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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.