An African sings from the grave, the Great Red Island sings through time
Rachid Taha – Je Suis Africaine (naïve, 2019)
Rachid Taha only made great records and then he died. Six days before his 60th birthday, a heart attack silenced a great humanist and spirited musician whose Rai rock spanned genre formalities — informing The Clash, inspiring Damon Albarn and finding a kindred spirit in Robert Plant. An Algerian raised in France, Taha’s desert folk sensibilities are subsumed with Euro-rock flourishes, enhancing the lilt and romance of music forged in the sands of North Africa. This record was in the can when Taha died in his sleep, meaning this is neither a late-career victory lap nor a grave-robbing release from the vaults. Instead, it’s a fitting capstone to a career for the ages. This accidental farewell is largely a love letter to his African home and the entire diaspora. The title track (French for “I am African”) would be a powerful statement by itself, but takes on greater celebratory heft when it becomes a roll call for accomplished Black people the world over, from Jimi Hendrix to Angela Davis to Frantz Fanon. Elsewhere, “Aita” mourns migrants drowned in the Mediterranean, and the opening “Ansit” swings with hope for the future even as Taha remembers the depravity of colonialism. Such sorrow is what makes the romantic “Minouche” all the more inviting and necessary, and his first song in English (“Like a Dervish”) further affirmation of his love for all mankind. Perhaps most touching is the finale, in which he simply sings “I love you” in various languages. The title? “Happy End.” GRADE: A
Various Artists – Alefa Madagascar! (Strut, 2019)
The subtitle to this comp promises “Salegy, Soukous and Soul.” Salegy being the native dance music that traces its roots to the 15th century, Soukous originating from the Congo and a reminder of the heavy Afro influences still present on the island. These 18 songs are gathered from 1974 to1984, a decade marred by economic ruin instituted by a military president who would later flee into exile after a massive embezzlement conviction. The only expressly political number by my count is the righteous “Izhay Mpamita” (“We are the Master”), in which a group of students and farmers turned protesters exhibit folk rock with an unbeatable pulse. Given how destitute much of the country was, that many of these songs are marked by a resilient spirit is a testament to the working poor. And that’s the through line of this music. The Salegy rhythms, a distinct triple time played at a boiling tempo, do the heavy lifting. Imagine western funk played double time. Every other instrument (including a heavy dosage of keys) is subservient to the groove, adding a sinuous, can-do texture to songs that sound almost primitive compared to their western contemporaries. To whet your ears, start with Papa James’ joyful “Ngôma Hoe,” then skip to the all-woman Feon’ala’s “Farahy” and bask in their effervescent harmonies. Now, play from the beginning and allow every track to work through you. I still can’t get enough. You won’t, either. GRADE: A
She’s earned a modest living from a series of modest records since music became her bag in 2005. Her disposition is always sunny, and her sexual agency doubles as a central topic of discussion. Why’s she modest, you ask? Because the rhythm hasn’t quite matched her spunkiness, stunting the unbeatable cheeriness she aims to convey. She cracks the code on this record, easily her best, and reaffirms the power of a catchy song. Not only has Blanton solved her groove conundrum, her songwriting is more assured and the political barbs that were once mere garnishes are now sharp and on point. The surefire hit is the lustful “Jacket” which begins with “I like ya shirt / I like ya jacket / I like to think about ya when I whack it,” and winds up on “We tried to have a chat, but it was too scary / You’re a Democrat, I’m a revolutionary.” But she writes more than punchlines. “Harbor” knows love is measured by weathering turbulence, “American Kids” gets history right and “Desire” reminds us the things we covet can also do us harm. Just when you’re in the mood for more laughs, she caps things off with “Mustache,” about a guy who looks better without one, and the title track wherein her hound dog imparts some advice we’d all be wise to heed: “Keep on shining like you know you should / Keep on shining, that’s the way to get ‘em good.” GRADE: A
This record wasn’t supposed to be good. His commercial peak two decades in the rearview, Art Alexakis has made a living this millennium touring as Everclear while playing to small crowds who still pay to hear his 90s alnterna-hits. He had long proclaimed a desire to venture solo only to churn out another Everclear release that only reaffirmed he wasn’t as angst-ridden as he perceived himself. So as this album came and went with nary a dent (this is only the sixth review written by my quick Google count), allow me to celebrate a songwriter who hasn’t been this invigorated since he learned how to smile. Two life events are paramount. First is the MS diagnosis that led to “The Hot Water Test,” the album’s emotional centerpiece wherein Alexakis vows to count his blessings while he still breathes. Second is the fact his fourth marriage is his first healthy one, which makes the trio of songs concerning domestic bliss and fatherhood so heartwarming. He owes a debt to Petty and Prine, who taught him the attention to detail and empathy that separated him from his contemporaries — the sardonic twist of “House with a Pool” is vintage Alexakis — and it’s those traits that define the closing three numbers. Post-grunge revivalism this ain’t. Rather, it’s a man who has survived enough trauma and death to appreciate the miracle of existing. GRADE: A-
What makes this record so impressive isn’t just the vastly improved songwriting and laser-point focus of singer Marisa Dabice, it’s also the fact these songs have little musical commonality with the grrrl punk of yesteryear but are still firmly part of the tradition. As abrasive, punchy and muscular as their Philly hometown, they’re also incredibly melodic and thoughtful. This record is a procession of romantic heartbreak and details the trauma that occurs when the bottom falls out. It’s why she gets drunk to hide the fact she’s not as strong as others perceive her to be. It’s also why she wishes she saw anyone else’s reflection in the mirror and cries herself to sleep while the object of her disaffection is oblivious to her pain. Anymore, such trauma is extolled by any number of whisper-rock copycats currently invading your Spotify algorithms. But even Dabice’s more dramatic lyrics are emboldened with music so propulsive it blows Phoebe Bridgers to Uranus. And, to be clear, Dabice doesn’t want pity. Rather, she wants you to hear what she means. She takes agency of her body on the title track, extols sexual power as feminism on “High Horse,” and takes the fight to any boy who gets in her way. Her strongest sentiment comes on the finale wherein she dares to love again. In these terrible times, love is more than a virtue. It’s a political demonstration. GRADE: A-
The debut for this Aussie singer-songwriter rocketed onto my radar near the end of 2017, the worst year of my life and one I was lucky to survive. Perhaps that’s why “I Haven’t Been Taking Care of Myself” flattened me like a steamroller when I first heard it. While Lahey’s anthem details sides effects of life on the road — including an excess of booze and the resulting few extra pounds — it was the casually defeated way she delivers “Maybe that’s why you don’t love me as much,” that cut to my core. Upon revisiting this record with a (somewhat) improved mental state, I was reminded of other reasons it’s so gratifying. The tempo rarely slows, the melodies routinely stick, the choruses are big but never hollow and Lahey’s songwriting is equal parts witty and observant. Start with the title track, a sugar rush about her actual brother that also defies gender norms (“You don’t like sports and I don’t like dresses / Luckily for us our parents got the message.”). It’s the most playful song here, but far from her most perceptive. The opener knows the giddiness of new love is quickly dissipated by the realities of adulthood, and Perth puts the P in PTSD after a nasty breakup. She’s mature enough to understand and articulate the complexities of love and smart enough to eschew melancholy and maudlin sentimentality that’s so rampant these days. How refreshing. GRADE: A
In a decade in which Nashville was besieged by frat-housin’ knuckleheads who cranked out anthems replete with light beer and casual chauvinism, it was Miranda Lambert’s whiskey-drinkin’ sass that won the day. After a trio of solo records and three turns with the indomitable Pistol Annies, she caps off the ‘10s with a record that further cements her casual brilliance. Over the tabloid heartache and mushy songwriting resulting from her split with ex-hubby Blake Shelton, Lambert dusts herself off and returns to the snark and wit that makes her so necessary. The opening “White Trash” shows she understands wealth doesn’t always transcend class (“Cadillac on a cinder block / Duct tape on every other thing.”), and although she’s “Pretty from the back / Kinda pretty in the face” she still won’t kill that cheatin’ sumbitch because she’s “Way Too Pretty for Prison.” All good gags, all in her wheelhouse. But her songwriting continues to shine even when the jokes stop. “Bluebird,” reaffirms her unbeatable spirit and Texas-sized perseverance (“And if love keeps giving me lemons / I just mix ‘em in my drink.”), while “Settling Down” knows domestic bliss is followed by the sin of complacency. Perhaps that’s why “Track Record,” details her hang-ups with going steady, and why the only man she’s smitten enough to go home with is Jose Cuervo. Then, just when you thought she’d kicked her bad taste in men, she goes and marries a member of the NYPD. GRADE: A
The elemental appeal of this threesome ain’t the novelty of an all-women supergroup showing the boys a thing or two — although that’s one hell of a selling point. What makes this collab more than just another group to check off the list is songwriting chops worthy of the traditional American folklore they belong to. Only slightly less captivating than the debut that was close to godliness, this album’s gospel conceit is rooted in sin. “Jesus is the bread of life / Without him you’re toast” makes the cavalier one-two punch of the feminist “Got My Name Changed Back” and the goldiggin’ “Sugar Daddy” all the more fun, but they still pack a wallop when things get serious. “Best Years of My Life” still takes “recreational Percocet” to survive, “5 Acres of Turnips” renders the sweat and blood of farming for naught, “Mikman” wishes Mama gave into temptation and “Commissary” is glad the wifebeater gets it dished back to him behind bars. While all three get an equal bite at the apple, Miranda Lambert’s significant contributions concern the wrong side of love. Notice the muted vitriol of “When I Was His Wife” and ponder how often art imitates life. Then notice the jealousy she harbors toward “Cheyene” and her ability to self-medicate on lust and beer. Notice too the finale is the one song Lambert doesn’t get a songwriting credit on. It’s called “This Too Shall Pass.” GRADE: A
Sound 'Round 