This is the last time you will see the phrase “world music” appear
in this newspaper. A holdover from the precious, batik-printed, WOMAD
’80s, the term failed on many levels long ago.
There’s a vibrant underground of urban sounds coming out of several
of the most politically tense nations in the world. Some have yet to be
co-opted by America’s monster music machine, and they allow sharp,
fresh glimpses into streets and pop cultures that might otherwise go
undiscovered. Thanks to the internet and adventurous radio
programming—Darek Mazzone’s Tuesday evening Wo’ Pop set on KEXP,
for example—it’s easier than ever to discover what the rest of
the world is listening to.
Kuduro
From: Angola and Portugal Sounds like:Angry Portuguese
rhymes spit over fast, hard-hitting electro beats Major players: Buraka Som Sistema, Tony Amado, Os Lambas
Kuduro translates to “hardass” in Portuguese, the language of
Angola, a south-central African nation colonized by Portugal in the
1600s. In the mid-1990s, Kuduro started as a kind of Angolan dance
music, with bits of reggae and techno and kizomba, a slow, sexual style
from the capital city of Luanda’s DJ scene. Since then, it’s
incorporated hardcore hiphop lyricism, and artists like Os Turbantes
and Os Lambas (watch their “Comboio II” on YouTube) have started laying
down fast, dark flows in Creole slang.
Meanwhile, a mass Angolan immigration back to Portugal has brought
the sound to Lisbon and changed Kuduro from the ghetto style it once
was to a staple for European club DJs. Mainly responsible is Buraka Som
Sistema, a Lisbon-based electro-dance group who recently blasted their
“progressive Kuduro” sound at the UK’s Glastonbury Festival. Diplo has
been hyping Kuduro on his Mad Decent podcast, which means it won’t be
long before its jagged beats are all over Gwen Stefani’s next
single.
Swedish Hiphop
From: Stockholm, Malmo Sounds like: Jazzy funk to
gangsta rap, with slick, optimistic Swedish slang Major players: Timbuktu, Promoe, Chords
Hiphop has been around in Sweden almost as long as it has in
America. The current Swedish sound deviates from the American,
borrowing from British grime and Danish and Indian hiphop, occupying
its own little niche of squeaky-clean synthesizers and philosophical
“Rinkeby Swedish” slang rhymes. There are gangsta and booty styles, but
the best Swedish hiphop is on the positive, alternative side. Promoe
leads the pack, sporting white dreadlocks and an extra-long,
Norse-god-ish beard. Timbuktu’s new single “Lika Barn Avvika Bast Del
2″ also reveals him as powerful MC. Chords—the Swedish answer to
Peanut Butter Wolf—just collaborated with J-Ro, formerly of Tha
Alkoholics, who moved to Malmo, Sweden, in 2004. J-Ro has since started
up a clothing shop and founded a label, Juju Records, that most of the
guys mentioned have recorded on.
Soca and Ragga Soca
From: Trinidad, Tobago, St. Vincent Sounds like: R.
Kelly and Stevie Wonder hanging out in a Caribbean disco Major
players: Bunji Garlin, Machel Montano, Kevin Lyttle
Soca started off as a mix of soul and calypso music (“so” plus
“ca”); if you’ve ever heard “Hot Hot Hot” by Buster Poindexter you
understand the campy novelty it once was. Recently, artists like Bunji
Garlin have fused soca with Jamaican dancehall, supplementing jumpy
calypso beats for dancehall’s more angular riddims, and creating the
sub-genre of ragga soca. The music can lean toward the candy-coated sex
anthems of reggaeton—Cocorosie covers soca pop songs at their
concerts—but it can also lean toward the urbanized grit of
Kingston barkers like Bounty Killa. Machel Montano and his Xtatik band
are the most visible soca artists, and their instantly likable sound
stands between the two extremes, with U2 covers, anti-drunk-driving
lyrics, and onstage jumping-splits antics. In the last year, Montano
graced the cover of The Fader magazine and sold out Madison
Square Garden. With all this attention, soca has been accused of
triteness and hyperactivity, but give it time—it’s still a new
genre trying to prove itself next to the neighboring megastars of
Jamaica.
Bongo Flava
From: Tanzania Sounds like: The Ghetto Blasters
playing Tupac in Swahili on the streets of East Africa Major
players: X Plastaz, Gangwe Mobb, Juma Nature
Bongo Flava (roughly, “use-your-brain music”) is the slang term for
Swahili rap from Dar es Salaam, the urban center for East African
music. Old-school Swahili rap from the ’90s managed to blend soft synth
melodies with angry rhymes in the same way as Dr. Dre’s G-funk, and the
forefront MCs of Tanzania haven’t changed much since then. Juma Nature
is the bongo-flava artist of choice, flaunting fast party tracks,
AIDS-conscious lyrics, and videos that are all over YouTube (check out
“Hakuna Kulala”). But the most exciting bongo flava is coming from X
Plastaz, one of the few groups who manage to step out of the shadow of
American influence by integrating the choppy, breathy singing style of
traditional Masai music. X Plastaz’s Maasai Hip Hop, released
a few years ago, rivals any recent American hiphop album, both for fat,
head-bobbing beats and innovative lyrical flow. Bongo Flava remains one
of the few windows into an East African urban life otherwise utterly
ignored by Westerners.
Tuareg Rock
From: The Sahara Sounds like: Hippie rebels in the
desert jamming on raw, trancey blues-rock Major players: Tinariwen, Ensemble Tartit, Etran Finatawa
The Tuareg are a nomadic people who’ve wandered the Sahara for more
than a thousand years—from Niger to Sudan to Mali and back. Their
traditional music uses unusual instruments like the imzad (a
single-string fiddle) and tinde drum, and a repetitive,
trance-like vocal style. Formed in the ’70s, Ensemble Tartit are
probably the most likable of the traditional bands and their recent
disc Amarat (out this year on the fantastic Crammed label) is
straight-up Saharan freak-folk. But most of the instantly satisfying
Tuareg music comes from bands like Tinariwen, who ditched the
traditional instruments, picked up electric guitars, and built a new
genre simply called “guitar.” African guitars are normally twangy and
clean; these have a dirty-blues distortion that usually comes out of
American amps. Earlier this year, Tinariwen released Aman
Iman, a foot-stomping, hand-clapping album that every Devendra
Banhart fan should own. A documentary, Teshumara, or the Guitars of
the Revolution, also came out recently. It captures the Tuareg
musicians’ plight—from struggling for independence from Mali’s
government to opening for the Rolling Stones. 