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“Mogadisco (Dancing Mogadishu – Somalia 1972​-​1991)” (Analog Africa, 2019)

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It is difficult for me to imagine Analog Africa ever releasing a predictable or uninspired compilation, as Samy Ben Redjeb seems fundamentally incapable of ever focusing his attention on a scene or place that has already been anthologized by his crate-digging peers. Mogadisco is predictable in one regard though, as Redjeb makes his return to the African continent after Jambú E Os Míticos Sons Da Amazônia‘s surprise detour into Brazil. 
Characteristically, however, Redjeb swims against the tide, as he decided to go digging in one of the world’s most dangerous and tourist-unfriendly places after seeing a video about the Radio Mogadishu archives. 

A less driven person would have been immediately put off by the need to have an armed escort every single time he went outside, but that is the difference between Redjeb and everyone else: if he heard that there was a killer record hidden at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, he would either find a way to get to it or die trying. As usual, Redjeb’s efforts yielded some genuinely wonderful finds, though this latest batch of long-forgotten and obscure gems is not quite as rhythmically unique as those on other Analog Africa collections. Fortunately, most of these artists managed to achieve a distinctive character in other ways. Analog Africa’s hot streak remains unbroken.

This compilation, Analog Africa’s first major overview of Somalian music, is primarily the result of a trip that Redjeb made to Mogadishu back in November of 2016. Naturally, the aforementioned archives were the focal point of Redjeb’s brief residency in the city. That was probably for the best, as the environment did not sound at all conducive for digging around flea markets or seeking out like-minded record dealers. The fact that the hunt was mostly limited to just one building did not necessarily make it any easier than usual though, as being confronted with a collection of “roughly 20,000” undigitized tapes in a foreign country would be daunting for anyone. Also, it is safe to say that Redjeb (as a perpetual outsider) is almost never looking for the sorts of albums that people would expect him to be hunting for, as he tends to be exclusively drawn to long-forgotten eras and stylistic outliers.

Fortunately, Redjeb did have a few reference points in mind beforehand, as he was a big fan of Iftin Band and Dur-Dur Band (he has previously anthologized the latter with a two-volume set). That certainly helped the archive staff to focus their search a bit. And, of course, there were a few welcome surprises both within the archive and beyond its walls. Regarding the latter, Redjeb managed to locate a cassette warehouse, so he was able to put his hours to good use while awaiting updates from the archive staff. In fact, his days of drinking coffee and digitizing boxes of warehouse tapes in his room actually wound up yielding a number of this album’s better finds. Redjeb’s other bit of serendipity was the discovery of a box in the archive described as both “music nobody had managed to identify” and “mainly instrumental and strange music.” Two of the best pieces on the album actually emerged from that pile and both certainly fit quite comfortably in that latter category. Both are by Iftin Band.

My favorite of the two is “Ii Ooy Aniga (Cry For Me),” a bittersweetly lovely instrumental carried along by a propulsive, high-hat-heavy disco groove. Elsewhere, Iftin Band’s other piece (“Sirmaqabe (No Secrets)”) is the most surprising one on the album, as its surf-inspired guitars and organ melodies make it sound like an escapee from Sublime Frequencies’ Shadow Music of Thailand compilation. I guess some albums by The Shadows must have made it to Somalia too, though Redjeb’s interview with Iftin Band’s percussionist Salah Hariri mentions that they were in demand primarily because they could play funky music like Michael Jackson and James Brown better than other bands.

That may very well have been true at the time, but Mukhtar Ramadan Iidi easily steals the show as the funkiest artist on Mogadisco, as “Check Up Your Head” sounds like the work of someone who fully grasped and embodied the music’s sexy and soulful intent. Notably, Iidi sings in English, which causes him to be remembered as a “Western artist,” but he also did time in the scene-dominating Shareero Band and later found even greater fame as an actor.

Unsurprisingly, Mogadisco also features a handful of solid songs from Redjeb favorite Dur-Dur Band, but that band’s earlier, more bizarre incarnation as Bakaka Band turns up too and they are quite a unique entity: they were backed by the Ministry of The Interior and the Aboow Liberation Front and wrote songs designed to inspire the troops fighting at the Ethiopian border. Musically, they were no less of an anomaly, as their “Gobonimada Jira (Choose Freedom)” is a remarkably effective collision of proto-rap, soul, reggae, and a goddamn marching band. Somewhat less effective (yet no less interesting) is “Geesiyada Halgamayow (Brave Fighters),” which bizarrely bounces back and forth between an insanely funky and fiery disco groove and something that resembles a football half-time show. I wish they had just stuck to the disco groove, but those moments are great enough to win me over despite my deep misgivings about the piece’s perplexingly seesawing structure.

Characteristically, the liner notes are one of the most delightful aspects of this album, as Dur-Dur Band’s history as government-backed funk propagandists is just the tip of a very weird and colorful iceberg. In fact, Dur-Dur Band alone could probably be grist for quite a compelling book, as they were all arrested once because they accidentally chose a band name (Gor-Gor) shared by an anti-government revolutionary sect. Beyond that, their singer was electrocuted to death while checking a microphone (and people thought he was dancing). Also, the entire band once had to be smuggled out of Ethiopia by a fan after being entrapped by a sinister businessman.

For the most part, however, the story of these bands is mostly just that of a small, incestuous group of talented musicians eagerly assimilating eclectic new trends in hopes of landing a residency at one of Mogadishu’s hottest nightspots. As a result, even the same band can sound quite different from song to song, which is a large part of Mogadisco‘s appeal: almost every song sounds like a several disparate stylistic puzzle pieces were somehow mashed together into a coherent shape. For the most part, all of the songs Redjeb collected are unified by the grounding of a tight, funk-minded rhythm section, but it is rare for the finished product to quite resemble anything as straightforward as “funk,” as there is always a winding organ motif, a traditional-sounding vocal melody, a twangy surf guitar, or a skanking, reggae-esque pulse thrown in to muddy the waters.

These songs do feel like they all belong together though. I am a bit surprised that Redjeb limited this compilation to just twelve songs, but I suppose he wanted to stay stylistically focused in order to leave room for future collections. And Mogadisco is undeniably a strong batch of songs, so diluting it with any additional material would likely have been detrimental (unless it was similarly great). While I cannot say I love everything here, the misses are impressively infrequent and a few songs have instantly entered my personal pantheon of all-time Analog Africa favorites. Which, of course, is exactly what I was hoping for.

Samples can be found here.

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“Jambú e Os Míticos Sons Da Amazônia” (Analog Africa, 2019)

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This latest collection from Analog Africa is another detour of sorts, as curators Samy Ben Redjeb and Carlo Xavier headed to Brazil for a very deep dive into the underheard musical treasures of Belém. The genres covered (Carimbó, Samba-De-Cacete, Siriá, Bois-Bumbás and bambiá) were all entirely new to me, but I felt better when I learned that they were all fairly new to Redjeb as well. Characteristically, however, he was drawn to the Amazon-bordering coastal city due to its unique collision of cultures and therein lies the African connection: Belém was a crucial port for the sugar, coffee, and rubber trades, which resulted in plenty of West African slaves being sent to the region. 

Those that managed to escape often fled to outlaw settlements called quilombos where African religions and cultural traditions established a tenacious foothold (including those of Redjeb’s beloved Benin). Naturally, those cultures evolved into something unique over the years and the best pieces on Jambú capture quite a wonderful marriage of relentlessly propulsive Brazilian grooves and African rhythms (though the latter is not quite as prominent as I would have expected).

As is this case with all Analog Africa compilations, the tales told in Jambú‘s liner notes are every bit as intriguing and colorful as the actual music (sometimes even more so). In this case, the story mostly takes place in November 2012, as Xavier and Redjeb arrived in Belém for a month of scavenging for rare and forgotten records and the even harder-to-find musicians that made them. Redjeb was primarily searching for work by Mestre Cupijó, who was responsible for revolutionizing the quilombo-descended Siriá style through the incorporation of mambo and merengue influences.

The “first ever recording of modern Siriá” (“Despepida,” recorded in 1973) is included here as the album’s closer and it is indeed quite a striking piece, resembling a sultrier, sexier take on big band mambo. Sadly, Redjeb did not get to interview Cupijó, who had just passed away a few months before, but he did find some great albums and meet some unique people. And the search began in a similarly unique place: the Ver-o-Peso, which is purportedly the largest open-air market in South America.

Redjeb describes it as “the pounding heart of the city,” but also notes the “unbearable heat,” “excruciating smell,” and the “hundreds of disturbed vultures loudly arguing over a piece of rotten meat.” I was similarly charmed by the description of one of the record dealers the pair encountered who would spend hours “restoring” record covers with pen, pencil, and brush because “a good cover would considerably increase the price of the record.”

Aside from Cupijó, Redjeb singles out a trio of other artists who had a profound impact in modernizing the music of the region: Verequete, Orlando Pereira, and Pinduca. While Pinduca’s opening “Vamos Farrear” unquestionably boasts one of the album’s most insistent and smoldering grooves, it did not strike me as particularly unusual (it is just extremely good). The other two artists, on the other hand, are a much more eclectic and revelatory find. 

Verequete, in particular, is by far my favorite artist on the album. A former butcher and lumberjack with a nickname borrowed from “a vodun (divinity)” in “the jejes-nagos cults of Mina,” Verequete was devoted to traditional styles of Carimbó. Apparently, that is what I am into, as the two Verequete pieces on Jambú are raucously thumping and clattering percussion workouts with little more than a banjo and a saxophone as accompaniment. In fact, “Da Garrafa uma pinga” is probably the most wild and fun song on the album.

Orlando Pereira’s work, on the other hand, is a bit more hooky and musical, but no less vibrant. Also, the percussion unexpectedly shares the focus with some great flute solos and organ motifs. The latter is especially usual, as the less-than-ideal availability of electricity in the region is a recurring theme in the interviews with the artists. Aside from the four central visionaries anchoring the album, a few other artists make strong impressions simply by virtue of impressively tight and explosive ensembles. Os Muiraquitãns’ “A Misturada” is especially wonderful, as it is a stomping and throbbing party of a song. Almost everything on the album is strong and distinctive in some way though, as only a couple of Pinduca’s more funk-influenced pieces leave me cold.

Aside from the music, Jambú is also noteworthy for featuring the single craziest touring story that I have ever heard: as he was buying an Os Muiraquitãns record, Redjeb was informed by a record dealer that most of the band had perished in a boating accident that likely involved a drunken captain. When Redjeb met the band’s Clorio Margahlo several years later, “the very surprised and amused” artist corrected the record: they had actually been riding to a gig in the back of a city council-provided dump truck (driven by drunk man with no dump truck license), but the end result was roughly the same. Fortunately, most of the band members had wisely decided to hitchhike to the show instead, so the casualty total could have been much higher than it was.

While that tragedy is an extreme case, the varying fortunes of the artists that burned brightest in that mostly unknown regional scene make for fascinating and occasionally heartbreaking reading. For example, Verequete got repeatedly burned by record labels and had to abandon music to devote himself to selling barbequed food, while Mestre Vieira’s death resulted in thousands of fans flooding the streets for a cacophonous funeral procession of blaring music and car horns. Knowing things like that definitely deepens my connection to this music and I love Redjeb for uncovering such biographical background—I cannot think of any other label that rivals Analog Africa in providing such a compelling and vivid musical history for each fresh release. As for the music itself, Jambú is not quite as revelatory as some of Redjeb’s other collections, but it is quite a solid release packed with good songs and I will certainly be digging deeper into Verequete’s oeuvre. Analog Africa remains the gold standard for international music compilations.

Samples can be found here.

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“African Scream Contest Vol. 2: Benin 1963-1980” (Analog Africa, 2018)

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Ten years ago, Analog Africa released the landmark African Scream Contest, an album that instantly established the fledgling label as one of the most intriguing and distinctive imprints in the global crate-digging milieu. It was not exactly a perfect album, but it was certainly a perfect and resounding statement of intent, plunging deep into an eclectic vein of forgotten African funk outside the celebrated regions documented by Soundway, Strut, and Ethiopiques. 

To celebrate that auspicious anniversary, Samy Ben Redjeb has released one hell of a sequel. Sadly, it will not make quite the same impact as its predecessor, as a new label can only burst onto the scene once, but African Scream Contest 2 is actually the superior album in many ways. Admittedly, some people will be disappointed that a bit of the weirdness and rough edges have been sanded away, which is a category that I would normally expect myself to fall into. Redjeb has gotten significantly better at his job over the last decade though and that definitely shows here, as this latest installment is pared down to a wall-to-wall feast of tight grooves and great hooks that never overstays its welcome.

Sadly, I do not have the physical version of this album, so I am certain that I missing out on a characteristically improbable and colorful backstory. I do know, however, that Redjeb was able to track down all of these artists primarily because he enlisted the aid of Lokenon André from Les Volcans. Like Redjeb’s beloved Orchestre Poly-Rythmo and a couple of other bands, André is a veteran from the first installment and makes a well-deserved return, as his “Glenon Ho Akue” boasts the most endearingly lurching, rolling, and wonderfully off-kilter groove on the entire album.

Presumably, Andr√© and Les Volcans were able to pull off such rhythmic complexity because they were a “ruthlessly disciplined military band,” which brings me to why Lokenon was the ideal person to track down all of the other artists for this collection: he had been trained by the KGB. Hopefully, the rest of the album’s participants have a less morally complex past, yet bizarre details like a Russian-trained Afrofunk mercenary are a large part of what sets Analog Africa compilations apart from everyone else: they are part labor of love, part myth-making, and they revel in all the weird details and amusing anecdotes behind the music. 

There is certainly scholarship and cultural anthropology happening here as well, but it is almost beside the point. Analog Africa compilations are first and foremost an awesome party thrown by someone with exquisite taste. Nobody in ’70s Benin was stroking their beard and noting ambitious time signatures when these bands played—they were dancing and having a great time.

Notably, the fabled Vodoun/ancestral Beninese rhythm element is not nearly as pervasive on this collection as I might have expected, though there are some notable exceptions. For example, Orchestre Poly-Rythmo’s “Moulon Devia” is essentially a straight-up four-on-the-floor disco thump and it is easily one of the album’s most smoking grooves. While the mystical history of Benin and the resultant vibrant, unusual percussion are certainly recurring and important themes and make a good story, they are almost eclipsed by the less interesting fact that Benin was improbably teeming with bands that had incredibly tight and fluid rhythm sections. That is what truly stands out the most on the album.

The scene also boasted some rather charismatic and “fashion-forward” characters as well. One such oversized personality collides beautifully with tradition and an absolutely killer band on one of the album’s final songs, “How Much Love Naturally Cost,” as Gnonnas Pedro delivers an amusing monologue over a rolling percussion vamp and an effortlessly infectious bass line. As far as I am concerned, Pedro and the bassist in His Dadjes Band are the breakout stars of the album, as that song is the one moment where an ensemble is truly firing on all cylinders at once and doing so gloriously. 

There are lot of other great moments strewn throughout the album, however, as it only takes one brilliant hook or performance to whip up one hell of a monster groove. That said, Stanislaw Tohon’s “Dja Dja Dja” comes quite close to being yet another glimpse of sublime perfection, masterfully combining a wonderfully shuffling pulse with an stuttering and serpentine guitar motif and a stellar brass section. Elsewhere, El Rego Et Ses Commandos contribute yet another highlight with the soulful, sensual, and latin-tinged “Gangnidodo.”

It is worth noting that any great compilation that dives into an under-documented era or region unavoidably becomes a deceptive bit of revisionist history, either retroactively creating a previously non-existent scene or selectively editing one that did exist so it fits the curator’s taste. As such, African Scream Contest 2‘s 14 songs spanning an entire country’s musical output over nearly two decades is far from a representative retrospective. 

In the right hands, however, such an endeavor can conjure up a truly wonderful illusion, which is exactly why Redjeb’s handiwork is such a delight time and time again. This collection brings to light a hugely appealing alternate timeline to the American funk, disco, and soul golden age in which structure is a very fluid and organic thing, eclectic rhythmic adventurousness thrived, and everything sounded like it was recorded by Steve Albini rather than smothered in smooth production.

Admittedly, there is a tendency towards freewheeling indulgence as well, but excursions like an extended, wandering organ solo are perfectly welcome if they occur over a suitably vibrant rhythmic backdrop (as nearly every Fela Kuti album illustrates beautifully). African Scream Contest 2 is a sweaty, quirky, fun, and effortlessly sensual album. I suppose that can be said about nearly every Analog Africa compilation to some degree, but the unusually high hit-to-miss ratio of this one makes it one of the best.

Listen here.

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“Pop Makossa – The Invasive Dance Beat of Cameroon 1976-1984” (Analog Africa, 2017)

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A new Analog Africa compilation is almost always a major event for me, particularly since the general trend is that they seem to get both better and more imaginative with each passing year. A significant reason for that success is that label head Samy Ben Redjeb has been increasingly drawn away from the heavily anthologized regions of Nigeria, Ghana, Senegal, and Kenya and into less explored territories and more unusual, ephemeral microscenes. Pop Makossa offers a bit of both, journeying into Cameroon and capturing the brief window in which the prevailing pop style absorbed the funk and disco sounds coming from the US. If this collection is any indication, Redjeb and co-curator Déni Shain have found quite a rich and largely untapped vein, as these twelves pieces are a feast of fluid basslines, tight songcraft, strong hooks, and seductive grooves.

The Dream Stars’ opening “Pop Makossa Invasion” highlights a significant aspect of Analog Africa compilations and other international compilations in general: the curator is often doing quite a bit more than just finding some great songs, as they are retroactively defining (or creating) a movement or scene through the filter of their own taste. That is not necessarily a bad thing at all, as I would certainly rather hear this music than not hear it and someone with great taste is the ideal person to guide me through it. It presents an interesting issue though: it is important not to fall for the illusion that something like Pop Makossa is comprehensive or representative or that anyone who lives in Cameroon particularly romanticizes this era. 

Case in point: “Pop Makossa Invasion” is a fine song, as it has a very cool snaking guitar line, a lazily stomping beat, and a charismatic singer, yet this is the first time that anyone anywhere is actually hearing it, as it was recorded for a radio station and never formally released (in fact, this compilation is the only Discogs entry for the band at all). There are certainly some bigger names here as well, but Redjeb seems guided more by his statement that “Cameroonian bass players are some of the most revered in the world” than by any perceived need to illuminate his compilation with star power. 

Of course, a few songs manage to cover both bases, particularly Bill Loko’s amazing “Nen Lambo,” which boasts a stellar disco bass line, a wonderfully propulsive groove, and hooks for days. Apparently, Loko was a teen mega-star who only issued a couple of albums in the early ’80s before leaving Cameroon and falling off the radar. A mystery like that is just the sort of thing to secure Redjeb’s curiosity. Also, his tireless passion for finding the actual artists behind these songs goes a long way towards explaining why this album took eight long years to fully take shape and why Shain’s involvement was so crucial, as he was the one actually in Cameroon doing all the detective work.

Aside from the aforementioned gem from Loko, my other favorite songs are sneakily tucked away at the end of the album, yet everything in between is invariably quite solid and occasionally even surprising (“Senaga Calypso” almost sounds like a Cameroonian reimagining of Baltimora’s “Tarzan Boy”). In general, the degree of a song’s success is almost entirely dictated by the greatness of the bass line, as all other factors tend to be consistently strong through Pop Makossa: all of these artists knew how to write tight pop songs and memorable hooks and each certainly had a formidable rhythm section backing them. 

Bernard Ntone’s “Mussoliki” is the no-frills zenith of that aesthetic, taking an absolutely killer bass line and just riding it for four minutes with wonderfully funky, jangly guitars and vibrantly rolling percussion. “Mussoliki” also brings up yet another significant observation: while Ntone’s band may be stylistically indebted to the funkier and more soulful American artists of the time, they effortlessly transcend that influence in many ways. In the case of “Mussoliki,” I was particularly struck by the subtle and brilliant interplay between the lead and rhythm guitars. 

Elsewhere, Pat’ NDoye’s “More Love” is yet another stunner, enhancing a smoldering and sexy groove with a call-and-response vocal hook with a female chorus and an absolutely smoking full band that unleashes an endless parade of stellar performances (NDoye’s percussion section is especially dazzling). In fact, “More Love” reminds me favorably of Fela Kuti (sans larger-than-life personality), as it is literally just a monster groove peppered with great solos, yet NDoye keeps things much tighter and more concise than Fela ever would have and sacrifices nothing in the process.

There are a few other songs that touch upon greatness as well, such as Clément Djimogne’s “Africa,” but the most striking aspect of Pop Makossa is that there are absolutely no weak songs at all and very few that I would even consider average: this is an impressively vibrant, varied, and thoughtful selection all around. Aside from attaining the highly coveted “all killer, no filler” success ratio, the highlights here can be quite revelatory. Obviously, it is reductive to compare Pop Makossa to other recent African music compilations, but such a comparison is nevertheless relevant here: in my own fumbling and culturally ignorant way, I listen to a lot of funk and soul-influenced African music and the best songs on Pop Makossa either offer a fresh twist on a sound that I already loved or stand among the best possible examples of that sound. 

While I suspect 2012’s Diablos Del Ritmo will reign forever as my favorite Analog Africa compilation, Pop Makossa is an impressively strong contender for that role. In fact, it probably deserves it more, since Diablos was a detour into the African influence on Colombian music and everyone already knew that Colombia churned out some of the finest music on the planet—not exactly low-hanging fruit, but everyone at least knew where the damn tree was. With this collection, Shain and Redjeb did some legitimately crucial digging in a place that sorely needed it and somehow managed to pare all their obscure finds down to an extremely fun and near-perfect collection.

Listen here.

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“Senegal 70: Sonic Gems & Previously Unreleased Recordings from the 70s” (Analog Africa, 2016)

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There are very few people around making better compilations than Analog Africa’ss Samy Ben Redjeb. For this latest treasure trove of newly unearthed obscurities, Samy teamed up with Teranga Beat’s Adamantios Kafetzis, who tracked down Senegalese sound engineer Moussa Diallo back in 2009 and digitized his large archive of tape reels. Remarkably, only five songs from that big score made it onto the album, so the duo must have made some very hard decisions in narrowing down Senegal 70 to its lean and consistently excellent 13-song song incarnation. 

Happily, one of the songs that made the cut is a previously unreleased piece by the incomparable and woefully underdocumented Amara Touré. Also present is the long-running and internationally successful Orchestra Baobab, but many of the lesser known artists shine just as brightly (if not more so), making this one of Analog Africa’s stronger compilations to date.

As is so often the case with regions warranting a Soundway or Analog Africa compilation, Senegal’s musical explosion was rooted in the good fortune of having a popular port (in this case, Dakar). Unlike those in countries further from the coast, forward-thinking Senegalese musicians were treated to plenty of contemporary American and Cuban sounds in the ’50s and ’60s courtesy of some very hip sailors. 

The first major band to successfully incorporate jazz, soul, and Cuban Son Montuno into the Senegalese aesthetic was Star Band de Dakar, which was formed in 1960. Star Band is not included in this collection, however, as Redjeb and Kafetzis have chosen to focus instead upon all the great bands that formed in their wake. Since I am lamentably not an ethnomusicologist, I cannot comprehensively pick apart where each influence bleeds into another (nor would I particularly want to). In general, however, the formula seems to be a combination of driving Latin percussion; funky soul bass lines; and wonderfully spidery, clean guitar lines.

More important than the individual components, however, is the elegantly laid-back and sultry vibe that so many of these songs share. There is also a recurring trend towards simplicity and hypnotic repetition that has aged quite well and matches my personal sensibility nicely. There is also a very appealing feeling of casual professionalism pervading this collection, as so many songs manage to feel relaxed and loose while effortlessly keeping the grooves tight and the hooks strong. 

It is like the exact opposite of garage rock, but in the best way possible: instead of striving amateurs, Senegal 70 is filled with stone-cold killers just kicking back and riding some excellent grooves. That said, however, Gestu de Dakar’s stand-out “Ndiourel” definitely sounds like it could have been recorded in a garage or basement, though I don’t know how common either are in Dakar (I do not get out there much).

Of course, the one song that stands out the most flies in the face of all that sinuous, understated soulfulness, as King N’Gom and his band ham it up beautifully on the very fun and ridiculous “Viva Marvillas.” Aside from veering dangerously close to novelty song territory, “Viva Marvillas” is unique in that it basically sounds like two very different songs smashed together, as it becomes very serious and very musical for its second half. Definitely an odd choice, but I bet King N’Gom would not have made it onto this compilation if “Marvillas” did not ultimately transform into something considerably more sensual and soulful. 

In all other cases, the songs on Senegal 70 tend to take the more linear and sensible approach of starting good and staying good. Admittedly, they also tend to blur together a bit, but that is because they are all so uniformly excellent for exactly the same reason (a great groove). A few pieces do stand out for other reasons, however. For example, Fangool’s “Mariama” easily boasts the most rich and charismatic vocals on the entire album. Elsewhere, La Souruba De Louga improve upon an already spectacular groove with wild percussion fills and a surprisingly dissonant guitar solo. Orchestre G.M.I.’s “Africa” succeeds similarly, gradually building up to some great trade-off solos from their horn section.

The only arguable downside to Senegal 70 is just that it lacks a single real bombshell that sends me scurrying to long-abandoned music blogs to track down whatever I can by some brilliant new-to-me artist. That has definitely happened in the past with folks like K. Frimpong, Ebo Taylor, and Amara Touré. 

However, my not being instantly blown away by anything here probably has a lot more to do with my current level of immersion in African music than it does with Redjeb’s curatorial skills: major revelations come rather easily and frequently when you are new to a particular milieu. Also, labels like Soundway, Strut, and Analog Africa have likely already unearthed all of the major works to be found and have settled into the much deeper, harder work of digging up all the other great songs that slipped through the cracks.

Which, of course, is exactly what Redjeb achieved here: Senegal 70 is a tight, beautifully assembled collection of tight, beautifully assembled songs (many of which have never been previously heard by Western ears, aside from perhaps the aforementioned hip sailors). Diablos Del Ritmo still maintains its supremacy as my favorite Analog Africa compilation (with Angola Soundtrack a close second), but Senegal 70 probably comes closest to a highly coveted “all killer, no filler” summation than any other collection that Analog Africa has released to date.

Listen here.

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Amara Touré, “1973 – 1980” (Analog Africa, 2015)

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In a perfect world, an artist of Amara Touré’s caliber would need no introduction at all, but the real world is weird and mysterious enough to definitely warrant one in this case, so here it is: Touré’s innovative, sensuous, and sexy Cuban-influenced grooves basically ruled the nightlife in Cameroon and Senegal for roughly two decades, but he only recorded a handful of songs and then disappeared without a trace around 1980. This collection compiles all of his known singles as well as his sole album and it is all great. To my ears, this is a lock for the most crucial reissue of the year.

The album kicks off with the only piece that most listeners are likely to have heard before: the smoky and slinky “N’Niyo,” which surfaced on Honest Jon’s 2009 Africa Boogaloo collection. Its original release date appears to be unknown, but it was recorded with The Black and White Ensemble in Cameroon sometime between 1973 and 1976. Despite being one of his earliest releases, it is nonetheless a strong contender for Touré’s finest song. If not, it still certainly exhibits all of characteristics that make Amara’s work such a singular pleasure: a slow, lazily sexy Latin groove; smoky saxophone; spidery guitars; punchy horn stabs; strong hooks; and his own distinctively passionate and sadness-tinged vocals. 

Notably, Touré was a vocalist/percussionist, so I would expect those to be the strongest aspects of his work, but the details that I actually like the most are the intricate, clean guitars and the wounded, lovesick-sounding horns. Those details work, however, precisely because Touré had such a brilliantly intuitive grasp of mood and pace as a bandleader, avoiding all of the usual pitfalls of the era in favor of a stylish, understated, and deeply sensual aesthetic.

The rest of Touré’s work with The Black and White Ensemble (they recorded a total of three singles together) basically sticks to the same vein of smoldering, Latin-tinged sex music with a similarly consistent degree of success. There are, however, some shades of mood that differentiate the six pieces. “Temedy,” for example, is a bit more funky and driving, while “Fatou” is a bit more breezy and tropical-feeling. The only truly significant divergence is “N’ga Digne M’be,” which sounds deeply indebted to America soul ballads of the era, which arguably makes it the weakest piece on the album. I still like it, but it is primarily a vocal showcase, completely eschewing the Latin-influence and propulsive grooves that characterize Touré’s best work. The remaining pieces, however, ably fill that void (particularly “Lamento Cubano”).

The final four songs are all culled from Touré’s sole album, released in 1980 with Gabon’s Orchestre Massako as his backing band. Unsurprisingly, they are all wonderful as well, but they are a bit more muscular, adventurous, and urgent than Amara’s earlier work. They are also a lot more raw, sound-quality-wise, which I actually like (these pieces feel more “live” and immediate). The best of the bunch by a landslide is “Salamouti,” which boasts a wonderfully staccato and stumbling descending melody. “Tela” is yet another stand-out due to its thick, lazily lagging bass line, but it is the closing “Africa” that is most attention-grabbing, as Orchestre Massako embellishes their funky, sinuous grooves with unexpectedly flanged and spacey guitars.

Overall, “Salamouti” is probably Amara’s finest single moment, but I otherwise prefer his more sensuous and distinctive early singles to his full-length. That said, Touré’s voice and songwriting remained as strong as ever until the very end—I just happen to prefer my classic African music to be more Cuban-influenced and laid-back. 

In any case, Analog Africa did a characteristically amazing job with this release, which is no small feat since the artist in question has not been seen in over 30 years and no one knows whether he is alive or dead. To his credit, Samy Ben Redjeb found several associated musicians to interview and compiled a fairly comprehensive biography of a genuine enigma.

I just wish that there had been more recordings for Redjeb to find, as Touré’s entire 10-year run with Le Star Band de Dakar as Senegal’s hottest nightclub musician (1958-1968) is entirely undocumented (recording studios were a tragic rarity in Africa back then). Still, I will happily take what I can get: this is an essential release for anyone interested in African music and one of the true jewels of Analog Africa’s discography (alongside Diablos Del Ritmo, of course).

Listen here.

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“Afrobeat Airways 2: Return Flight to Ghana 1974-1983” (Analog Africa, 2013)

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This sequel to 2010’s fine Afro-Beat Airways delivers still more Fela-free gems from Ghana’s golden age, which is (of course) is exactly what I wanted and expected. While many of the featured artists (Vis-A-Vis, K. Frimpong, etc.) will already be quite familiar to anyone with even a casual interest in African music reissues, the material is uniformly solid and offers enough obscurities to keep things interesting. Even the most jaded aficionados will enjoy Samy Redjeb’s characteristically colorful and exhaustive liner notes though, as he has unearthed a slew of rare photos and tracked down some interesting interviews with a lot of people who probably never expected to be interviewed by an excited German in 2013.

By now, the “Analog Africa compilation” aesthetic is a very well-established formula, and Redjeb wisely does not mess with it for Afrobeat Airways 2. Occasionally, Samy will surprise me with something completely amazing like last year’s Diablos Del Ritmo, but most releases just offer up a generally likable batch of songs rescued from obscurity mingled with a handful of legitimately great ones that I wind up listening to in fairly heavy rotation for months (or years) afterward. 

Nearly all of those gems this time around predictably come from the usual suspects, like Uppers International’s stuttering, darkly funky “Aja Wondo” and K. Frimpong’s lurching, understated “Abrabo” (a piece sans his Cubanos Fiestas that I have not heard anywhere else). And, of course, the ever-reliable Rob delivers yet another predictably lascivious delight (“Loosen Up Yourself”). Also, while I was previously unfamiliar with Pierre Antoine (whose “Say Min Sy Soh” is probably the album’s highlight), he is backed by the awesome Vis-A-Vis, which explains everything. Actually, Vis-A-Vis are also the uncredited backing band for the K. Frimpong song, so they more or less steal the show on this compilation.

Music aside, what makes Analog Africa compilations so unique and special is their lavish and exhaustive liner notes and Afrobeat Airways 2 boasts some of Redjeb’s best work, as Samy seems to have been in an uncharacteristically poetic and reflective mood. For example, he summarizes the abandonment of horn sections for synthesizers, drum machines, MIDI, and computers thusly: “The harvest of this dispassion is three decades of sonic mediocrity.” 

He also tours the former site of one of the scene’s hottest clubs (since converted to a church) and notes “I was shown around by a kind gentlemen who was trying to convince me that there were an infinite number of paths to accept Jesus as my personal savior. Little did he know that my ‘saviors’ had left the stage many years ago.” On a related note, it was morbidly fascinating to learn that the entire scene was essentially killed by a government-instituted curfew, a decision that more or less forced every relevant musician in Ghana to pack their bags and head elsewhere.

The real coup for this compilation, however, is that Redjeb was able to get access to the archives of Modern Photo, whose somewhat disinterested proprietor let him sort through boxes and boxes of forgotten negatives that had narrowly survived a flood. Many of those photos are included in the booklet and some of them quite wonderful, particularly one of Fela Kuti exiting a plane with his entire female entourage, though I also enjoyed all of the Boogaloo competition shots. 

Even the less spectacular aspects of the liner notes are endearing though—even though guitarist Sammy Cropper’s interview yielded the usual litany of names, dates, and places, it was life-affirming that Redjeb went through the trouble to track down an aging school security guard to tell him that he is regarded as a guitar god and that people are excitedly trying to track down forgotten recordings that he made four decades ago (I am perhaps getting a bit sentimental in my old age).

Overall, this is a much better than average Analog Africa collection: it is not quite essential, but it should disappoint absolutely no one. Aside from the songs mentioned above, there are quite a few other strong moments, particularly Waza-Afriko 76’s “Gbei Kpaka Hife Sika.” Such a high success rate is surprising for an Afrobeat compilation, as the genre has historically been plagued by wild excess and indulgence—to Redjeb’s credit, very little of that surfaces here, as most songs are under five minutes and few are even under three(!). 

Even the few songs that I do not particularly like (Tony Sarfo’s American funk pastiche and De Frank’s repetitive, sing-songy “Waiting For My Baby”) are appealing enough to avoid being dismissed as mere filler. Of course, the music is only part of the picture in this case, which is why Analog Africa compilations are so great: Afrobeat Airways 2 is basically yet another important chapter in a lovingly assembled crash course in African culture and history taught by one singularly enthusiastic crate-digger.

Listen here.

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“Bambara Mystic Soul: The Raw Sound of Burkina Faso 1974-1979” (Analog Africa, 2013)

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Situated right in the middle of West Africa’s musical hotbed (Ghana and Nigeria are close neighbors), the country of Burkina Faso has remained relatively unanthologized thus far, a situation that Analog Africa’s Samy Ben Redjeb decided to remedy after hearing Amadou Balaké’s “Renouveau.” 

Unfortunately, Balaké was not exactly the tip of a great iceberg of undiscovered brilliance—he was very nearly the entire damn iceberg. That said, there are definitely a few other good songs by other artists on Bambara Mystic Soul, but almost half of the album is consumed by Balaké and he is very much the star of the show (deservedly).

As is usually the case with Analog Africa compilations, the story of how this album came into being is at least as fascinating as the actual music. For example, the aforementioned “Renouveau” record was part of a trove Redjeb unearthed in Niger, where it improbably survived for 30 years in an extremely hot and sand-filled environment where the preservation of records is basically the least of people’s concerns. Then came the requisite detective work and tireless scavenging, where he had the good fortune to locate a box containing the entire catalogue of Burkina’s most popular ’70s label (CVD). Of course, he also had the very bad fortune of being mugged at gunpoint in Togo, then of being the hapless mediator between a very angry Balaké and his former record company (who later ended up breaking Redjeb’s contract by selling the same “exclusive” songs to another label).

Whether or not all that effort was worth it is hard to say, as I am a fairly casual, non-blog-scavenging fan of Africa music and see Bambara Mystic Soul as one of Analog Africa’s lesser compilations, albeit one with a handful of fine songs. For more serious fans, however, some of this material may be absolutely revelatory: Balaké is fairly major figure in African music circles and the songs that Redjeb found are both extremely rare and from a period which many consider to be Amadou’s prime (his later work is less raw). 

In fact, I have even seen a blog that was excited to post a single from this period that was ripped from a damaged record—even somewhat mangled work from this period is considered well-worth hearing. Also, after tracking down the whole CVD catalog from the scene’s prime, finding and interviewing all the major players, and providing an absolutely overwhelming amount of information and background in his liner notes, Redjeb has basically dropped the definitive Burkina Faso collection: there is absolutely nothing he left that still needs to be done. While I sure there are a number of great songs that are not included, I am equally sure that it is because they either could not be found or that Redjeb simply could not secure the necessary rights.

As aforementioned, Balaké completely steals the show, though his numerous backing bands deserve a lot of the credit. Though originally a percussionist, it is Balaké’s soulful voice that made him a legend. As great as that voice is, however, I was equally impressed by the guitar-work on most of his songs, particularly the clean, hypnotically repeating riff in “Johnny” (courtesy of l’Orchestre Super Volta). 

All of Amadou’s included songs are invariably quite good though. In general, Balaké’s more sultry, languorous work was with Les 5 Consuls (“Renouveau” and “Baden Djougou”), while his other incarnations are bit more funky and American soul-indebted, but there are exceptions. Curiously, it is rare for any distinctly “African” percussion to appear, which is why this collection initially underwhelmed me a bit. Most of Bambara Mystic Soul sounds like it could have been played by a ’70s American soul or funk band, rhythm-section-wise, though it is admittedly more repetitive and raw. Without the mesmerizing repetition and the awesome guitarists, many of these songs would sound like mere pastiches, albeit good ones.

Of course, there are some noteworthy exceptions, as the non-Balaké selections are far from dire. In particular, the two songs from Mamo Legbama stand out, largely because he is a very charismatic (if a bit hammy) frontman. The hard funk of “Music, Love, and Dance” is probably his finest moment, as I especially enjoyed his amusing use of high-pitched female backing singers. 

His “Zambo Zambo” is also great though, boasting a very vibrant, roiling groove and some very likable turns by his guitarist, horn section, and organist. Mangue Konde’s “Kobendo” is also quite catchy, blending breezy Highlife-style guitars with some very propulsive and spirited percussion. The other songs that caught and held my attention usually did so for the wrong reasons though, as Compaore Issouf’s “Dambakale” sounds a lot like a relentlessly cheery soundtrack to a terrible ’70s porno, while Orchestre CVD’s “Rog Mik Africa” initially sounds like a live Allman Brothers jam.

The remainder of the songs are generally quite good, but mostly lack the uniqueness that I am looking for when listening to music from a faraway place and time, though a few pieces succeed simply because they appropriate American funk/soul and regurgitate it in harder, more frenzied form (Abdoulaye Cissé and Coulibaly Tidiani, for example). 

Ultimately, this is a solid and exhaustively researched compilation, which I suppose is a success, but I have been so spoiled by the recent spate of great African music compilations that I am left a little disappointed whenever there is not at least one song that sends me obsessively searching for the rest of an artist’s oeuvre. More succinctly, I respect rather than love this compilation: Redjeb certainly poured his heart into his work, but it just just did not connect with me as much as some of his others. Other people might feel very differently, however (music is quite subjective, you know), and those lucky people will be rewarded with all the information they could possibly want to embark upon an epic scavenger hunt centered around Amadou Balaké and his unsung contemporaries. 

Listen here.

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“Angola Soundtrack: Special Sounds from Luanda 1965-1978” (Analog Africa, 2012)

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Hopelessly smitten by Buda Musique’s long-defunct series of albums devoted to Angola, Analog Africa’s Samy Ben Redjeb decided to try to pick up where his predecessors left off. Characteristically, he quickly discovered that such an endeavor was much more convoluted and challenging than he had ever imagined, but ultimately made it through the gauntlet of denied visas, obligatory bribes, prohibitively expensive hotels, and ill-timed food poisoning to assemble what is possibly his finest compilation to date.

There is something about adversity tends to result in great music, and conditions don’t get much adverse than those in Angola during the time of these recordings. For one thing, the country was the battleground for the Colonial War from 1961 to 1975, as Angolan revolutionaries fought to expel their Portuguese rulers. Then, that finally accomplished, the country immediately plunged into a 27-year long civil war and a whole lot of poverty and social unrest. 

Even today, Angola has the world’s second lowest life expectancy. Of course, the arguable silver lining to all that death and misery is that nobody had the time or patience for frivolity, self-indulgence, over-orchestration, over-production, or pretension in their music: these guys were lucky to just be cutting records and tried like hell to make them count. In fact, hardly anyone even seems to have had access to a horn section: just a guitar, a bass, whatever percussion they could get together, and maybe an occasional organ. It is unfortunate that these bands were so stripped down out out of sheer necessity, but it is an aesthetic that suits my discerning ears quite well.

Much like many of the other exciting and highly localized music explosions that have been anthologized recently, the prime period for music in Angola coincided with a collision of African and Latin influences. It also coincided with a strong desire to create a distinct Angolan sound to assert their cultural independence from Portugal. For the most part, the Latin influence makes itself felt mostly through driving, vibrant percussion and simple, insistent bass lines. 

The African elements, on the other hand, manifest themselves most strongly in the clean, intricate guitar lines. The blending of cultures gets a bit blurrier than just that though, as touches of American surf music and other esoteric surprises occasionally pop-up as well. Also, there is a definite feel of urgency and melancholy in a lot of these songs, which serves to tone down the Latin percussion to a suitably non-manic pace.

The definite stand-out piece on the album is Quim Manuel’s “Eme Lelu,” one of the rare times horns make an appearance. The cool brass parts are just gravy though, as the song’s real charm lies in its mesmerizing, sinuous rhythm. I also loved the tensely repetitive “Mecongo Mi Chiquita,” by Ferraro Do Nascimento. There’s quite a bit of other strong material here too—nothing that quite floored me, but the hit-to-miss ratio is quite a bit better than it has been on the last few Analog Africa comps. 

I think the probable cause is that a lot of these musicians have a solid understanding of understatement and nuance, which is greatly appreciated, as the more hyperactive strains of Latin-African hybrids tend to grate on me. As do most jubilantly happy, major key songs, which is why I was very surprised to find that the man behind the jaunty “Uma Amiga” (David Zé) was murdered in a wave of repression that followed a failed coup (along with several other influential musicians). In fact, most of his music is impossible to find even now because people were so frightened to be caught with it during that dark period. Sometimes, even seemingly innocuous music holds morbid surprises, I guess.

Obviously, the music is the main draw here, but I have definitely fallen completely in love with Analog Africa’s packaging: each new album is like the next chapter in the unfolding autobiography of a passionate and compelling eccentric. There are lots of people out there scavenging the world for great lost music and many of them do an excellent job providing colorful or informative context and liner notes, but only Redjeb makes a point of also explaining exactly why he is excited about each project, recounting the absurd lengths he went to to make it happen, and including as many interviews with the people involved as possible. 

I get the feeling that each new release is the most important thing in the world to Redjeb, not just “the next album.” For Angola Soundtracks, he even postponed going to the hospital while seriously ill just because people kept stopping by to sell him records; I’m sure someday I will probably read about him braving an alligator attack or navigating a minefield or something just to interview some guy that played maracas on a 45 he likes. Samy is truly the music nerd’s music nerd, as it is impossible to remain unmoved by his enthusiasm.

Listen here.

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“Afro-Beat Airways: West African Shock Waves (Ghana & Togo 1972-1978)” (Analog Africa, 2010)

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The origins of this compilation read like the plot to an quirky indie comedy: a German musicologist misplaces his passport, loses his luggage, misses his flight, and winds up taking a completely different flight. When he arrives at his revised destination, he spends some time with a compelling eccentric, some unexpected things happen, and the experience changes the course of his life. The eccentric character in this instance was Dick Essilfe-Bonzie, a producer for Ghana’s influential indie label Essiebons, and reluctant caretaker of a mountain of forgotten recordings that Polygram never bothered to collect when they took over.

It is both fascinating and alarming how much of a role serendipity and chance play in musicology sometimes. Altered flight destination aside, curator Samy Ben Redjeb was not planning to embark upon a Ghana compilation at all when Essilfe-Bonzie presented him with a box of recently digitized recordings that he was thinking of emerging from retirement to release himself. 

Soon after, Redjeb learned that the reissue project wasn’t going to happen after all (“things are complicated”) and that Dick had several huge boxes of doomed master tapes sitting on his veranda getting rained on. Given that: 1.) he had no choice but to save the tapes, and 2.) he already had heard quite a bit of great of great music from Essilfe-Bonzie’s prematurely aborted digitizing project, it became a forgone conclusion that Samy needed to shelve his Togo and Benin projects and plunge into the sudden windfall of Ghana-iana. I am curious to see how many more albums emerge from this treasure trove, as only 12 of the songs included on Afro-Beat Airways were actually taken from Dick’s archive.

For the most part, the focus of the album is placed quite squarely on funky, organ-based Afro-Beat. To his credit, Redjeb avoids the unnecessarily epic song lengths and prolonged, self-indulgent solos that have historically torpedoed many of my Afro-Beat listening experiences. In fact, most of the songs are a punchy four minutes or under, except for the cases where they are excellent enough to warrant departing from that formula. 

If it weren’t for the inclusion of a brief and infectiously propulsive piece by De Frank Professionals, song length would actually be directly proportional to song quality, as all of my other favorites tend to go on for a while. In particular, the K. Frimpong and Ebo Taylor pieces are pretty stellar. Notably, two of those were among the tapes liberated from the boxes sitting outside Essilfe-Bonzie’s house, narrowly avoiding oblivion to become compilation highlights. I was also quite fond of African Brothers Band’s “Ngyegye No So,” which features a charming mid-song spoken breakdown courtesy of the very charismatic Nana Ampedu (“Well well well…my people, are you okay?”). I’m a sucker for those.

In short, Afro-Beat Airways is a very solid and likable compilation. While there isn’t a single song that stands out as a flat-out masterpiece (aside from maybe Ebo Taylor’s sinuously funky “Come Along”), nothing stands out as disappointing either. That is no small feat, as Ghana (like Nigeria) has been anthologized to death in recent years. Unearthing unheard gems from such a vast and complicated trove of available material is a never-ending (and daunting) sifting process and Redjeb has done a great job of it. I was particularly excited about the K. Frimpong piece, which I didn’t have yet (and presumably never would have heard without Redjeb’s intervention). I was equally thrilled to learn from the liner notes that Vis á Vis were his studio backing band, thus providing me with my next internet scavenging target.

Obviously, a lot of great African music is turning up on mp3 blogs like Awesome Tapes From Africa, but having a knowledgeable guy like Samy around to ferret out all the best stuff and write about it is pretty wonderful and indispensable. Not many people have the resources or patience to try to chase down dozens of long-retired obscure musicians in foreign countries, so a lot of the pictures, anecdotes, and line-up details included here are pretty unique and invaluable. The album itself is certainly enjoyable, but the accompanying interviews and biographical information are even better.

Listen here.

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