren’t far apart. Both have spawned major musical genres that leap over language and geographical barriers, influencing music and fans the world over. Cuban mambo and son underscore countless rhythms from salsa to highlife. Jamaican reggae and ska turns up everywhere from British punk to Mexican alt-rock. Yet, these two musical forms, so geographically close, haven’t really blended together. Before the Cuban revolution in 1959, there was lots of cross-cultural borrowing. Calypso was popular in Cuba and early ska bands regularly sparked their sound with Cuban beats. By the ’60s, such exchanges were shut down. Mambo developed into salsa and ska birthed reggae and the two never met again.

Enter U.K. ska star Natty Bo. As the lead singer of London’s hottest ska band, the Top Cats, Natty Bo, aka Nathan Lerner, was well-versed in Jamaican musical history and a serious DJ with an impressive vinyl collection (“all the music I ever loved was recorded with one microphone”) Bo knew vintage Cuban music as well. What if the exchange between Cuba and Jamaica was never broken and allowed to expand? Then you’d probably have Ska Cubano, a quirky, infectious, brand of Cuban singers and ska musicians bent on filling that gap left in 1959.

On their second CD, ¡Ay Caramba! (Cumbancha), Ska Cubano gleefully throw together an unlikely mix of ska horn blasts, cumbia percussion, son melodies, and sly wit to produce a 14-track collection that sounds as fresh as it does danceable. Once described as “madness at midnight” in Havana, the Ska Cubano sound embraces many eras and countries. “You can hear New Orleans, Africa, and southern Spain as well as a fusion of Jamaica and Cuba,” says Bo about the band’s music. Journeying to Santiago de Cuba to record and put together a group of Cuban musicians, Bo tapped Beny Billy, a vocal dead ringer for legendary Cuban singer Beny More, to be the group’s other lead singer. The result is a record that sounds as if it was recorded in the ’50s but with a new-millennium sensibility.

Opening with the ’50s dancehall classic “Soy Campesino,” Billy tackles the cheesy lyrics with mock bravado while the roaring bassline encourages the fun outright. Soon after, we’re treated to the title track, a rollicking ska number with Bo’s comical Jamaican patois expertly weaving between the break beat. “Tabu,” another classic made famous by the 1941 movie, stands out with Billy’s vocals penetrating through the CD as he calls up African orishas over a retro rumba beat.

Bo insists he has always heard a latent Cuban influence in ska music, pointing to the fact Laurel Aitken, the godfather of ska, and Roland Alphonso, a founding member of the Skatalites, were born in Cuba. He also sees a connection between all the genres that appear to be incongruous on the album. “Cumbia has a similar rhythm to ska. A lot of Jamaicans have adopted Cuban rhythms such as son. And a calypso rhythm has a clave rhythm, which is the foundation for a lot of Cuban music,” he says.

Growing up in an immigrant community in South London, music was everywhere for young Bo, who got into ska as a 10-year old. “I loved fast music: Wilson Pickett, Sam Cooke, Fats Domino, Ray Charles. Ska came to me through the Skatalites, then Desmond Dekker and I loved Horace Andy.”

But ska wasn’t his only love. He also fancied early blues, rock, and hip-hop. “We were always surrounded by lots of nationalities and cultures. I identified with rap music,” he says. “I liked KRS-One, I loved the way funk and soul samples were adapted.”

After absorbing such a musical melting pot, recording in Cuba shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but the singer says visiting the island was unlike anything he had ever experienced. “It was like going into an ideal dream space,” he says. “I felt like I was going back into time. There’s no advertisements, all the kids play safely on the streets and music plays 24 hours a day. It’s like a different world. Some places really are untouched.”

Although he collected crates of old Cuban vinyl, in Santiago the singer encountered styles that he had never even heard before. This inspired him to experiment even more and record more than 45 tracks in Cuba, including a wacky mix of doo-wop with cumbia. Whether it turns up on the next Ska Cubano album is anyone’s guess, but he’s certain that ska itself will remain on the musical radar.

“Ska has longevity. It’s really upbeat, it’s happy dance music,” he says. “When ska came out in the ’60s, there was so much other music coming out. Accepting Jamaican music outside of Jamaica was a hard task. The mods and skinheads adopted it because they identified with it. It was minority music and it wasn’t played on the radio. It was an underground thing.”

No longer an underground thing, Bo intends to introduce ska and the mingled Cuban rhythms that Ska Cubano plays, to a much broader audience. “We anticipate a wider response,” he admits. “When you do a few albums, it looks like you’re really doing a lot of stuff! But it’s still a challenge because we’re making music that’s a blend of different genres and the fans may not know anything about either.”

With his vintage suits, diamond-encrusted teeth, and penchant for swing and the lindy hop, Natty Bo personifies many eras and styles, just like his music. Paired with the flamboyant, turban-wearing Billy, and the star power of band members Megumi Mesaku, (a ska sax sensation), Eddy “Tan Tan” Thornton (Jamaican trumpet legend), and Ray Crespo (noted Cuban bass player), Ska Cubano may just introduce an alternative musical universe to listeners everywhere.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Music should have no boundaries, but record labels think otherwise. The record industry constantly devises ever narrowing categories, from new soul to ska pop to indie rock. And what about the sounds that don’t fit, that defy labeling?

There’s plenty of music that refuses to be boxed in, even under the generous umbrella of global music. Amel Larrieux, Chantal Chamandy, and Natacha Atlas all create music that combines Indian, Middle Eastern, and African rhythms with modern mixes of soul, pop, and rock. They stir fusions of traditional and contemporary sounds for tunes that never fall completely into either category.

Labels have been trying to neatly cram Larrieux into the neo-soul category for years, but it never worked. For one thing, she’s too eclectic, both musically and culturally, with her Frida Kahlo braids and African American, French, and English background, to be pushed into such a tight space. So she did what any self-respecting artist does: She formed her own label, Bliss Life, and never looked back. Her recently released third solo CD, Morning, reflects the dizzying range of Larrieux’s musical style, shifting from soulful, folky ballads to uptempo jazz with hints of Middle Eastern melodies.

Opening with the upbeat samba rhythms of “Trouble,” the singer combines a chirpy delivery with jazz-infused scatting for a danceable yet complex song. On the other hand, “Weary” showcases Larreiux’s emotional interpretation coupled with sharp songwriting: “Whoever said that love was overrated/must not be getting none.” This is underscored with a stealthy tabla beat. The 10-track album offers a balance of her musical skills, from her willowy vocals weaving between talking drums on “Earn My Affection” to the funk and bass of “Mountain Of When.” Morning doesn’t sound like anything you’d hear on the radio or MTV and that’s what makes it a worthy listen.

Born in Egypt to a Greek-Egyptian father and a Lebanese mother, raised in Montreal and billed as the Egyptian Jennifer Lopez, Chamandy embodies globalization. Make no mistake however, this sultry performer is a pop singer, heavy emphasis on the top-40. Her first single, the percolating, tabla spiced “You Want Me,” has already climbed Britain’s dance charts and though she boasts a lovely, fluid voice, she uses it the same way her Montreal song sister Celine does, with lots of over-the-top drama.

Chamandy’s 14-track Love Needs You (Ninemuse) sounds like the aural version of a fusion restaurant – English lyrics accented with splashes of Spanish, French, and Arabic and topped with Middle Eastern and Indian instrumentation. She plays her exoticism like a Bollywood violin; Egyptian nuances with a J.Lo pop sensibility is exactly what you get. The first track, “Zindegi,” sums it up with breathy lovelorn vocals couched in Middle Eastern darboukas. “You Want Me” stands out with a teasing delivery tossed with throbbing tablas and her Pakistani collaborator Subir Dev’s ethereal chants. A few tunes, like the frothy Latin ballad “Feels Like Love” and the overblown, Indian-influenced “Take A Chance,” stray too far into Dion-anthem territory, but overall the CD provides an accessible blend of global pop sounds.

With a throaty voice drenched in the heady influences of Morocco, Egypt, and Palestine, Atlas doesn’t just sing, she caresses words until they submit to her will. The queen of multicultural music since she burst onto the scene in the ’90s with Transglobal Underground, Atlas is noted for her restless and ingenious experimentations. She marries Middle Eastern music with drum and bass, hip-hop, Bollywood, and French chanson with unaffected ease and charm. Mish Maoul (Mantra) finds her returning to her North African roots with spectacular success.

From the first few hypnotic notes of “Oully,” the haunting opening tune she sings with Temple Of Sound’s Nick Page, it’s apparent Atlas is serious. No dabbling with cute gimmicks; no more elaborate sound experimentations. This album presents all the music Atlas claims with authority and sincerity. Backed by luminous string arrangements by the Golden Sound Studio Orchestra Of Cairo, as well as healthy doses of oud, gasba flute, and ghaita, the CD vibrates with innovation and authenticity.

“Feen” serves up an unlikely yet flavorful, booty-shaking gumbo of hip-hop beats, R&B verses, and Middle Eastern crooning. “Hayati Inta” swirls with Tuareg claps and pounding Arabic rhythms, and “Ghanwa Bossanova” whips together sinewy Middle Eastern delivery over a groovy bossa nova melody. Mish Maoul is a rich stew, but it will certainly feed all the listeners starving to death on a limited recording industry diet.

Natacha Atlas appearing 9/18 at the World Music Festival in Chicago.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

“You have to be a good singer, have good language skills, know Hindi and Urdu and every language to make it in Bollywood,” she says. “You can’t give the feelings of the lyrics if you don’t understand the language. Without feeling, music is nothing. If it’s a sad song, inside you must cry. If it’s a dance song, inside you have to feel that you’re dancing in the temple. I am always acting as I sing.”

As the world’s largest and most prolific film industry, Bollywood churns out thousands of films each year. India’s popular music comes from these movies and the handful of playback singers that perform them. The ability to sing convincingly as the hero, the vamp, or the betrayed lover defines success and Bhosle has worked for more than five decades perfecting this skill.

“If the role is a young girl or middle-aged, I take on the role,” she says. “I do a lot of young-girl roles so my voice sounds young. There are a lot of very young-girl roles for 16 or 17-year-olds. I always think about the age before I sing.” With a lilting voice that suggests the energy of youth, Bhosle sounds and looks young. Usually covered in glittering white or pastel saris and wearing a dimpled smile, the glamorous grandmother barely looks older than 45. Yet, it was way back in 1948, when she was 10-years-old, that she sang her first movie role.

Born into an Indian musical dynasty at a time when the cinema was the main form of entertainment, Bhosle seemed destined to be a great musician. Her father was Dinanath Mangeshkar, a renowned singer, actor, and major proponent of Sangeet Natak, a regional musical theater tradition. There is no division between dance, music, and theater in Indian culture, and thanks to her father’s profession, Bhosle and her four siblings benefited from a strong foundation in all. When her father unexpectedly died in 1942, 14-year-old Lata was the first to earn a living in the cinema. All five Mangeshkar siblings became either noted singers or composers, sparking gripes among competitors that the family, especially Lata and Asha, have monopolized the Bollywood music industry.

Bhosle denies this, frankly explaining “there has just not been anyone as good as the Mangeshkars.” Starting in the industry shortly after her sister, who is four years older, Bhosle concentrated on creating a style markedly different from her sibling. “My father was a classical singer and a drama artist. He taught both of us but we use what he taught in different ways,” she says.

While Lata is known for her refined, straightahead vocals, Bhosle is famous for her versatility and penchant for musical challenges. For almost 10 years, Bhosle was relegated to B and C-grade films while her sister and Bollywood’s other leading singer, Geeta Dutt, won all the prominent roles. She worked relentlessly, grooming her gift for rhythm, mimicry, and a flawless ear. Taking on risky roles and challenging songs, she built a career on her ability to sing difficult tunes that tripped up other singers. Her breakthrough arrived in 1957, when a series of hit films propelled her into the rarified position of Bollywood royalty. She has remained there ever since.

Although she didn’t start her concert career until she had been performing in films for three decades, Bhosle always manages to remain current, as evidenced from remixes by the Black Eyed Peas and Nellie Furtado. Her new double CD, Love Supreme (Times Square), also reveals her mercurial skill at sounding fresh and innovative after so many years of performing.

A strong collection of newly recorded ghazals – love songs based in Persian and Urdu poetry – as well as duets from her most popular movies, the album clearly reveals her genius for interpretation. Opening with the catchy pop undertones of “Sarakati Jaye Hai” and gliding to the hot Cuban funk rhythms of “Aawargi,” the first disc showcases Bhosle’s voice couched in everything from Indian classical to jazz and rock, mirroring the essence of each.

The real treat on Love Supreme is the second disc of Bollywood classics hand-picked by Bhosle and offered only on the North American edition. The fun, kitsch, and sheer drama of Bollywood pours out of every tune. There’s “Duniya Mein” from the film Apna Desh, which features Asha and her former husband R.D. Burman countering her high delivery with a gruff, manic vocal. There’s also “Mere Mehboob Mein Kya Nahin” from Mere Mehboob, which she performs with Lata. A classical Indian folk song, listeners can hear the friendly rivalry as each sister aims to outdo the other. With two videos also offered on the disc, Love Supreme brings Bhosle and all her multi-layered Bollywood brilliance to Western ears.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Nevertheless, Ramos’ keen ears steered him further away from his friends’ musical tastes. “I remember Paul Simon’s ‘Me And Julio Down By The Schoolyard’ as the first time I heard Latin elements on Top-40 radio,” he says. The teen started noticing other rhythms, such as ska and reggae. “I started carrying around issues of Rolling Stone. I had heard Johnny Nash’s version of ‘Stir It Up’ and I started reading about Bob Marley. I bought his record and I thought it would be bouncy and cute. It wasn’t. The more I got into it, the more I couldn’t relate to my friends musically. I looked for things more complex and rhythmic.”

That’s still the case, as evidenced by the smorgasbord of sounds on Charanga Cakewalk’s new CD, Chicano Zen (Triloka). A colorful collection of 11 tracks that range from hypnotic electronica grooves to old-school boleros, this album, along with last year’s critically acclaimed Loteria de la Cumbia Lounge, firmly establishes Ramos as a Latin music star with a catch.

A twisted road to Latin music is truly an understatement when you consider Ramos constructed the first part of his 30-year career as a sideman for roots rock groups the BoDeans and The Rembrandts. (He wasn’t there for the “Friends” theme song recording.) The rest of the time he worked as a session man for Paul Simon, folk rocker Patty Griffin, and until a couple of months ago, John Mellencamp. Not exactly a Latin music star’s resume, but Ramos says there were always undercurrents of the direction he would finally take with his music.

“I started off playing piano as a kid and as I got older, I got more comfortable with the concept of playing Latin music,” he says. “Groups like Los Lobos made it O.K. One day, I just decided to buy an accordion [the key element for Tex-Mex conjunto and Tejano music]. I had just joined the BoDeans as the keyboard player and I took it out on the road. One of the band members saw it and told me to bring it to practice. On my first gig with the BoDeans, they tell me to play the accordion! It was baptism by fire. I had to learn the technique as I went along. It’s got a keyboard so I didn’t have to learn the notes, but it was intense.”

Ramos was ridiculed for playing the accordion but managed to ignore it. “It’s so cliche to make fun of the accordion,” he says. “There were very few accordion players 20 years ago and it was not cool. Then I started working with artists who wanted accordion on everything. When people joke about it, I say, ‘Hey, come see the studio that the accordion built.’”

Through the years of playing with various pop/rock acts and lacing their music with hints of Latin flavor, it never occurred to Ramos to form a Latin band. “I never wanted to front any band,” he insists. “I’m the reluctant frontman. I just wanted to sit home and make records.” The turning point arrived when Ramos produced the title track for Griffin’s Grammy-nominated 1,000 Kisses in 2001. Based upon his favorite Tejano standard, “Mil Besos,” he convinced the non-Spanish-speaking Griffin to sing it in Spanish to underscore the emotional purity with luscious Latin rhythms. The result convinced Ramos to finally record his own Latin-based album.

Chicano Zen echoes Ramos’ influences and inspirations on various levels. The CD cover shows a flour and a corn tortilla, arranged to form the yin yang symbol. On top are flaming Mexican heart icons. It’s an obvious reference to the musician’s heritage but also a reflection of his broader outlook.

“You always have to make choices, whether it’s paper or plastic, decaf or caf,” says Ramos. “In Austin, it’s a given that you’ll always be asked, ‘flour or corn?’ We all have to live by our decisions, big or small. I wanted to let people in on who I am and where I’ve been. I look into ways to incorporate all those things and filter it through the fact that I am Chicano or Latino.”

Chicano Zen’s title track opens the disc and wraps Lila Down’s ethereal vocals around a peppy electronica beat sprinkled with strains of traditional bajo sexto and harp playing. The song features Ramos giving trancey shout outs to such cultural staples as quinceñeras (sweet 15 celebrations), abuelos (grandparents), novelas (soap operas), and polkas y rancheras (Tex-Mex accordion-based music). Although it’s sung totally in Spanish and features traditional Latin instruments such as the bajo sexto, juarana, and, of course, the accordion, there’s enough musical crossover to capture anyone’s attention.

Besides being urban Latino chic, Ramos believes any listener can relate to Charanga Cakewalk, regardless of Spanish skills.

“For me, when I listen to world music and they’re singing in another language, I make up the lyrics in my head. My music can be whatever people want it to be.”

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

To Americans, Nelson Mandela and Dr. Desmond Tutu may be the most famous South Africans, but if you’re part of the “Soweto generation” (those born in the mid ’70s to early ’80s, just before apartheid was abolished), it’s more likely the most notable South African is Thandiswa Mazwai.

As the lead singer and songwriter for Bongo Maffin, an iconic trio that helped place kwaito – a hybrid of hip-hop, reggae, house, and South African sensibilities – on the map, Mazwai was the voice of young, urban South Africa. Her thought-provoking lyrics and lush vocals gave witness to all the political and cultural concerns of post-apartheid South Africa. After eight years and four albums with Bongo Maffin, Mazwai released a highly anticipated solo album, Zabalaza (Escondida), in 2004. Created to coincide with the 10th anniversary of South African freedom, and boasting a stunning collection of music that defines contemporary African identity, the CD electrified Africa, Europe, and Japan, garnering a cavalcade of awards including a Kora (African equivalent of a Grammy) for Best Female Artist.

Now known as simply Thandiswa, and with her album recently released in the U.S., the 30-year-old singer-songwriter stands poised to represent “the Soweto generation” to the world.

“We are in a position in South Africa where we have to define the [new] South African way. It forces my generation to be introspective and decide what to pass onto the next generation. Where do we stand?” asks Thandiswa.

Taking a stand has always carried weight for the daughter of radical journalists. Sometimes accused of being “too African” she reveres the rich legacy of African history and culture. It’s a reverence that runs through every facet of Zabalaza, from the title – a term that means action or rebellion – to the liner photos of Thandiswa in full Xhosa make-up to songs that tackle fleeting South African history and cultural pride. “We live in a world where being African is considered weird. Why are you walking barefoot? Why are you wearing those beads? We have to fight to be who we are.”

It’s a fight that may continue for some, but Thandiswa clearly has won her own battle to retain an African identity. Born in the rural village of Transkei but raised in Soweto during apartheid, she fiercely guards South Africa’s legacy of hard-won freedom. “I grew up with one leg in the past and one in the future,” she says. “I saw freedom in my time.” Noted for her striking fashion sense, the voluptuous singer often sports traditional African hairstyles and costumes mixed with contemporary pieces like tanks and leather jackets. She sings mostly in Zulu and Xhosa, and when queried about her U.S. concerts this summer, Thandiswa swears she’ll perform barefoot. “I like to be barefoot. I like my body to experience my life, not my shoes.”

The singer takes the same organic approach to her music. To create Zabalaza she traveled to her Transkei homeland, soaking up traditional Xhosa melodies, the sounds of the Uhadi (a traditional one-string harp), and cultural wisdom about the connection between spirit, nature, and music. The result is a genre-bending masterpiece of South African soul and protest songs, sprinkled with gospel, jazz, and kwaito. Straddling both the urban and the natural world, *Zabalaza* smoothly explores both aspects of the African experience.

Opening with “Mkhankatho,” one of three interludes that glimpse indigenous rhythms and chanting, the vignette sets the tone for the remaining tracks. “Nizalwa Ngobani? (Do You Know Where You Come From)” immediately establishes the lyrical and musical focus. A soaring midtempo tune that melds a modern, soulful delivery with a throbbing Maskandi guitar, Thandiswa sings half in Xhosa and half in English: “The world changes/revolutionaries die/and the children forget.” Translations aren’t really necessary because the mournful feel leaps from the song. Emotion flows throughout the CD, from the fervor of “Revelation,” to the forceful conviction of “Ndiyahamba (I’m Leaving).”

The highlight is the title track. Filled with rage and melodious passion, the song swirls with a bouncing rhythm as it relates the post-apartheid reality: “For their blood, sweat, and tears/for their struggle and pain/cause they gave up their lives for this/and it makes me wanna scream/when I see things this way.” Thandiswa’s gift is her eloquent ability to communicate past language and cultural barriers. Her solo debut provides an authentic voice for young Africans, as well as young people struggling with identity and past legacies anywhere.

“Self love and self acceptance is the most important message from the album,” she says. “One of the main reasons I do this is to have a conversation with my generation and community. I hope it will cause discussion and engage people. Being African means a certain mysticism and a certain magic. It’s our gift to the world. Every holy book says to be true to yourself. We just have to listen.”

“My family came over to Cape Breton in 1824. I’m a third-generation Canadian but I was always curious about Scottish culture,” says Mary Jane Lamond, a critically acclaimed singer-songwriter who is part of a Cape Breton movement to preserve the disappearing Scottish Gaelic language. Although Cape Breton is the only place outside of Scotland where Scottish Gaelic is spoken, there are only about 500 native speakers left, and Lamond has helped reverse the trend. In 1997, she kicked off a traditional Celtic music explosion by releasing Suas e! (Turtlemusik), a finely crafted collection of ancient Gaelic tunes paired with contemporary pop sounds. The CD earned major Canadian music awards along with renewed attention for Celtic culture. Her subsequent Turtlemusik releases — 1999’s Lán Dúi and 2001’s Gaelic Songs Of Cape Breton (Orain Ghaidhlig) — established Lamond as one of the most renowned Gaelic singers.

The recently released Storas (Treasures) reinforces her position with a breathtaking presentation of traditional Scottish songs accompanied by not-so-traditional instrumentation and harmony. “I am part of the modern world, I like to arrange music and experiment with sound,” she says, explaining her take on Gaelic music. “Traditional Gaelic singers like things unaccompanied, but when you sing in a language that a lot of people don’t understand, the music adds another layer to connect the music to listeners.”

Thanks to her pure, haunting voice and innovative, yet reverent arrangements, there’s been a lot of connecting going on. Storas flows with centuries-old tunes brought to life by Lamond’s soaring acoustic band and her masterful weaving of understated emotion layered with sparkling nuances. On 11 distinctive tracks, Lamond glides from milling songs to laments to jaunty dance numbers. Despite their varied original purpose, all retain a glimmer of melancholy, resonating long after they’re over. “I would say that people compose poetry to assuage pain,” says Lamond of the sadness that seems to linger in most Celtic verse. “There are a lot of local songs that would have been humorous and they fall out of existence because they were tied to daily events. There are also a lot of laments in the bardic tradition. The bards for the hereditary chiefs had to write eulogies as a main part of their jobs.”

An acknowledged authority on Celtic history and culture with a bachelor’s degree in Celtic studies, Lamond didn’t grow up speaking Gaelic and didn’t even begin delving into Cape Breton’s trove of traditional music until she was well into adulthood. But the glimpses she caught growing up — hearing her grandparents speak the language; learning to sing phonetically in a Gaelic choir — helped ignite her interest. “I always loved the songs. I loved the melodies even though I didn’t know the language. There was always a curiosity there.” The turning point came when she was invited to a traditional “milling frolic” (a group, usually women, who sing as they mill wool by hand) in 1989. “There were all these people sitting at a table, pounding cloth and singing. It was so rhythmic and the melodies were so great. That was it. I knew I had found my voice.”

The other way she finds her voice is by sifting through archival tapes to uncover traditional tunes to perform. This is how she discovered two of the most striking songs on the album, “Gur e mo rún Dómhnallach (It Is My Love The MacDonald Man)” and “Blár Inbhir Lóchaidh (The Battle Of Inverlochy).” The latter dates back to 1645, and Lamond performs the lament of a woman who has lost her father, husband, four brothers, and three sons, a capella with dramatic pacing. The former was gleaned from a Smithsonian tape from the ’50s and is a typical milling song about a lover away at sea, accented with light percussion and a lively chorus.

“I get described as a preservationist but I don’t see myself that way,” she says. “It’s my life and passion. I love to listen to archival tapes. You become an interpreter or a vessel for the songs. It feels amazing to sing a song that came from such a far away time. The tenacity of the culture, that it could survive all that time, is inspiring. Preserving a culture has to be part of a grassroots movement. I promote the culture. Hearing the music might inspire people to learn the language. Just now, people are starting to appreciate the value of the language. I want people to enjoy the beauty of the songs as much as I enjoy singing them.”

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Despite Austin Powers‘ groovy musical imagery, the swingin’ ’60s weren’t just about psychedelic rock riffs. The sounds of Brazil, from “The Girl From Ipanema” to various samba and bossa nova hybrids, also ruled, and Sergio Mendes and his group, Brazil 66, were at the forefront of the movement. From the moment they burst onto the scene in 1966 with the anthemic “Mas Que Nada,” a tune with a swirling mix of jazz undertones, bossa nova beats, and a soft pop melody, a musical love affair between Brazil and the U.S. ignited. Mendes and Brazilian-influenced music dominated radio and domestic pop charts for the latter half of the ’60s but dwindled until the lambada craze of the ’80s and Mendes’ 1983 comeback hit, “Never Gonna Let You Go.”

Although Mendes remains internationally popular, his musical presence in the U.S. has been scant, as evidenced by the “Seinfeld” episode “The Old Man,” where Kramer attempts to get more money for a used Mendes LP by reminding the record store clerk of the Brazilian’s “cult following.” The Valentine’s Day release of Timeless (Concord), however, points to the power and longevity of Mendes’ American influence. Produced by the Black Eyed Peas‘ will.I.am and featuring a hip-hop and R&B who’s who including Erykah Badu, India.Arie, John Legend, Black Thought, and Q-Tip, the 15-track album seamlessly blends classic Brazilian rhythms with contemporary American hip-hop and R&B. Although most of the tunes are almost 40-years old, they still manage to sound fresh and infectious, which is a definite reflection of Mendes’ musical insight as well as will.I.am’s skilled ear.

“I really wasn’t thinking about making a record, I’ve made so many records through the years,” says Mendes. Although he was busy touring internationally, Mendes was drawn back into the record-making scene when will.I.iam invited him to play piano on “Sexy” from the Peas’ 2003 release, Elephunk. Discovering the East L.A.-bred MC was a well-versed fan of his music, Mendes decided maybe it was time to make another album. “It was one of those great meetings,” he says of his introduction to will.I.am. “I’m very curious. I’m always looking for something fresh for inspiration and there it was! I thought, let’s take the great Brazilian melodies and combine it with the hip-hop and urban world.”

Mendes has been mixing and combining genres for decades. A classically trained pianist who abandoned classical for bossa nova and jazz as a teen, Mendes’ early music always seemed to straddle the space between international pop and watered-down elevator music. His covers of The Beatles’ “Fool On The Hill” and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair,” with their light jazz tone and simpering vocals, came dangerously close to sounding like rhythmic lullabies. Thankfully, there’s none of that on Timeless. All of the songs, from the revelatory “Mas Que Nada,” to the sensual title track, retain the essence of Brazilian samba, choro, and bossa nova rhythms coupled with hip-hop beats for flavorful results.

Opening with Mendes’ slow tickling of the ivories, “Mas Que Nada” slams right into a percolating samba beat with the Peas rapping over it for an urban update: “Mas Que Nada/Black Eyes came to make you hot/ter/blubblin’ up just like la/va/rhythmically we massage ya/with hip-hop mixed up with sam/ba.” The highlight is Fergie’s jazzy Portuguese singing, which firmly identifies Mendes’ signature tune as the original Latin crossover hit. On the other hand, “That Heat” is a total re-working of “Slow Hot Wind,” with a bangin’ hip-hop beat coupled with Badu’s languorous crooning and will. I.am’s rapping. The only glimpse of the initial song is a sample, which reveals its original polished, jazz lounge feel. Perhaps the most innovative makeover is “Bananiera (Ba-nana Tree),” which boasts a hot dancehall riddim with popular Jamaican DJ Mr. Vegas providing a scorching toast that forever joins Brazilian samba with Jamaican reggae.

“I think melodies are the key for me,” says Mendes about connecting Brazilian music to other genres. “The strength of a song is in the melody, it doesn’t really matter if it’s in Portuguese or English or Swahili. Although some songs deserve English lyrics because it’s such an international language, that’s the only real adapting I’ve done with my music. Everything else is very spontaneous.”

Summing up the impact of his music as a legacy of the varying nature of Brazilian music, Mendes insists all he has ever focused on was having a great time. “What makes Brazilian music so interesting is its diversity,” he says. You go to Rio, you’ll hear one thing, to São Paulo another and still another along the Amazon region. Africa is where all the rhythms come from but Brazilians mix them with everything else. I just keep rolling and keep my curiosity alive.”

– Rosalind Cummings Yeates

It’s not easy to be a singer in Arabic countries, you really have to prove yourself,” says Algerian singer and guitarist Souad Massi. For a Muslim woman who wears jeans, doesn’t cover her head, and dares to perform frowned upon Western genres such as hard rock, that’s somewhat of an understatement. Then again, understatement seems to be the favored method of communication for the critically acclaimed singer-songwriter. Exiled in Paris since 1999, Massi’s music addresses the longing and hardships of Algeria’s expatriate community with subtlety and hope. Her third CD, Honeysuckle (Mesk Elli) (Wrasse), presents the complicated landscape of the culturally diverse, war-torn country with a melancholy air that never directly states anything. Yet, the 11-track album, with Massi’s lustrous, sultry voice couched in everything from Algerian chaabi rhythms to flamenco flourishes and Tuareg grooves, speaks volumes.

Growing up in the suburbs of the coastal capital Algiers, Massi listened to everything from rock to country to reggae and flamenco. Traditional Arabic folk music didn’t interest her. “We got a lot of music from all over because Algeria is at the crossroads to Europe and Africa. All these different influences were on the radio,” she says. With these elements swirling around her, it wasn’t too surprising when she hooked up with a flamenco band and then most famously in the mid ’90s, a hard rock band, Atakor. “They asked me to play with them. In the beginning it was very noisy but in the end, it was O.K.,” she says.

The Algerian military government apparently didn’t think so. Rock represents rebellion to fundamentalists and even though Massi’s lyrics never made any overt political statements, her growing fame made her a target. Violence at concerts and anonymous phone calls with thinly veiled death threats inspired her to question her musical career. She had fronted Atakor for seven years and enjoyed a best-selling album and critical acclaim for the band’s fusion of folk and rock, but she considered giving it all up. Just at that point in 1999, the musician got a call to perform at the Femmes d’Algérie festival in Paris. Her pure voice and acoustic-guitar playing won her a record deal with Island Records and she’s been in Paris ever since.

“It’s always a problem when you’re an outsider,” she says of being an immigrant in France’s xenophobic culture. “In general, it’s very difficult but I’m in France to work. I sacrifice my life. I have to cope and deal with it.” It’s something that Africans and Arabs have been doing for generations in France, struggling to survive amid the French’s refusal to acknowledge their colonial past or make any adjustments for it. The recent nationwide riots illustrated the simmering resentment and anger that such denial reaps, but Massi chooses to express her frustrations through her deceptively tranquil music.

Although she’s often compared to Joan Baez and Tracy Chapman and lists spaghetti westerns and Emmylou Harris as influences, Souad Massi’s sound is really unlike anything else, especially popular Algerian music. While Rachid Taha and Khaled have erected impressive careers with thumping rai rhythms, Massi weaves a sweeping tapestry that perhaps points to her nomadic Berber roots. Singing mostly in Arabic with rock, folk, and classical Arabic music as her foundation, Massi can sound like a weary Cape Verdean morna singer on one tune and a lovelorn French chanteuse on the next. At 32, she has developed an identity closely tied to Algeria but rooted in the various musical genres that helped nurture her as a musician. “Algeria is very significant to who I am,” she says. “Geographically, it opens up to lots of places where different music is born. That’s who I am too.”

Honesuckle (Mesk Elil) opens with “Soon (Kilyoum)” a rousing tune that mixes a churning chaabi beat steeped with the yearning and loss of morna melodies. It’s about an immigrant who tries to communicate the loneliness of another land while attempting to convince a loved one they will return home soon. It serves as a telling example of the dichotomy of the entire album. Lots of interesting hybrids and uptempo rhythms are paired with lyrics that translate intense longing and melancholy. Massi’s voice is mercurial and can boast a wide range of emotion and attitudes and it’s this quality that transcends everything else. On “That’s Life (Denya Wezen)” her voice melts into zithers and flamenco guitars for high drama, while “There’s Worse (Hagda Wala Akter)” positively weeps with mournful cello and Massi’s haunting crooning that reveals hurt and painful memories. The stand-out track, “Inspiration (Ilham)” offers a bouncing Tuareg groove coupled with the singer’s rough, high-powered vocals. Listeners would be convinced that this was the CD’s lone upbeat dance tune, if not for lyrics that explain a tale of betrayal and sadness.

Though all of Massi’s music reflects the conflict of longing for the past yet being firmly planted in the present, it also displays her connection to Algeria and hope for its future. Indirectly, she represents the wealth of Algerian culture and the need to embrace the future as well as the past.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates

Americans have always had an odd relationship with reggae. In the ’70s, Lee “Scratch” Perry, Third World, and Jimmy Cliff won some attention but never much radio play, which generally means few album sales. Bob Marley managed to break through with digestible nuggets of rock and soul pushing through a cloud of raw reggae rhythms. It was a rarified popularity, however. The gifted Jamaican freedom fighter never gained the magazine covers, constant radio play, and universal recognition when he was alive. As a dead musical icon, his most accessible songs get some airplay on oldies stations and on commercials. His face graces the T-shirts and posters of every college spliff fan, but few can explain the meaning of any of Marley’s lyrics, which they listen to in a smoky haze of righteous cluelessness.

And so goes the American perception of reggae. U.S. sales pale in contrast to Europe, Japan, and basically, the rest of the world. Then dancehall hit in the ’80s and ’90s. Suddenly, myriad salable images popped up, just ripe for record-label marketing machines. There was the hardcore rudeboy, menacing and gleaming with sex appeal of Shabba Ranks, Buju Banton, and Madd Cobra. There was the sassy dancehall girl, swaying her pum-pum short covered backside to wicked riddims of Patra, and dancehall albums climbed the charts and radio playlists while obscure stars like Shaggy and Maxi Priest appeared regularly on MTV with pop-infused hits.

Like trip-hop and “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” though, dancehall enjoyed trendy status with Americans, but by the late ’90s, it was over.

For 2005, the cycle has started again and this time, it’s quite interesting. Two reggae albums, Damian Marley’s Welcome To Jamrock (Universal) and Sean Paul’s Trinity (VP), have set the Billboard charts ablaze. Marley made the biggest reggae debut in the chart’s history, selling 86,000 in the first week. Sean Paul debuted at number seven on the Billboard 200, another first for a reggae release. While Marley is more of a roots reggae artist and Sean Paul focuses on dancehall, both performers reflect reggae’s original mission of providing a voice for Jamaica’s, as well as the world’s, downtrodden. For the first time in years, American listeners are clamoring to hear reggae on a major scale. What makes these particular albums appealing to a public that usually ignores the genre? The answer lies in the authenticity and overall effectiveness of the artist’s message, as well as image.

Sean Paul’s lyrics generally concentrate on partying, boasting, and sex. Along with guns, these are the foremost topics for typical dancehall music. However, on Trinity he stretches a bit. The title track (which reportedly refers to the musical trinity of dancehall, hip-hop, and reggae) explains his commitment to survival amid Jamaica’s treacherous political system. “My aim is to stay sane/I never did like and I never did love fame,” he chants with convincing force. On “Never Gonna’ Be The Same,” he laments the murder of his friend Daddigon, a fellow DJ in his crew. The statement is clear: The violence that wrecks Jamaica must stop. If only more of his songs had a message like this.

Most of the 18 tracks of Trinity re-visit the tried-and-true sex and herb lyrics of his previous blockbuster album, Dutty Rock. Nothing wrong with that, except Sean Paul has never been much of a DJ, and if you don’t have a skillful delivery, all that’s left are lyrics and riddims. So there’s not much of a message here, and the beats, like his delivery, are pedestrian at best. A few tunes are genuinely enjoyable but not enough to make this a great album. So why the huge crossover appeal? It’s been about image from day one. Tawny-skinned and laid back, with just the right amount of smoldering sexuality, he boasts an exotic but not too threatening look. Wearing cornrows and baggy yet elegant pants, he’s an easy sell to an American public that wants a hint of Jamaica but not too much. As a former water-polo-playing, pampered son of a noted Jamaican artist and a Portuguese ship captain, Sean Paul never got much respect from Jamaican fans. No matter how gritty his delivery, no matter how nasty the riddim, he lacks authenticity and that will always be the hallmark for a true reggae star.

Damian Marley, on the other hand, has the pedigree to overstep such pitfalls. With a Grammy under his belt for his last album, Halfway Tree, and sharp, politically conscious lyrics, he may be poised to take over where his father left off, alerting the world to the oppression of ghetto life. Welcome To JamRock presents a startling panorama of the struggles and injustices of Jamaican poverty. Tunes like the title track and “Confrontation” smoothly combine one-drop reggae rhythms with touches of dancehall and R&B, couched between socially keen lyrics. With his waist-length locks swinging over fatigues emblazoned with strips of red, green, and gold, he must surely be the savior for ghetto youth everywhere. Except, as the youngest son of Bob Marley and former Miss World, Cindy Breakspeare, he’s never even come close to living in a ghetto.

His songs are convincing but how authentic is their message? Well, as the elder Marley once sang, “He who feels it/knows it.” Damian surely doesn’t know ghetto life like his father did, but that doesn’t mean he can’t identify with those who suffer from it. So his message is there, whatever the level of authenticity. The spitting image of his father, Damian Marley’s image presents a built-in sales tool for his record label to pitch to an American audience that generally only knows the Marley name when it comes to reggae. It’s a winning combination that will probably prove long-lasting, even in a place where reggae flits between trends and fashions every few years.

– Rosalind Cummings-Yeates