Random A-List for Set: Africa

Artists from Africa.

Here are 12 A-list albums, selected at random from Set: Africa. Use your Reload button to get more.

Kings of African Music [1997, Music Club]
Ali Farka Toure's folkloricism to Manu Dibango's dance jazz is a leap for anyone who can hear, and as a listener who has learned to distinguish instinctively among the vocal approaches of Zimbabwe, Congo, and Senegal (to overgeneralize shamefully, call them rough, sweet, and piercing), I object in principle to the pan-African conceit. But essentialism has its lessons, such as how overtly dramatic--ergo individualistic?--pop vocals have gotten continent-wide since the ebullient postcolonial communitarianism captured by John Storm Roberts's Africa Dances. And done as well as this, essentialism also has its uses--as a budget-priced introduction for theoretical Afrocentrists ready to confront musical reality, and a minor treasure trove for supposed experts like me. How can it be that I never heard Franco's "Tres Impoli" before? A-

Loketo: Extra Ball [1991, Shanachie]
They've subdivided now--Aurlus Mabele keeps the logo, Diblo Dibala takes the John Hancock. But your last chance at a great band is also your best. Mabele's warm, rich, relaxed baritone is merely foremost among several engaging voices, and the guitar dominates, as it should. Endlessly, effortlessly fluent, Dibala pours his most gorgeous effects into a hornless format that varies and repeats like prime James Brown. I just hope he meshes with bassist Miguel Yamba in real life. They should be together. A

Pablo Lubadika: Okominiokolo [1993, Sterns]
Lubadika's guitar is one of the almost interchangeable signatures of the HI-NRG Paris soukous sound. Delicate, nimble, tripping the light fantastic where Diblo Dibala and Syran M'Benza peal and billow, he is nevertheless delighted to feature each on a different three of these nine tracks. Generic Franco-Zairean at its most beguiling--the kind of record that makes you want to get serious about unlocking your pelvic girdle. A-

Remmy Ongala and Orchestre Super Matimila: Songs for the Poor Man [1989, RealWorld]
Isolated culturally and economically by socialist underdevelopment, Tanzanian pop nurtures national treasures more diligently than neighboring Zairean and Kenyan styles--though since soukous is hegemonic from Accra to Harare, you can bet both compete mightily. Ongala's unbrassy lineup--three guitarists, three percussionists, a bassist, and a sax player or two--doesn't strive the way Afro-Parisian often does, which is a relief. Rather than relentless Afrodance upmanship, he cultivates a variety that suits Tanzania's folk-friendly cultural policy. And whatever their actual rhythmic origins, the up-front conga parts that double the guitar lines convey an esteem for both tribal difference and East African ways that complements the caring precision of Ongala's singing and the undulating buoyancy of his groove. Sweet. Strong. Maybe even self-sufficient. A

Orchestra Baobab: Bamba [1993, Sterns]
Especially on the title song, which hails a hero of Islam, this will remind On Verra Ça fans of how luxuriously and site-specifically this band hears classic salsa. But in addition guitarist Barthélémy Attisso, the star of an all-star show, has been listening to Osibisa or maybe Santana and taking the bullshit out. Two five-cut '80-'81 LPs fit on one CD, each of which breaks up the way prime African albums usually do--three-four really good ones plus pleasant filler. A bargain. A-

Orchestra Baobab: La Belle Époque: Volume 2 1973-1976 [2012, Syllart]
Proud owner of their early N'Wolof, which focuses on the pioneering Wolof traditionalist Laye M'Boup, and of the late-'70s Paris sessions released decades ago as On Verra Ça, I thought I had all the early Baobab I needed and most of what there was. Now I doubt that even this follow-up to the 1971-77 first volume reviewed below gets it all. As Florent Mazzoleni's français-seulement notes make (somewhat) clear, they released many (shortish) albums back when they were the toast of the post-colonial elite at downtown Dakar's Club Baobab. Salsa was the rage of Senegal's emergent ruling class, and there was always clave near the heart of Baobab's groove. But cosmopolitanism was also on the agenda of a multitribally multilingual unit that could bring off its worldwide ambitions because its band sound was as solid and unmistakable as the Rolling Stones'. Hear them run King Curtis over Jimmy Cliff on "Issa Soul" or go all-out JB on "Kelen Kati Leen," try an uptempo blues on "Sey" or a careful bolero on "Cabral," remember their roots on "Nidiaye" or stretch out San Francisco-style on "Sibou Odia." Hear Togolese Bartelemy Attisso run the show without ever hogging the spotlight. A-

Sweet Talks/A.B. Crentsil: Sweet Talks--Hollywood Highlife Party + A.B. Crentsil--Moses [1992, ADC]
Two complete albums, both considered classics, both featuring the colorful character who saved Ghanaian music from James Brown--and Osibisa, who were so impressed they bankrolled a band for him when his luck went bad. How Ghanaian Crentsil's music is I couldn't say, since highlife was Westernized to begin with, but at least he brought in palm-wine guitar and African narrative strategies, as the goofy translation of "Moses" makes as clear as is appropriate. The seven earlier cuts, recorded on a 1978 U.S. visit, fall in the five-minute range and will charm if you give them a chance. The two later ones, recorded in 1983, fall in the 16-minute range and will recede unless you read along. A-

Tinariwen: Amassakoul [2004, World Village]
These Tuaregs never get loud. Their tempos are deliberate, their sonics indigenous; their percussion comprises a single derbouka drum and some handclaps, and their chants eschew showmanship. Not that they're above reaching out, or marketing--they consciously costume themselves as desert exotics. But rarely has such a compelling electric-guitar band offered less rock and roll release. Even when they're inventing Sahara rap their goal is contained self-sufficiency--a principled nostalgia for the community that has been wrested from them. A-

Ali Farka Touré: Niafunké [1999, Hannibal]
In Mali a little goes a long way, so after his harrowing experience with Ry Cooder's sense of rhythm the artfully primeval guitarist-vocalist took his modest winnings back to the well-named title village, where he devoted himself to making green things grow. Finally, after five years, he surrounds himself entirely with homeboys and reemerges with a record "full of important messages for Africans." Over here he doesn't "expect people to understand," and of course we don't. But when it comes to evoking a sun-baked place where a little goes a long way, you couldn't beat these hymns, homilies, wedding songs, dance tunes, and we-are-what-we-are apostrophes with a trap set. A-

T.P O.K Jazz: Somo! [1990, TMS]
With the leader already too near death to fulfill his commitments, I checked out Franco's band sans Franco a few years ago, and while it wasn't as transcendent as Franco's band avec Franco, which I'd been lucky enough to catch a few years before that, I could barely drag myself away at 2:45 from a set that began around midnight. Honoring the gentle rumbas of the storied past, this seven-track, 55-minute feast doesn't peak like live or get hype like modern. But at its malest it's sweet, so sweet. A-

Papa Wemba: Emotion [1995, RealWorld]
Ominously, this made-for-export enlists Jean-Philippe Rykiel, whose strange keyb technique--suggesting a cross between eternal transcendence and drowning grilled asparagus in Velveeta-melt--already permeates Keita's Soro and N'Dour's Wommat. But with the neofolkloric Lokua Kanza also on hand, its 11-tunes-in-38-minutes constitute the most appealing crossover Wemba has yet devised for the voice his hopes come down to. Piercing and penetrating without a hint of muezzin, he also commands a "natural," "conversational" timbre richer and rangier than that of his more soft-sung Zairean colleagues. A singer you should hear in a showcase you can find. A-