Nas: Illmatic (Columbia '94)
In Mo' Meta Blues, Questlove describes "hip hop's funeral": the battle of the debuts at the Source Awards, when Biggie's Ready to Die buried Nas's Illmatic, already a critical and in-crowd legend, and he watched Nas "wilt in defeat" in the Tommy Hilfiger shirt his manager had just financed. Sez Quest to Black Thought: "He's never going to be the same. You just watch." And he was right. Nas immediately transformed himself into a hit-seeking faux gangsta of depressing conventionality and didn't make another good record for eight years. That still begs the question, however, of exactly how good this spartan effort was and is. Better than I thought at the time for sure‑-as happens with aesthetes sometimes, the purists heard subtleties principled vulgarians like me were disinclined to enjoy, especially beatmaking where Large Professor along with such fellow New York smoothies as Pete Rock, Q-Tip, and the great Premier convert samples into haunting looped groove elements. Also enjoyable is Nas's ability to transform simple lines like "I never sleep because sleep is the cousin of death," "I'm out for presidents to represent me," "The world is yours," and even "One love, one love" into de facto hooks. And my mind tells me that I have to admire how cagily he walks the line between doing the crime and hanging with homies for whom nothing else is "real" even if my heart isn't in it. All that said, however, Ready to Die still gets my vote. A MINUS

 

The Roots: Game Theory (Def Jam '06)

On The Tipping Point, Black Thought establishes his prerogatives with well-honed braggadoccio that's kinda dull anyway. Here, freed from Jimmy Iovine and told by Jay-Z to do what he wants, he recedes toward the background, an observer looking out at a black Philly that hasn't risen like he has and just "Don't Feel Right," as he calls the first of three straight ominous, drum-powered, social-realist reports whose tone maintains until the J. Dilla encomium that closes. Even the summery "Livin' in the New World" turns out to be about the surveillance state. Not hooky enough, as it doesn't take Jimmy Iovine to figure out. Strong enough to compensate, though. A MINUS

 

 

 

The Rough Guide to African Disco (World Music Network)

Africans are obviously funky in their own way. But they did without trap drums and electric bass for so long that their attempts to imitate James Brown and his bootyspawn impressed only Afros coveting modernity and, a generation later, Euros too young to have experienced funk the genre in its time and place. As this belated showcase establishes, disco was much easier to copy, and while a few selections force it‑-the repurposed Mahlathini, for instance‑-most strike the right balance between cheap commercialism and heartfelt ambition. I'm especially grateful to find a use for the great lost Afro-rock venture Osibisa and yet another example of African trap master Tony Allen's versatility. And then‑-and then!‑-there's the bonus disc: a straight reissue of the 34-minute 1988 Soul on Fire, in which Camerounian guitarist Vincent Nguini covers seven soul classics (including "In the Midnight Hour" twice) as Syran M'Benza inundates faux disco arrangements in virtuoso soukous billows. It's very makeshift‑-tracks don't even fade, just stop. But Nguini sure does make soul journeyman Tommy Lepson sound like he coulda been a contender. A MINUS

 

Fela Kuti: The Best of the Black President 2 (Knitting Factory)

Compiled by U.K. Afropop advocate turned Fela specialist Chris May, this follow-up to the first volume (which adds naught but a DVD to MCA's essential 2000 Best Best of Fela Kuti) sets itself to showcasing the hero's stylistic range and political significance‑-rather​ than, for example, selecting another dozen slightly less compelling jams to spread over another two slightly less compelling CDs. There's a soulful slow track, a hoarse late track, a longer version of the first volume's "Sorrow Tears and Blood," and not one but two Ginger Baker features, the earlier of which is, by the artist's very high standard, untogether groovewise. Fela's striking clarity reflects an arrogance his singing progeny Femi and Seul can't duplicate. His power to project like the rebel son of a politically prestigious mother he was lends authority to his ideas whether right-minded or wrong-headed. Most righteous by me is the song May can't resist repeating, an attack on state repression where Fela repeats "Sorrow tears and blood" again and again and a council of men and women chants back "Dem regular trademark." Why shouldn't it go on for 17 minutes? A MINUS

 

 

 

Fat Tony: Smart Ass Black Boy (Young One)

Like so many alt types before him, the half-Nigerian Houston rapper relocates to Brooklyn‑-with no audible Nigeria in his flow and, beyond the slight drawl some young black New Yorkers also retain, not much Houston either. Or much alt, come to think on it. Mostly he recounts sexual-romantic and other contretemps‑-not conquests, not adventures, just situations, humanely and humorously understood, which some might say is kind of African after all. Even the lovely "Father's Day" has that vibe. The beats by his man Tom Cruz skip explicit melody to achieve textural continuity with electronically simulated and approximated drums, shakers, scrapers, and the like. All pretty homespun and imaginative. Like alt should be, come to think on it. A MINUS

 

Young Fathers: Tape Two (Anticon)

Say these three Scots‑-rapper-singer​s African-born blacks, beatmaker white Edinburgh native‑-cross Shabazz Palaces and Tricky, only they're dirtier sonically than either, and also more emotional, energetic, even tuneful. Noticing the range of such fundamentally grim lines as "Inside I'm feelin' dirty/It's only 'cause I'm hurtin'," "Work your life don't know why," "She's looking for love/She's looking for trouble/In the wrong places," "She couldn't give a fuck if the exchange rate's down," you'll soon feel how all those slight musical differentials hoist the group's collective spirit, and how courageously the music's depressive candor strengthens their will to be alive. "We can unite ourselves"? I wouldn't bet on it. But a stirring effect regardless. A MINUS

 

 

Rachid Taha: Zoom (Wrasse)

This is the sixth solo studio album for the trilingual but mostly Arabic-singing 55-year-old French-Algerian since 1998's breakthrough Diwan. Every one has been first-rate, every one just different enough; even the live entry fills out what I hesitate to call his oeuvre, a word that feels sillier than usual in a scrappy rock lifer who just wants to make a little money here‑-while subtly addressing major political and cultural issues in the most legible desert crossover yet devised. This time the change-ups come from juju trancemaster Justin Adams, Mick Jones honoring his youth, a chanteuse sweetening "It's Now or Never," and a sample from the Egyptian goddess whose name is rendered not as Um Kulthum but as the old-school, rhymes-with-zoom Oum Kalsoum. Taha's rough attack can't match the rough-attack greats‑-

Springsteen, say, or Fogerty‑-much less such fluent, gritty-when-necessar​y rivals to the south as Rochereau and N'Dour. For that reason, his excellent records may feel less essential to the English speaker in the long run. But I'll play this one remembering that my favorite track on sound alone is number three, "Jamila," which attacks forced marriage and bears as title an Arabic name that translates as "pretty." A

 

Mariem Hassan: El Aaiún Egdat (Nubenegra)

Now pursuing an active musical career from Catalonia, this ex-nurse from the Western Saharan possesses the most remarkable vocal instrument to emerge from northern Africa‑-a searing contralto, serious yet excitable and often transported, that can cut into anyone's indifference. Born in 1958 like Rachid Taha, she's had it a lot harder‑-refugee camp, divorce, breast cancer, guitarist lost to leukemia. Nor does she project much of Taha's showbiz pragmatism‑-her calling is the Sahrawi style called haul, which on 2010's Shouka she and a new guitarist showcased in all its chorus-driven, prayerlike, insular intensity. By comparison, this one's forgiving enough to lift a tourist's spirits‑-there's some saxophone, and the melodies bid buenas dias. And then, two thirds of the way in, guitar and harmonica state a theme that may take a while to ID‑-holy moley, it's Betty Wright's "Clean Up Woman," plus ululations and a friendly sax solo‑-and the rest of the album loosens up some more before climaxing with seven minutes of avant closer. Back in camp they may think that makes her a sinner. Folkies may grouse as folkies will. But I say she's trying to have some fun, and that she and we deserve it. A MINUS

 

 

Calvin Harris: 18 Months (Ultra/Rocnation/Col​​umbia)

Name EDM producer nabs collabs with near-name pop-dance frontpeople‑-a great trick when it works ("Bounce," "I Need Your Love") ***

 

Rihanna: Unapologetic (Def Jam)

So much more provocative as an android than as a human being ("Phresh Out the Runway," "Diamonds," "Numb") ***

 

Lucy Love: Kilo (Superbillion)

Poison-hearted one track and into you for life the next, Anglo-Zambian Dane claims rapper as opposed to pop star but may not really know ("Poison," "Thunder") **

 

Lucy Love: Superbillion (Superbillion)

Her daddy was a DJ and she makes the most of it ("No V.I.P.," "Daddy Was a DJ") **

Alicia Keys: Girl on Fire (RCA)

Heartfelt, lively, and sweet‑-as r&b maturity statements go ("Girl on Fire," "One Thing") **

 

Frank Ocean: The Lonny Breaux Collection (free download)

Alienated love songs just barely set apart by their specifics ("When I'm Done," "Scared of Beautiful") **

 

K'naan: Country, God or the Girl (A&M/Octone)

Goes all-out pop as if pop meant sing-song catchy rather than complicated catchy, and only when he raps or someone else sings does the musicality intensify ("Nothing to Lose," "Is Anybody Out There") **

 

Justin Timberlake: The 20/20 Experience (RCA)

He's as cute as you want him to be, and he really lasts a long time ("Let the Groove Get In," "Pusher Love Girl") *

 

Martha Redbone Roots Project: The Garden of Love: Songs of William Blake (Blackfeet Productions)

Produced by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's John McEuen, and for once that's a good thing. Where on Allen Ginsberg's weird old Blake album a tuneless hippie chorale rendered Blake's lyrics over finger cymbal, flute, and harmonium that cried out for a round of oms, Afro-Cherokee Redbone claims Blake for British balladry, where he belongs. Traditional lyrics are worth marveling and puzzling over. But I know of few as powerful and strange as "The Garden of Love," "I Rose Up at Dawn of Day," or "The Fly," to name three that went unannotated when I marked up my complete Blake at 19. Blake is always less obscure in Songs of Innocence and Experience mode, and between Redbone's lucid, subtle force and the modernized Appalachian settings she fits to the poet's stanzas, she's created a new body of folk song by a lyricist who compares favorably to, well, Bob Dylan. Not every track takes it home. Nothing is that automatic. But a major find nonetheless. A MINUS

 

The Handsome Family: Wilderness (Carrot Top)

Since each of the 12 songs is named after an animal‑-including just one mammal, and a wildebeest at that‑-you expect a zoological concept album. In fact, however, the title creatures all have walk-ons, fly-ons, swim-ons, or crawl-ons, even the conquering flies who think General Custer looks so "beautiful" dead. Yet the only true ringer is a magic lizard whose bite requires a witchcraft cure‑-in all the rest, the animals are intimates of a natural world humans navigate clumsily and uncomprehendingly except in "Frogs," where the housebound are bidden to tromp down through the mud and hear their amphibian song. As always, the tales are Rennie Sparks's, the teller her dour husband Brett, and the tales themselves are why you first listen. But these are so fine you don't mind listening again. And as you do, you start noticing how deftly Brett negotiates lines and stanzas that aren't as blockish as their meter and his voice make you think. And then you listen to this uningratiating music some more. A MINUS

 

 

The Beautiful South: Golddiggas Headnodders & Pholk Songs (Sony Music UK '04)

By the time pop grandmaster Paul Heaton threw this covers album to his U.K. hordes, his American fanbase was so small it had drowned in a pint of bitter. Yet the Britannia-ruling Olivia-ELO-Zombies trifecta that opens is no less winning than the all-American Ramones-Stylistics parlay that closes, and the Heppelbaums country song is more Willie Nelson than the Willie Nelson country song even though the Heppelbaums are actually Paul Heaton and Dave Rotheray. Moreover, the U.K.-specific selections from Spice Girls spinoff S Club 7 and major-label shoegazers Lush fit in less cunningly than the brazen Blue Oyster Cult and Rufus Wainwright picks. Every rendition is sly, dulcet, midtempo, with strings when appropriate‑-a beloved pop confection. A MINUS

 

The Beautiful South: Superbi (Sony BMG '06)

Paul: "We've come a long way from the cave." Alison: "What, you started to shave?" Paul: "Now we know just how to behave." Alison: "Since chivalry decided to bathe." So OK, I accept that they're somehow too English for us rude Yanks. What I don't get is how they lost their mojo in their native land‑-disbanding in 2007, they announced, due to "musical similarities." Their final album is middle of the pack by their high standards, opening with six unfailingly witty tunes, most of which reflect cynically on romantic love although there is that one about the Manchester rain, and closing with six less consistent songs Ray Davies would embrace socialism to have written. I suppose it could have been the drinking. I read where Paul now owns a pub in Manchester, records solo a bit, and continues to embrace socialism. A MINUS

 

 

The Rough Guide to Acoustic Africa (World Music Network)

At this point in history, acoustic is the opposite of authentic in Africa‑-at least the kind of acoustic that gets near a recording studio. The 16 artists scattered across this collection include tourist bands, factitious folk ensembles, moonlighting dance musicians looking for a payday, academics, and loads of expats. They tend genteel and their albums can be snoozefests. But you can bet every one has the sense to polish up a few tuneful show-stoppers, and assume that Rough-Guide-in-Chief​ Phil Stanton has found them. Normally I get annoyed when Afrocomps skip from Niger to Madagascar 'cause it's all one big happy continent. But the aesthetic here is so pretty and soft-spoken it rarely matters. Assured, calculated, innocent, and sometimes sublime. A MINUS

 

Ethnic Minority Music of Southern China (Sublime Frequencies)

I don't have the confidence to give this an A because even though it makes sense on its own terms it's just too weird by American standards. Maybe by Chinese standards too‑-my calculations indicate that the 11 or 12 ethnic groups responsible for 16 tracks (excluding sacred Tibetan finale) add barely 10 million to China's population, well under one percent. Yet because I lack the sophistication of their billion-three fellow citizens, the vocal scales and lute-and-flute sonorities all just sound Chinese to me. Not well-schooled, formally respectable Chinese, however. There's a conversational feel to most of these colloquies and solo turns, with high female voices prevailing but enough men grunting their prerogatives. In my house, which hosted a Netflix festival of Chinese nature docs recently, it's dinner music. And a beardo I know with a small electronica business immediately pegged it as a sample source. B PLUS