Top of the World

Calexico, the torch song íní twang duo of Joey Burns and John Convertino, have always been a safe live bet, as anyone who witnessed them momentarily transforming the mudbath of last yearís WOMAD into a balmy Arizona evening will testify. But on record things have been less certain. Their last album, Garden Ruin, gave some conflicting signals, turning their desert-dry alt-country into an LA rock hybrid. But Burns and Convertino seem to have got the message from fans and critics: get back to the wide-open spaces; Carried To Dust is classic Calexico.
Back are the trademark mariachi horns and Morricone feverishness on tracks such as ëEl Gatillo (Trigger Revisited)í. While the lyrics may slip by rather obtusely at first, by the fifth or sixth listen theyíre throwing up wild imagery that enhances the dusty muse. The subject matter is as surreal and subtly political as ever. ëVictor Jaraís Handsí is an ode to the Chilean poet martyred by the Pinochet regime, and itís as expressively poetic as anything by Jara himself. Elsewhere, we hear of mobile phone masts rearing out of a floodís devastation (ëMan Made Lakeí) and ponder the fate of a screenwriter who seeks his own redemption in the wilderness (ëWriterís Minor Holidayí). The final masterstroke is the appearance of Spanish superstar Amparo S·nchez on ëInspiraciÛní; a deathly tango thatís as creepy as it is compelling.
It may seem that Calexico have taken a step back in order to find themselves ñ but, in truth, this is just a return to what they do better than anyone else.
Chris Jones

Burlesque, Bellowheadís debut, was so strong that it was always going to be a near-impossible act to follow. They launch into their second album with a flurry of brass, wind and percussion that subsides ñ along with any doubts ñ into quiet strings. Jon Boden sings, with his distinctive quaver, ëFakenham Fairí ñ collected by Peter Bellamy, who has a strong influence here ñ and you know youíre in for a rare treat. The joy of Bellowhead is the sheer rousing noise these 11 musicians generate. ëRoll Her Down the Bayí is one of many shanties of African-American origin, and Bellowheadís version properly acknowledges the source, with its jazzy, jelly-roll feel. Matachin also reveals the bandís subtlety. Their arrangements are vibrant, but never overblown. Each of these musicians knows exactly how much to contribute, to rock but not capsize this crowded boat.
Bellowheadís treatment of some songs seems to run counter to the materialís lyrical tone, but in doing so is revealing of their true nature. ëCholera Campí is a good example, a song Peter Bellamy fashioned from one of Rudyard Kiplingís Barrack-Room Ballads. Played with a military band strut, it might seem contrarily disrespectful of the songís subject matter ñ the corralled soldiers, dropping like flies. Yet it captures exactly the gallows humour of the troops, and the respect Kipling had for them alongside his cocking-a-snook criticism of army organisation.
A ëmatachiní is a performer of a rough Mexican mummers play, a tale featuring conquistadors, the last Aztec king and the mistress of Cortez which nevertheless remains part of Catholic Christian ritual. Matachin is appropriately invigorating and theatrical: a friend remarked that it made her think of a drunken Johnny Depp staggering around on the rolling deck of a pirate ship. Which can only be a good thing for an album ñ especially one that takes a wild sword-wielding masked dancer for its title.
Julian May

ëThis album is comprised of single-take recordings,í say the liner notes of this fourth album from the US-based kora musician Mamadou DiabatÈ. While Malian-born DiabatÈ, barely in his 30s, riffs and rolls the harpís 20-odd strings through its paces, one canít help but give a thankful thought that some music, somewhere, is still made in this way. The result of this style of recording from someone so young and talented is 12 tracks of clean, clear, musical excellence, pushing DiabatÈ to his limit, while he keeps masterful control of the whole creation.
Anyone who has listened at any depth to kora player Toumani DiabatÈ or had the chance to hear any of the traditional Mandinka repertoire from the Gambia or Guinea, will recognise elements of many of these songs ñ performed entirely solo. Where some of the traditionals can feel hard to access, Mamadou DiabatÈís great skill is in improvising his own way, making seemingly light work of these West African classics. ëBolomaboryí is a fine example of this, an improvised track recorded at the end of the recording session which explores the strings he felt had been left out in the other tracks ñ itís exceptional stuff.
The melodies are light and sparkly, the bass lines rip and reverberate at just the right moments, and thereís a good pace throughout. These are not songs for quiet contemplation ñ thereís plenty of time for young DiabatÈ to don a woolly cap and pluck away under the acacia tree in later life. Instead, these are songs full of ideas, innovation and youthful interpretation. This might just be the new contender to the kora throne.
Rose Skelton

Matching up to the glories of their 2006ís sonically curvaceous Shaken by a Low Sound album, might have stretched the talents of lesser bands. Crooked Still havenít just risen to the challenge, theyíve utterly surpassed it.
Losing a pivotal member, in the form of cellist Rushad Eggleston (possibly the only man to flat-pick the instrument) might have scuppered them, but Crooked Still have recruited a fine replacement in Tristan Clarridge. Theyíve even augmented their arms-akimbo take on bluegrass by adding five-string fiddler Brittany Haas to the musical melting-pot cooked up by Gregory Lisztís whirling banjo and Corey Dimarioís often contrapuntal, but always grounding, double bass.
And at the centre of it all thereís the seductive, honey-toned, caught-behind-the-bike-sheds-with-a-packet-of-fags vocals of Aoife OíDonovan, ever suggestive of pleasure in sinning. This album has many enjoyable transgressions, such as the remarkable ëOh, Agamemnoní, marking loveís sweet course, which drifts into a raunchy version of the biblical ëPharoahí, apparently learnt from Sidney Carter (though heíll be grave-spinning eternally as a result). Add to that a stonking rendition of ëPoor Ellen Smithí, OíDonovanís own gutsy ëLow Down and Dirtyí, and a whoops-donít-sit-there-Auntie version of Mississippi John Hurtís ëBaby, Whatís Wrong With You?í and the world actually does seem like a better place.
Geoff Wallis

What is Issa doing wrong? Itís a decade since he made his first album of elegantly modernised Malian dance music. Since then, despite having consistently refined his unique sound, there hasnít even been a glimmer of interest from the powers that be at the Radio 3 Awards for World Music. Maybe itís because he inconveniently falls between the roots and the global beats stools. But thatís of course what makes him so interesting.
In the current climate it might have been wise for him to go back to his roots and make an acoustic album. But much as that appeals in theory, Issa has thankfully stuck to his electronica guns. On his first album in four years heís certainly not treading water, despite there being much here thatís familiar. An Issa Bagayogo kamalengoni (hunterís harp) riff is as instantly recognisable as a Keith Richards guitar lick, in the way it motors along like a cranky clockwork toy. So in some ways itís what regular producer Yves Werner adds which rings the changes.
There is a jazzier feel to tracks such as ëTcheni Tchemakaní, with layered horns, delicate piano and Issa sensitively crooning in a way heís never done before. Itís the juxtaposition of these ësophisticatedí European elements with the buzz and clang of the kamalengoni and the polyrhythmic clatter of African percussion that makes this album so compelling. Though the juryís still out on whether it was a good idea to put a vocalizer effect ñ think Cherís ëBelieveí ñ on Issaís voice on some tracks.
Howard Male

Following the release of Buena Vista Social Club in 1997, I spent much time hanging out and interviewing the musicians who had made the album, both at home in Havana and on tour. What struck me most was how laidback ñ even blasÈ ñ they were about it. The likes of RubÈn Gonz·lez and Ibrahim Ferrer were happy to be working again but seemed to have little conception that they had been involved in making something special. To them, the album was just another recording, little different from what they had been doing all their long lives. That all changed when they got to New Yorkís Carnegie Hall on July 1, 1998. At that moment it was as if they suddenly realised that BVSC was not only a pinnacle in their own careers but was also the most important international showcase for Cuban music in 40 years. That knowledge coaxed from them a stellar show in which every performer operated at the very top of their game. This belated two-disc commemorative set of that historic night is not quite a straight run-through of the studio album, although ten of the original 14 songs are included, most of them in magical and atmospheric versions. We also get several thrilling bonuses not on the studio recording, including RubÈn Gonz·lez let loose for 15 wonderful minutes on a triptych of tracks from his solo debut and a dramatic, diva-strength dose of Omara Portuondo, first in full-on cabaret mode on ëQuiz·s Quiz·sí and then jerking the tear ducts in an emotional duet with Ferrer on the closer ëSilencioí. Ry Cooderís production adds a crispness thatís rare on live recordings and the noise of an understandably excited audience is carefully controlled, conveying the thrills of the occasion without ever intruding on the music.
Nigel Williamson

Faraualla are a female vocal quartet from Bari in Italy, comprising Gabriella Schiavone, Teresa Vallarella, Loredana Perrini and Paola Arnesano. They take their name from a deep chasm in the Murgia plateau of the high plains of the Apulia region. The albumís cover shows an open mouth, an expression somewhere in-between a shout and a laugh. Itís a beguiling cross-cultural musical pollination exploring the phonic qualities of words, with Faraualla intelligently working through all the possibilities of vocal utterance; their polyphonies use unison singing, counterpoint, weird harmonies, improvisations and playful asides, backed by the articulate percussion of Pippo Ark DíAmbrosio and Cesare Pastanella.
You donít have to get too far into Sospiro before realising its brilliance. ëIl sogno di Fridaí is an enchanting exercise in onomatopoeia; ëKi Te Muí is a song of strong female invective; and ëOgni Male Foreí has a ritualistic mood, displaying the influence of early music on the quartet. Weíre taken to more experimental territory with ëRikitikitavií, ëQuinguií and ëPulsatillaí; voices chase one another in ëSmillaí and, on the Brazilian flavoured ëAuanda La Cuicaí, rapper Caparezza joins the girls. Both irony and exuberance imbue ëIl Ciucciarielloí, a traditional song that ends a sparkling album.
Ciro de Rosa

The music of Frifot has set the gold standard of Swedish folk ever since the trioís prime role in the 80s folk revival. Lena Willemark, Ale Mˆller and Per Gudmundson perform hymns, ballads and instrumentals with the passion that comes from an understanding of their own musical roots combined with an impeccable delivery. Willemark is the lead vocalist, but there are intriguing instrumental and vocal combinations from Mˆller and Gudmundson.
Flyt is their latest offering and it wonít disappoint those enamoured of their earliest offerings on ECM or their more recent albums. Outstanding among the 20 tracks are ëJag Lifter Mina Handerí, an a capella sacred song preserving an ancient choral tradition, its collision-course harmonies striking deep in the soul; ëPolska Efter Ollas Perí is a raw and gritty polska which Gudmundson learned from his fiddle teacher, and the haunting sound of the shawm gives a biting edge to the traditional ëSvedins Polskaí. As well as paying tribute to teachers and other influences on their music over the years, Frifot also find room for some of their own compositions, such as Willemarkís achingly beautiful ëHˆst Eller VÂrí or Mˆllerís ëKappa GrÂí which opens the album with a real energy and beauty, and delightfully unexpected harmonies. As ever, Frifot present a CD that is not only the perfect introduction to Swedish music, but also a must-have addition to the collection of any die-hard fan.
Fiona Talkington

Grupo Fantasma, a ten-piece funk band from Austin, Texas, had their first major test before a foreign crowd at the O2 arena as Princeís curtain-raisers. They went down a storm, not least because British audiences respond well to Latin music that is raunchy, witty and beat-driven, as long as it is accessible. Grupo Fantasmaís trick is to cut, mix, paste and play with cumbia, salsa, Fania-style soulful funk, big brass and random but highly danceable slabs of percussive jungle beat ñ and do just whatever they like with them. Sonidos Gold, their third studio album, is in many ways a trip back in time: ëArroz Con Frijolesí brings to mind Santana; and ëBacalao Con Paní could be a Starsky & Hutch ident. But itís also a tentative take on the future. ëEl Desconocidoí sounds like a song devised by a band who have heard contemporary reggaeton, not liked it very much, and decided to do something different with certain elements of the genre. Purists might not like the albumís penchant for twangy guitar riffs and solos, or its sudden descent on the closing track, ëPerso Fra I Mesquitesí, into Morricone/Shadows-style ambient dreaming. But Grupo Fantasma come from Austin, not Bogot·, and they speak their Latin with a Yankee accent; their music is whimsical and occasionally ironic, rather than reverent and derivative. This is a fab, fun album and all those O2 gigs gave the band a craft and character as well as a taste of fame. If you like David Byrne and Pink Martini, youíll enjoy this subtle little gem of an album.
Chris Moss

Kala Ramnath is cropping up regularly in new recordings, and here is another of those North-meets-South encounters that seem to be all the rage with Indian musicians. The album explores what the violin has brought to Indian traditions. Kala Ramnath is the Northís champion of the instrument, while the representative of the southern, far longer established, Indian violin tradition is Ganesh Iyer, one of the Southís most impressive younger soloists and well-known for his performances with his brother Kumaresh (also a violinist). Apart from being a good lesson in the stylistic differences between Hindustani (North Indian) and Karnatic (South Indian) music ñ which are evident from the very first alap ñ the music-making is of the highest order. Perhaps aided by the fact that the ragas presented here are common to both North and South, both soloists seem at their ease and spark melodic and rhythmic ideas off each other. The alaps perhaps demonstrate this to its best advantage, although the fast playing on track three is particularly impressive. Mention must be made of the accompanists ñ Vijay Ghate on tabla and Patri Satish Kumar on mridangam ñ who are excellent and just as sensitive to the interplay between the traditions as the two soloists ñ you have only to listen to the passages in the drut tintal style, a fast 16-beat cycle, on track three, or the ending of track five.
Maria Lord