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    Gilberto Gil - Sao Joao Vivo (2000)
    Label: Warner Music 
    Жанр: Brazilian Jazz
    Год выпуска: 2000
    Формат: FLAC (tracks)
    Битрейт аудио: Lossless
    Продолжительность: 76:43 
    Размер: 497 Mb

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    320 kbps | 308 MB |


    This two-disc retrospective touches on several phases of Ghanaian vocalist Pat Thomas’ career, pulling highlife, swing jazz, Afrobeat, psychedelic rock, reggae and funk, into his joyful orbit.

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    coverFLAC | 445 MB | LINKS

    Young As The Morning Old As The Sea’ is the 8th studio album from Mike Rosenberg otherwise known as Passenger. A prolific achievement for an artist who is still only just turned 30 last year. The album was recorded at Roundhead Studios in Auckland, a studio lovingly built from scratch by Neil Finn and also at Linear studios in Sydney. The album sees Chris Vallejo and Mike teaming up to co-produce the album with the notable addition that this time the record was created in the room with an incredible band of musicians. Ben Edgar (Guitar), Rob Clader (Bass), Peter Marin (Drums) Jon Solo (keys) who all gave their exceptional voices to a totally different recording process.

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    320 kbps | 121 MB | LINKS

    Dirty Deep is now a power blues trio in the same vein than Left Lane Cruiser and Black Diamond Heavies.“What’s Flowin’ In My Veins” is a gritty release that should ideally be heard in company, with a stack of beers and smokes close to hand – it’s just that sort of record. Simple and to the point, Dirty Deep gets at the spirit of rock and roll and makes us face the terrors of a forgotten world.

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    Derek Gripper - Libraries on Fire (2015)

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    Pat ThomasAs this compilation gets underway, with the Broadway Dance Band’s big-band highlife number “Go Modern,” the first thing you notice is the enveloping ambient charm of the recording, which sounds closer to a 78-RPM record from the 1940s than the mid-’60s document that it actually is. The next thing you notice is that the guitar and the horns are out of tune with one another — just one of several small touches that give Coming Home its distinct personality, especially in its first half.
    A two-disc retrospective that touches on several phases of Ghanaian vocalist Pat Thomas’ career, Coming Home presents Thomas fronting over a half-dozen different bands. Inspired at an early age by the likes of Nat King Cole, Miriam Makeba, and Stevie Wonder, Thomas was a more…

    320 MB  320 ** FLAC

    …raw-edged singer and can be heard pushing the mic to distortion often on this set as he offers his own version of a Sam Moore-style croon.

    Just as significantly, the sequencing retraces Thomas’ long-running musical relationship with guitarist/arranger/bandleader Ebo Taylor. Instrumental in Thomas’ career getting off the ground, Taylor had already established himself with the Broadway Dance Band for almost a decade before giving Thomas his break as the band’s lead vocalist. Taylor and Thomas fell into a comfortable creative rapport almost instantly, with Taylor writing the music but also coming up with song titles for Thomas to write lyrics for. The pair have worked on and off ever since (as captured most recently by Thomas & Kwashibu Area Band’s self-titled album from 2015). Aside from Taylor, the different groupings of musicians on Coming Home occupy the spotlight almost as much as Thomas does.

    In the mid- to late-20th century, as African societies engaged in complex dances with post-colonialism and modernity, it was no coincidence that new strains of music began to sprout rapidly throughout the continent. A key aspect of the creative surges that swept through Ghana, Nigeria, Ethiopia, and elsewhere in the ‘60s and ‘70s was the willingness of homegrown musicians to embrace influences from the Western Hemisphere that owe their existence to Africa in the first place.

    Of course, Coming Home reflects this dynamic, as Thomas and company navigate the confluence of highlife, swing jazz, Latin jazz, Afrobeat, psychedelic rock, reggae, funk, and disco. At times, the results veer a tad too close to ripoffs. The Pat Thomas and Marijata track “Brain Washing,” for example, sounds like an uninspired cover band trying to concoct a mashup of Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” with Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” Not only does the Marijata track come off as naive, it contains virtually no trace of the environment it was created in. There are other moments when Thomas’ choice to sing in his native Akan dialects of Fante and Twi isn’t enough on its own to truly set the music apart.

    Luckily, this turns out not the case on most of the album’s 23 tracks. In fact, Coming Home includes four other tunes by Marijata that demonstrate the group’s range. All of the bands included here—Ogyatanaa Show Band, the Black Berets, the Sweet Beans, and The Big ‘7’—wear their influences on their sleeve, but they also manage to spice them up just enough. On “Revolution,” for instance, the Sweet Beans subtly re-invent reggae as a more limber, light-footed form, the song’s slippery bass line immediately recognizable as somehow more “African” than Caribbean.

    Likewise, on “Set Me Free,” the Sweet Beans hint at but don’t quite dip all the way into Latin rhythms and horn textures, choosing instead to stay in a kind of limbo between Latin jazz and ragtime, with a snaking saxophone melody that betrays the music’s Ghanaian roots. It is at these moments, where the music doesn’t quite plant both feet in any one style, when Coming Home sounds most fresh. In fact, some of the combinations that Thomas and these bands come up with suggest that these musics are still fertile ground for new combinations.

    The contrasts between the two discs are sharp, as disc one focuses on the ’60s and ’70s while disc two documents Thomas’ work as an exponent of the burger-highlife movement that took off in Germany in the ’80s. And, sure, the drum machine on the more modern track “Gyae Su (1)” speaks to its time period, but for the most part the second disc lacks the heavy recording coloration—and spunk—of the earlier material.

    On the other hand, on tracks such as the nearly 15-minute lament “Mewo Akoma,” Thomas’ maturity shines through in his lyrics about familial estrangement. Appropriately enough, the twinkling guitar that defines highlife music gets traded in here for a significantly more subdued line that matches the song’s weariness.

    A mixed bag by definition, Coming Home could nevertheless have been sequenced to play more like an album and less like a guided tour. Of course, as a guided tour it inspires the listener to dig deeper into not only Thomas’ work, but the stylistic and cultural origins of his music. Which is to say: it succeeds.

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    320 kbps | 338 MB | LINKS



    01 Around The World In A Day
    02 Christopher Tracy’s Parade
    03 New Position
    04 I Wonder U
    05 Raspberry Beret
    06 Alexa De Paris
    07 Controversy
    08 Mutiny – Dream Factory – Cold Sweat [James Brown] (instr.)
    09 (How Much Is) That Doggie In The Window? [Patti Page]
    10 Lady Cab Driver (instr.)
    11 Automatic
    12 D.M.S.R.
    13 The Dance Electric
    14 Under The Cherry Moon
    15 Anotherloverholenyohead
    16 Soft And Wet
    17 I Wanna Be Your Lover
    18 Head


    01 Pop Life
    02 Girls & Boys
    03 Life Can Be So Nice
    04 Purple Rain
    05 Safety announcement over PA
    06 Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On [Jerry Lee Lewis]
    07 A Love Bizarre – Holly Rock – Take Your Dead Ass Home! [Funkadelic] (chant)
    08 America – Spanish Key [Miles Davis] feat. Prince on drums
    09 Kiss (extended)
    10 Love Or $ – Ain’t It Funky Now [James Brow (instr.)

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    Juan Luis Guerra (Juan Luis Guerra y 4.40) / Juan Luis Guerra — 1984-2014 — discography Жанр : Latin, Tropical, Merengue, Bachata Страна исполнителя (группы) : Dominican Republic, USA Год издания : 1984-2014 Аудиокодек : MP3 Тип рипа : tracks Битрейт аудио : 192-320 kbps Продолжительность : 09:16:43 Наличие сканов в содержимом раздачи : нет Треклист : #77 01 - Feliciana 02 - Soplando 03 - Carnaval 04 - Juana Mecho 05 - Jardinera 06 - Sambomba 07 - Loreta 08 - La Calle Gris #77 01- Por Eso Ahora 02 - Ella Dice 03 - Yo Vivo Enamorao 04 - Requiem Sobre El Jaragua (Le Dien Dinamita) 05 - Si Tu Te Vas 06 - Elena 07 - Santiago En Coche 08 - Dame #77 01 - Guavaberry 02 - Tú 03 - Amor de Conuco 04 - No Me Acostumbro 05 - Me Enamoro de Ella 06 - ¡Ay!

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    320 kbps | 114 MB | LINKS

    The Trio’s debut album reminds us all that blues was once a major part of the jazz world. Best known as a legendary first call session guitar player (Bonnie Raitt, Elvin Bishop, Emmylou Harris, etc.), Amos was also a member of Paul Butterfield’s Better Days and Maria Muldaur’s bandleader. Amos has appeared on more then 150 artists’ recordings in all genres of music.

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    FLAC | 262 MB | LINKS

    Robyn Ludwick, little sister to Bruce and Charlie Robeson, one of Texas Music’s greatest dynasties has a new CD coming out called “This Tall to Ride”. Her writing style owes a lot to the influence of Lucinda Williams, but still rings genuine and personal. Her songs have that same rugged, but emotional tough woman style that Lucinda has come to personify. The words are all Robyn’s, though, as she depicts love as an addictive emotion, even comparing it to cocaine and heroin. She doesn’t fall into the “happily ever after” depiction of relationships and the impermanence of love rolls through her songs as a major theme. Ms. Ludwick creates some tragic characters that inhabit her songs and bring a gritty realism to the messages. All of this and David Grissom and Bukka Allen (among others), too.

    “This Tall to Ride” is a dark series of songs that play to the pain of relationships and a fruitless struggle to find meaning in life. It’s full of loneliness and lost hope, yet depicts the drive to carry on and live for the good times that interrupt the string of sadness. That said, the songs are artfully written and the music drives home the message. This album is written by a tough woman for those listeners that are strong of heart and take life head on.

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    Old Crow Medicine Show / Best Of Жанр : Country, Bluegrass, Folk, Country-Blues Носитель : CD Страна-производитель диска (релиза) : US Год издания : 2017 Издатель (лейбл) : Nettwerk Номер по каталогу : 311092 Аудиокодек : FLAC (*.

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    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Location: Makassar, South Sulawesi

    Sound: Tanjidor Makassar (also called musik terompet if featuring trumpets, musik seruling if using flutes)

    The cities of Jakarta and Makassar are more than 1500 kilometers apart, but in some ways they seem like long lost twins. Both cities are capitals and cultural hubs: Jakarta, of course, is the largest city and capital of Indonesia, while Makassar (known for centuries as Ujung Pandang) is the capital of South Sulawesi and the largest city in East Indonesia. Both are famously cosmopolitan: Jakarta’s status as a major port and and capital since the Dutch colonial era (when it was called Batavia) has made it a nexus for streams of people and cultures from all around the archipelago and the world. Similarly, Makassar’s strategic position between Java and the famous Spice Islands means its port has been a confluence of cultures for centuries, with Dutch, Portuguese, Bugis, Chinese, Makassarese, and others all meeting in a diverse social fabric.

    Beyond all that, there’s a musical thread that ties these far-flung cities together across the vast Java Sea: tanjidor. To get to the roots of this music, we have to go back to the days when Jakarta was still Batavia and the Dutch and other colonial raiders were still a major presence. As ethnomusicologist Philip Yampolsky explains in his liner notes to volume five in his epic Music of Indonesia album series, “the [tanjidor] ensemble probably developed out of the slave orchestras that wealthy landowners maintained at their estates in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Batavia.” These “orchestras” evolved into rag-tag brass bands played by the Betawi, the ethnic group that emerged out of the giant melting pot of colonial Batavia. To this day, Betawi tanjidor bands play European marches and national classics on old marching band instruments left over from the Dutch era, including, Yampolsky notes, now obscure instruments like the helicon

    Yampolsky gives a shout out to similar tanjidor ensembles which found their way as far as Palembang in South Sumatra and Pontianak in West Kalimantan, but one tradition has been left out: tanjidor Makassar. Its strange enough that tanjidor is found outside of Java: with the exception of Javanese transmigrants spreading gamelan across the archipelago, it's pretty unusual for regional specialties to jump islands. You’d never find Sumbanese jungga in Sumatra, just as you wouldn’t expect to run into Minang saluang music in Java. How did tanjidor (in another form) find its way all the way to Makassar?

    While there are some very Sunda-fied varieties of tanjidor found in the countryside of West Java which buck the marches and oompah rhythms of the original, the Betawi style played on the outskirts of Jakarta is pretty much straight European brass band music (although played with an eccentric looseness!) Maybe it's these origins in “musik Barat” (Western music) which allow it to float so easily across the archipelago: it may be rooted in a very specific cultural and historical moment in Batavia and subsequently embraced by the locals, but in many ways it is as musically alien to Java as it is to Sulawesi. 

    Makassar-style tanjidor takes this European brass band style and pares it down to the bare minimum. From my research, the most popular style in the area seems to be based on a trio of bass drum (bas), snare (tambor), and transverse bamboo flute (seruling.) It's a thin sound, for sure, with shrill, distorted flute wailing over brutally beaten drums. The band I ran into, however, mixed it up by replacing the flute with dual, harmonizing trumpets.  The songs played were old classics, Indonesian in origin but in a European idiom, like Ismael Marzuki’s “Aryati” (in Makassar called “Haryati” and referred to, strangely, as a Mandarin song) and the Makassar classic “Angin Mammiri.” 

    How tanjidor came to be played in Makassar is a mystery. When asked, this band’s leader, Pak Chandra, didn't have much to offer: "How it got here, I’m not really sure," he said, "All I know is I learned it from my father.” There’s an enticing clue, though, in Yampolsky’s liner notes: he mentions that those early bands were made up of “slaves from many parts of Indonesia (Bali and South Sulawesi in particular.)” It’s impossible to say if there’s a link there, but it's a fact that the Bugis and Makassar people of South Sulawesi have had a presence in (the area now called) Jakarta for centuries: natural sailors, these folks have set up roots all around the archipelago (Bugis and Makassarese trepangers even made it as far as Australia!) It’s not hard to imagine a Bugis or Makassarese immigrant heading back home to Sulawesi from the big city and taking tanjidor with him.

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Here’s something else that draws my attention to the wonderful Jakarta-Makassar tanjidor connection: Yampolsky mentions that, in the past, Betawi-style tanjidor was often “played for rural ‘Chinese’ temple festivals,” but notes that “it is now rarely used” in such contexts. In Makassar, this is very much still a thing: the band I recorded was playing in a Chinese-Indonesian kelenteng (temple) to celebrate Cap Go Meh, the Chinese “lantern festival” marking the end of Chinese New Year celebrations. 

    This symbiosis between tanjidor music and the Chinese-Indonesian community seems to be a complex one in both Jakarta and Makassar. The Betawi culture of Jakarta is threaded with Chinese-Indonesian elements (callback to my cliché “melting pot” statement), with some tanjidor groups even featuring the Chinese fiddle or tehyan. Despite this Chinese-Indonesian element in their make-up, Betawi people were historically classified as “pribumi”, a now-rather-outdated term essentially glossing as “native” or, basically, “not Chinese.” This makes tanjidor an interesting (and sometimes uncomfortable) cultural interface between these very differently privileged and culturally situated groups. Yampolsky notes that by the beginning of the twentieth century, tanjidor groups “routinely toured well-to-do neighborhoods of Batavia during both the Chinese and European new year celebrations, playing in front of residences for tips. This practice was abandoned in 1955 after the mayor of Jakarta declared that it displeased him to see pribumi musicians treated like beggars by ‘Chinese.’”

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Note Yampolsky’s scare-quotes around “Chinese”: it’s as appropriate to call Chinese-Indonesians “Chinese” as it is to call African-Americans simply “Africans.” Despite hundreds of years and many generations in the archipelago, Chinese-Indonesians have historically been outcast as foreign outsiders, “Chinese” rather than Indonesian (thus the contrast with “pribumi” or “natives”.) Probably in no small part due to this persecution, Chinese-Indonesians, like other Chinese diaspora around the globe, have been historically insular. This is one aspect that makes the tanjidor interface interesting: Muslim non-Chinese-Indonesian musicians playing traditional music (itself with faint Chinese-Indonesian elements) in very Chinese-Indonesian contexts (in a kelenteng for Chinese New Year celebrations) is something of an odd socio-cultural mixture, especially in a time when Chinese-Indonesians’ perceived otherness is becoming once again a subject of fierce national debate

    In Makassar, tanjidor also seems to exist as a musical interface between Bugis/Makassarese musicians and Chinese-Indonesian/Chinese-Makassarese communities. I don’t know much about the history of Chinese and Chinese-Indonesians in Makassar nor about their relationship with local ethnic groups, but the community is quite large, dating back centuries to the days of the spice trade when Chinese-Indonesians were key merchants in the supply chain. Makassar’s Chinatown is dotted with kelenteng where Bugis-Makassarese tanjidor bands are hired by Chinese-Indonesian patrons to play for temple ceremonies such as the one we stumbled upon. When asked about the relationship between tanjidor Makassar and the Chinese community, the group’s leader put it simply: “We’re like brothers, all the way back to our grandparents.” This proud statement of solidarity with a much-ostracized group was refreshing. Whether the relationship between these Makassar communities is actually that peachy would require further investigation, and the patron-artist relationship between upper class Chinese-Indonesians and poor Makassarese is an understandably complex one, too complex to give it justice in this music blog. 

    Tanjidor has been embraced as both Betawi and Makassarese art forms, but it takes only one listen to realize that it retains its distinctly foreign, European DNA. Just as I theorized that this may have allowed the music to float “homeless” across the archipelago, it also may be the key to its place in these unique ethno-cultural junctures. Somehow while it is unimaginable that the Makassarese would play their frenetic traditional ganrang drumming music in a klenteng, tanjidor’s essential otherness in relation to both traditional Makassarese and Chinese-Indonesian cultures allows it to occupy this unique space. On the other hand, despite tanjidor Makassar’s clear European idiom, its place in this rich, complex confluence of traditions and communities makes it very Makassar, indeed.


    Makassar at night is remarkably alive: groups of kretek-smoking locals fill endless streetside cafes while mostly domestic tourists wander downtown after watching the sunset at the famous Losari “beach.” The thick, humid air was just beginning to cool as my friends Jo, Logan and I made our way to Sulawesi Street in the city’s sprawling Chinatown. We were lucky enough to have arrived in town just in time for Cap Go Meh, the last night of Chinese New Year celebrations, and the party was in full swing. A massive crowd had gathered for blocks and blocks to take in the festive atmosphere of red Chinese lanterns, inexplicable street-side karaoke, and cheap street food. 

    After grabbing some beers and mie titi, a Chinese-Makassarese crunchy noodle dish unique to the city, we pushed our way through the crowds and into some quieter alleys. This quiet was relative, however: not far down the first alley we passed, the sound of trumpets and snare drum blasted out of a kelenteng temple lit gorgeously with huge, flickering candles. Overcoming my initial disorientation, I soon realized what were were hearing: tanjidor!

    I’d seen videos on YouTube before, but they were scrappy bands led by shrill flutes drowned out by over-eager drummers. Some were essentially dangdut bands with a bass and snare drum thrown in (for the prestige of “tradition”, I guess?). I had not been impressed. This band, though, was something different: twin trumpets harmonizing with gooey, Mariachi-like vibrato, the drums laying down rhythms that almost approached funkiness. 


    My excitement slightly faded when I realized I’d left my recording gear and camera at the hotel. I hadn’t expected to hear anything interesting on the streets of Makassar, but here we were watching a brass band play in a Chinese-Indonesian temple. As I’ve written before, most music I share here is commissioned, the music played especially for this project; what I love more than anything, though, is getting the chance to share music as it's played in its “natural habitat’, so to speak. 

    There was only one choice: I had to rush back to the hotel and get my stuff. It was already 11 PM, so between songs I asked the head trumpeter how long they’d be playing. “At least until one in the morning,” he said. Just enough time. 

    When Logan and I returned an hour later (Jo was too sleepy for trumpets), the scene had transformed. We had encountered the band just as the festival was peaking: the streets had been full of revelers, with Chinese-Indonesian families making their way down the street to a pork noodle place while a dozen beggars sat on the ground in front of the kelenteng with change-filled buckets, hoping to catch some excess holiday generosity. Now, just past midnight, the place was abandoned: the audience had been reduced to a few bored police officers tasked with securing the festival - even the beggars had gone home. The quiet of the dark alley gave the whole scene a melancholic air. Perfect, I guess, for shmaltzy trumpet ballads. 

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    Photo by Logan Hallay

    I’d told the bandleader we’d be back, and he seemed happy to have an audience. He asked if I had any requests, so I inquired about the repertoire. “Pop, Mandarin, Dangdut, Makassar songs…anything!” I asked to hear their favorite song to play, and as I began to record they burst into “Aryati,” a classic 50s era pop song by nationalist icon Ismail Marzuki. Like so many “traditional” groups playing in an urban setting, it was clear the product these guys were peddling was nostalgia: nostalgia for a time when these kinds of slow ballads were on every radio across Indonesia and foreign music was entering many folks’ ears for the first time. You can hear this early, exotic globalism at work in “Aryati”’s Latin-inspired rhythms and its simple, pleasant harmonies. 

    After three songs, a tall, thin Chinese-Indonesian man who seemed to be the head of this kelenteng was making subtle hints that the show was over: the epic Chinese New Year celebrations were officially done. As the band packed up their trumpets in the flickering light of hundreds of candles, I saw a lone 5000 rupiah (~30 cent) note sitting sadly on their “tip jar”, a plastic dinner plate sitting next to a glass of sweet tea. Before I left, I contributed as generously as i could to the plate, shaking hands with the band and the temple patrons in thanks. I hadn’t commissioned the performance myself, and thankfully so: who could have contrived such a perfect, surreal scene?  I simply wandered in, watched trumpet blasts snuff out candles, and left with a smile on my face, happy to have stumbled upon one of Makassar’s musical oddities.


    Huge thanks to the musicians: Chandra Rachmat on terompet (suara satu), Sultan on terompet (suara dua), Ahmad on Bas, Sinar on Tambor. And to Kelenteng Vihara Dharma Loka for being a patron of the Makassar arts! 

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    In part two, we discuss some of Buika’s latest projects, including her new EP, a movie, and an opera…..

    In part one of our interview with Buika, she discussed her past, her thoughts on life, and her mission as a singer. Here, we talk about some of her current, past and future projects….

    Ron Deutsch: I keep hearing about a movie you’ve been making or made. Are you still working on it?

    Buika: Yes, I made this film. It’s already done. We are working on the soundtrack which has been a nightmare! It was supposed to be a short film, because it came from a poem in my last book. But at the end, I don’t know, it’s now 90 whatever minutes. We’re just crazy, just crazy. I’ll tell you something, this is the first and the last time in my life I do something that crazy. Oh my God! Do you know what it is to do a movie? I thought it was easier. I almost died.

    But now you’re involved in putting on an opera, right? That’s got to be almost as crazy, no?

    Yes, [Laughs]. I’m working on an opera now. And, yeah, it’s just as crazy, but in this occasion they called me. It wasn’t my idea. I’m a fan of this band called Apparatjik. I don’t know why, but they called me for work. I was so amazed and I thought, ‘”Oh my God! That’s not possible!” I was so nervous because I really do love what they do and everything. I so respected that they would call me to work, first of all because we didn’t know each other.

    They wanted to do an opera about a woman called Julia Pastrana, who was a woman who had a face full of hair, “a bearded lady.” She had two lines of teeth in her mouth. She was a special person, so talented. She spoke several languages; she was a soprano and could sing opera. But they treated her like she was an animal. She was sleeping in a cage in the circus, close to the monkeys, because they said she was between a monkey and a person. We’re talking about the 19th century. The poor girl, she had an amazing traumatic life.

    Apparatjik knew about that story and decided to do an opera about her and just called me. After that, we started to play together. And now we do some shows together, and I’m having fun with them. They’re amazing. The singer is of the [Danish] band Mew, the other is the guitarist from [the group] a-ha, remember them from the ‘80s? The other is [Swedish] Martin Terefe [who coproduced her 2015 album Vivir Sin Miedo], who is an amazing and talented producer. An amazing band. We’re supposed to release the opera in 2019 in Norway. But we’ve been doing a show from the opera last year, and it was amazing, beautiful. And some of the compositions are mine, too.

    Excerpt of “Day of the Dead” performance:

    This is not the first time you’ve been drawn to stories of interesting women. In 2009, you teamed up with Cuban pianist Jesús “Chucho” Valdés to make the Latin Grammy winning album El Último Trago (The Last Drink), in which you reinterpreted traditional ranchera songs made famous by Costa Rican singer Chavela Vargas.

    Oh, you would have loved her. She was amazing. She used to sleep with a gun under her pillow. I remember once, she felt bad and we took a doctor to her home. And he said something and she got so offended, she picked up the gun and started to shoot it.

    We first met because we had the same manager. I remember she had to come to Madrid to do a show and the manager was scared because he thought she wouldn’t be able to stand two hours for the show, because she was too old. My manager decided to have me and another singer sing with her. She didn’t want that because she was offended. But then she said: “O.K., let me listen to the singers you want me to sing with.” So we went there and she said: ‘O.K., what’s your name?’ And I started to stutter, I was so in awe of her. So then I started to sing but I was so nervous. And she kicked me out… like a dog. [Laughs] She stopped me and said, “You can go home. You’re not ready.” And I was like, “What?! I was a Grammy winner! I’m not ready for what?!” I was so angry. But then, we went to Mexico to play and she came and was in love with what she heard. She came to the dressing room and said: “You are my black daughter.” And I was like, “O.K.!” She was a really strong woman, you know? You couldn’t mess with her.

    Let’s talk about the new album, Para Mi. Why did you decide to release an EP of just five songs instead of an entire album?

    Well, first of all because I think nobody has time to listen to a whole album today. Today, albums don’t exist anymore… for real. I have my playlist. You have your playlist. It’s not an album anymore. That is first. Then I think that to throw away so much money, it’s so much money. Why do you want to spend all that money? Why release 12 songs each year? I don’t have 12 great ideas each year, you know? Why do I have to release 12 songs each year, with a video clip, and this and that, like this? Why do we have to always do the same? Today, I invent an amazing song and I want my audience to listen to that song in 15 days. What is the problem? So I release one song. If in a couple of months, I have a couple of more songs that I like, I’ll release two songs. Of course, now is when my record label will kick my ass. [Laughs]

    So this EP is 25 minutes and it’s called Para Mi–for me. That’s my gift to my tribe. Twenty-five minutes for you that you don’t need to share–because you have to share your feelings, you have to share your money, you have to share your ideas, you have to share your secrets! So these 25 minutes are for you. Just for you. If you want to share them, you can share them. If you don’t want to share them, you don’t have to. It’s just 25 minutes. And, Papi, if you cannot give yourself 25 minutes in a day, then you have to think about what’s going on with your life. You know what I’m saying?

    You’ve also started producing your albums. I’m wondering if this came about because of problems you had with your former manager and now you’ve seem to have taken more control over your career?

    It was so much important, Papi. You can’t leave your tribe, your fans, in somebody else’s hands. No. You can’t do that. If you work with someone, this someone has to work for you. Because you work for the audience. It’s not the other way. Before, I was like a worker and I thought my manager was my boss. I thought my record label was my boss. I was so loyal. The best soldier. I’ve always been one of the best soldiers. “Do this!” I’ll do it. “Do that!” I’ll do that. At the end of the line, it was the audience, always the audience. Everything I do in this life is for the tribe. We are missionaries. We have to be there for them. The companies now are here, tomorrow, who knows? I don’t know. Especially today, you look at the future of the record labels and you go, “Uh oh, I don’t know.” But music will be there, won’t it? Records labels… I don’t know.

    It’s cool that there’s a business music, but what is not cool is to make the people believe that the music doesn’t belong to them. That’s what I mean by the “industrialization of feeling.” Music belongs to humanity, not to the companies. You know what I’m saying? Your thoughts, your ideas belong to the people who listen to you, it doesn’t belong to who you work for. You’re a soldier. Never forget that. You’re a missionary. You belong to humanity, not to the companies.

    Let me tell you something, beyond 40, rebellious is the answer! At this point, I don’t think nobody can tell you, “Hey you, don’t write this because then people are going to think you are this and that.” There has to be a line to cross, but once you cross that line you aren’t scared anymore. I’m 45 years old. I’m not scared for my career anymore.

    You also play several different instruments. Do you ever play on your own recordings?

    Yeah, I do sometimes. I presume I’m a really good music programmer. And when I do my music, I normally record all the instruments. I record the bass, piano, drums, everything myself. But then when I go to the big production in the studio, I call musicians because I want a really good job. I’m not really a very good musician. I just try.

    Tell me about the musicians you chose for Para Mi….

    First of all, they accompany me for a long, long, long time ago. It was a like a gift for all of us to get together again and do this short, tiny, and small masterpiece, you know? It was like a decision. No producers, just ourselves to go into the studio and have fun. It’s just five songs, so let’s dream something. It was amazing.

    The percussionist, Josue [Suarez Piraña], I’ve been with for the last 15 years. All the best players that I’ve always been with from a long time ago. The guitarist [Jesus De Rosario], is the only one who’s new, and it was amazing to discover this boy. They’re all Gypsy-flamenco musicians, like Ramon Porrina, and Santiago Cañada, who is a trombone player. That was something really nice. I decided to play with a trombone because it is an unusual instrument for accompanying a singer, you know? I discovered something about this instrument that is something like a voice, so I feel like we are two voices on the album. It’s just beautiful.

    I feel really proud of it, honestly. And you know how once you listen to something, and you say, “Did I do that for real?” That’s how I feel in front of that album. I feel it’s so special. And I’m taking these musicians with me on the tour, because I wanted the people to listen to the original, for real.

    O.K., one last question. You are known for always getting a new tattoo when you go on tour. What’s the latest?

    The latest one are two butterflies, because I honestly think that butterflies are the only animal who flies in all directions to go straight, you know? The same as me.

    Thank you so much for your time.

    Thank you too, Papi.

    Para Mi is available wherever you buy or download music. Upcoming North American tour dates include Festival International de Jazz de Montreal (July 4), Santa Fe, NM (July 28), San Juan, PR (Aug. 19), and Seattle, WA (Aug. 29-30).

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    In advance of Buika’s upcoming performance at the Festival International de Jazz de Montreal on July 4, we had a long and insightful phone conversation with the outspoken Spanish singer. We’re bringing it to you in two parts. Part two, the interview, can be found here. Here’s part one….

    María Concepción Balboa Buika, A.KA. Concha Buika, or just Buika , now 45, has been singing professionally since she was a teenager, born and raised on the small Spanish island of Majorca. Her parents fled there in the early 1970s from Equatorial Guinea, as her father, a poet and teacher, became an enemy of the terrorist regime of Macias Nguema. She grew up in hiding, as she calls, “in a hood,” a poor Gypsy neighborhood where, by her account, “there wasn’t any black person around me. We were the unique black family in all the neighborhood, and practically all of the island.” While her grade school choir teacher told her one day she “sang like a dog,” and not to come back to choir class, it didn’t deter her from developing both a love of music and a desire to sing. Today, with a Latin Grammy award (along with numerous nominations), collaborations with artists as diverse as Anoushka Shankar, Nelly Furtado, Seal, Pat Metheny, Charles Aznavour, and Me’shell Ndegeocello, she has certainly proven that schoolteacher to be very wrong. NPR dubbed her one of the “50 great voices in the world.”

    “I was growing up in a flamenco neighborhood,” Buika says, “and that was the first music I met. Flamenco, jazz, blues. But my mama did something really cool. She was from a tribe, see, she’s not even from a village. She don’t know about differences between music styles. For her, all music was the same and that’s how she taught me. Thanks to her, to me, there’s no difference between styles. Because all the styles talk about the same sh**: love, desperation, hate, surviving, hopes. There’s no difference between a girl crying in China because her boyfriend broke up with her, or a girl crying in the United States because her boyfriend broke up with her. It’s the same tears. It’s not the same language. It’s not the same color. But it’s the same tears; the same feeling. We are different, but we are equal.

    “When I was a kid, I was the worst,” she admits. “Everything I do in this world I want to be the best, so if I’m going in the wrong way, I want to be the best going in the wrong way. You know what I’m saying? I was a bug. I didn’t want to go to school. I was always hanging on the streets. So people around me used to tell me constantly: ‘You ain’t got no future. You gonna be a useless person. You’re not gonna find nobody to love you. You gonna find nothing to do in this world. You’re gonna be homeless if you keep on like that. You’re not a smart person. You’re an idiot.’ And I was growing up thinking that I was going to be a useless person.

    “But then the first time I heard applause, that changed my life, because I thought all those people who talked to me in the past were liars. Either that or these people in front of me are crazy. But obviously, an audience is not crazy. They know what they hear. And the applause is something you do without nobody telling you what you got to do. You applaud because you feel so. So those people were being sincere. I was amazed. How can they applaud an idiot person? Nobody applauds an idiot person… except sometimes in the circus, I guess,” she laughs.

    Eventually, she started performing in cafés and clubs with her own version of the blues.

    “I was singing deep blues,” she says, “but innocent blues, because I was inventing the lyrics. It wasn’t even English, but people around me couldn’t tell. This was in a little village in Majorca and nobody speaks English there at that time. So I was inventing it.” She laughs, “You know, lying like a bitch.”

    Buika began to gain local fame and was dubbed the “Tina Turner of Spain,” whom she looked up to as a role model, which led her to a stint in Las Vegas as a Tina Turner impersonator, working a grueling schedule but also learning a lot about performance and her voice. But growing weary and homesick, she moved back to Spain.

    Then, one night in Madrid, something, or rather someone, changed her life. That someone was Puerto Rican-American musician Jerry Gonzalez, who had recently relocated to Madrid. Gonzalez is considered to be one of the fathers of Latin jazz, and has played with Dizzy Gillespie, Eddie Palmieri, Tito Puente and McCoy Tyner, in addition to fronting his own bands.

    “I will never forget that night, you know,” she recalls. “There were only three people in the club. I was so sad. I was singing ‘My One and Only Love.’ It was one of my first weeks in Madrid. I didn’t know nobody. I was so lonesome, but I needed to fight for my music. So I went on stage and there was the bartender and one crazy someone I didn’t know who it was. I was really sad because there was nobody at the bar, and I thought, ‘Oh my God, I’m not going to be lucky in this place, but I need to sing because these two people need to listen to good music. So it’s my responsibility. I need to sing and do it as best as I can.’ You know, because maybe there’s two people, but these two people deserve the best show. So I started to sing and I started to cry at the same time. I didn’t want to cry, but my tears were coming out of my eyes, and I didn’t know why. And all of a sudden I start to hear a melody and there was nobody there! And I was like, ‘What’s that?’ I don’t use drugs, because maybe if I used drugs, maybe I would think I was high, you know? So I’m like, ‘What’s going on?’ It was far away, but I could hear it. I turned to the pianist: ‘Do you hear that?’ But I have to keep on singing, and the melody don’t stop.

    “Then all of a sudden, I turn around and see a circle, a golden circle in the air. And I was so scared. And I was like: ‘What the f*** is this? What is going on here?’ It was coming towards me. And it was Jerry. But, you know, the lights in the bar were dark and I couldn’t see him until he got on stage. He was playing from downstairs. That was so beautiful and so romantic. That’s why nobody could see him until he came up. And he said later, that he was walking down the street and once he passed in front of this bar, he hears what he thought was an angel singing, and he couldn’t help himself and needed to play. So he started to play, came up the stairs, and that’s how I met him. It was a circle in the air, like gold, coming towards me. ”

    They became quick friends and Gonzalez gave her much advice and support she needed then to keep pursuing her career. He eventually helped her find her first record contract.

    “Because I was a jazz singer,” she says, “and at that time jazz singers were not very successful in Spain. It was difficult for me and I didn’t have so much hope, but I couldn’t quit. My mission was to be honest with music and I knew I could make a lot of money singing pop, or I don’t know, but I couldn’t. Jerry pushed me up a lot. He was like, ‘Don’t worry. Your way is there. You don’t worry. Don’t listen to the others. Just listen to your free note and that will be the one who will take you far.’ And he was right. I was just listening to my free note and I came here.

    “Nobody can teach you how to sing,” she adds. “That’s my theory. It’s something I believe. It’s not that I’m right, it’s what I believe. Nobody can teach you how to sing. Nobody can teach you how to cry. Nobody can teach you how to make love. That’s you, Papi. You know what I’m saying?”

    While some may read Buika’s life journey and see a victim of society and circumstance, and even hear that in the songs she chooses to sing, she refuses that role. When she first started to reach an international audience, there seemed to be a narrative created by the media which she decries as false.

    “Here’s the thing,” she says, “just because I have this past, 90 percent of the journalists want me to say: ‘My life has been so hard. As a little black poor girl in a white neighborhood, and all that sh**’ But it’s not true! I was so happy! They need a movie history behind my life. No! Life is always better than movies! I don’t remember my childhood like something horrible. Of course there were a lot of people who couldn’t understand. Like there have been a lot of things I didn’t understand from life. I don’t know. It’s so stupid to believe in these old things like racism and things like that. I had problems, obviously. But no matter if you’re black, white, Chinese, or whatever, you don’t have an easy childhood when you grow up in a ‘hood.’ But sometimes some people get a little bit offended because they live from the compassion of others. I’m a black girl and I’ve been suffering a lot of things, like everybody, and I’ve had a lot of beautiful things, like everybody. I don’t think that is a point to talk about.

    “What I always say, and it’s something really curious, is that I know from where am I singing. I don’t know–and I will never know–from where are you listening to it. You know what I’m saying? I’m singing from my happiness, from my hopes, and everything. But you’re listening from your side, so I can not make myself responsible for the feelings you have when you’re listening to me singing.

    “I’m so much happy when I sing,” she admits. “I feel blessed when I sing. My songs are happy. But if you hear my songs and feel sad, you have to question yourself why. Sure, some of the songs I sing are sad, but it’s not because of me, it’s because of the composer,” She laughs. “But really, when you sing a composer’s song, you’re still singing your own story. When I sing Jacques Brel’s ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas,’  I sing my own story.

    It’s all our story, written in all the songs of the universe. That’s the reason why sometimes when we listen to songs, we think we’re listening to our own memories.

    “In my case, sadness is a celebration. I’m a singer, musician. To sing is a celebration of life. To play is a celebration of life. Even if what you’re singing is sad, you celebrate that you’ve been through that. You survived that story and now you’re brave enough to talk about it. That’s where the component of sadness becomes a little bit different. I’ve been through a hard story, I wrote a song, I sing it for you, and every time I sing that song I remember these tough and suffering things I’ve been through. But I’m celebrating that it passed. I survived and I can talk to my audience about it. I’ve been there, I almost died, I survived, and now I talk to you about my experience, because I know there are a lot of similar experiences out there.”

    The role in which Buika sees herself is that of a soldier on a mission to serve humanity with her music. And it’s something she’d like every one, especially creative people, to see themselves doing in their lives.

    “We are missionaries. We are soldiers,” she says. “You are a journalist, I am a musician. We are both soldiers. We choose that. We choose to live for the humanity. That was a decision we made a long time ago. I don’t even know if we were even conscious of it. But when we decided to be what we are, we were doing something really important. We were putting our lives in the service of humanity, you know? And that is so beautiful. I feel blessed for that. You don’t belong to you, you belong to everything, to everybody. Because you decided so. Even if you’re tired, or if you don’t feel so, if your audience needs to listen to you, you’re not going to think: ‘Today I don’t feel like’ or ‘Today I don’t want to.’ No, no, no. You’re always going to put your audience out in front of you. Is that right?”

    And for Buika, the connection between herself and her audience is everything. It’s her hope that when you see or listen to her sing, you realize that connection too and come to understand that there’s no distance, no difference between any of us. We are all the same.

    “Through these years,” she says, “my tribe, my fans, tell me things I didn’t expect. Like, ‘Every time I hear you I feel that the world has hope.’ And when they tell you those things, you feel like, ‘Wow, man. What am I?’ It’s so amazing. But you see, it’s also very simple. If you know yourself, you know me. I really truly believe in the culture of ‘I and I.’ When I’m talking to you, I’m talking to myself. You eat, you drink, you sleep, you cry sometimes, you sometimes are angry, you sometimes hate. So, of course you know me. And I think that’s what draws people to me, because at the end, when you show yourself to the audience without filters…. What do you want me to tell you, Papi? I’ve never done something wrong? Of course, I’ve done. Have I ever told a lie? Of course, I have. Even today. Have I never been a bitch? Of course, I’ve been a bitch. Of course there’s been a lot of people who been f**kin’ [with] me a lot. We are humans. We do all these things, you know. I don’t need to hide from people. I recognize what I am. Maybe not who I am, because I have the rest of my life to discover that. But what I am? I know exactly what I am–I’m just a stupid human, like all of us.”


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    FrontLila Downs
    Salón, Lágrimas y Deseo
    (Sony, 2017)
    more details

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    320 kbps | 114 MB | LINKS

    PRIVY TO THE BLUES is a collection of 11 blues influenced, guitar featured tracks. 8 are original Jeff Wyatt compositions and 3 are public domain standards from the early 20th century which Jeff interprets with his signature guitar and vocal work.

    People compare his guitar work and vocal style to a combination of Ry Cooder, David Wilcox, Mark Knopfler, Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Gordon Lightfoot, Jeff Beck and others.

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    Ministry Of Sound - I Love Reggae (2017)

    Artist: Various Performers
    Title: I Love Reggae
    Label: Ministry Of Sound
    Style: Reggae Fusion, Rocksteady, 2 Tone, Spouge, Funk, Dancehall
    Release Date: 09-06-2017
    Format: CD, Compilation
    Quality: 320 Kbps/Joint Stereo/44100Hz
    Tracks: 60 Tracks
    Size: 514 Mb / 03:55:18 Min

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    FLAC | 392 MB | LINKS


    Astral Weeks failed to make the charts when it was released in the fall of 1968. But 47 years later, the album has achieved a near-mythic status across generations of listeners who have “ventured in the slipstream” and fallen under the music’s spell. “Any best-of list is unthinkable – and worthless – without it,” writes Cory Frye in the album’s liner notes.

    The four unreleased recordings that debut on this deluxe edition highlight the interplay between Morrison and the quartet that joined him in the studio – bassist Richard Davis, guitarist Jay Berliner, percussionist Warren Smith, Jr., and Modern Jazz Quartet drummer Connie Kay. These bonus tracks include the first take of “Beside You,” the full version of “Slim Slow Slider,” and a stripped back version of “Madame George” that emphasizes the vibraphone.

    Van Morrison — vocals, acoustic guitar
    John Payne — flute; soprano saxophone on “Slim Slow Slider”
    Jay Berliner — classical and steel-string acoustic guitars
    Richard Davis — double bass
    Warren Smith, Jr. — percussion, vibraphone
    Connie Kay — drums
    Larry Fallon — string arrangements and conductor; harpsichord on “Cyprus Avenue”
    Barry Kornfeld — acoustic guitar on “The Way Young Lovers Do”


    1. Astral Weeks
    2. Beside You
    3. Sweet Thing
    4. Cyprus Avenue
    5. The Way Young Lovers Do
    6. Madame George
    7. Ballerina
    8. Slim Slow Slider

    9. Beside You (Take 1)
    10. Madame George (Take 4)
    11. Ballerina (Long Version)
    12. Slim Slow Slider (Long Version)

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    Peatbog Faeries Жанр : Celtic Fusion, Experimental Folk Год выпуска диска : 1996-2015 Страна : 1994-, Dunvegan, Highland, United Kingdom Аудио кодек : MP3 Тип рипа : tracks Битрейт аудио : 320 kbps Продолжительность : 07:49:35 Albums: 01.

    Тема на форуме

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  • 06/27/17--16:10: Québécois
  • Robert%2BCharlebois%2B1.jpg

    On Wednesday, June 28, from 7-10 PM, Bodega Pop Live on WFMU's Give the Drummer Radio spins three ear-bending hours of folk, prog, punk, Christian rock, synth-pop, hip-hop, riot grrrl, experimental and more from la Belle Province.

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