Susana Baca
Traves'as
(Luaka Bop)
Travesías means “passages” in Spanish, and it’s an
especially appropriate title for Susana Baca’s latest album, her
fourth for Luaka Bop. Last August, after a trip to the Congo, the
Afro-Peruvian singer and ethnomusicologist began a fellowship at Tulane
University, in New Orleans, where she planned to study the music of the
African diaspora. Her academic work was interrupted three weeks later by
another diaspora of sorts, when Hurricane Katrina forced Baca, along with
thousands of New Orleanians, to flee the ruined city. She ended up at the
University of Chicago, where she’s completing the fellowship.
Baca, who co-founded a cultural center in her
hometown of Santa Barbara, Peru, is committed to safeguarding the musical
legacy of her slave ancestors. But despite her preservationist tendencies,
she’s no purist. She prefers circles to straight lines, passion to
pedagogy; Travesías, like all her albums, celebrates the cross-continental
miscegenation that accounts for so much of what is beautiful and
fascinating in every culture. Although the “world music” tag is
often obnoxiously misapplied to anything that isn’t American or
British in origin, in this case the label works: Baca’s music really
does contain the world, or at least big chunks of it. The CD was recorded
in New York City and features lyrics sung in French, Haitian Creole,
Portuguese, English, and (of course) Spanish. The supporting cast widens
her sphere of influence even further, with contributions from longtime
sidemen Marc Ribot, Juan Cotito Medrano, and Sergio Valdeos and guest turns
by the Tosca Strings and Brazilian singer/songwriter Gilberto Gil.
As usual, though, it’s Baca’s exquisite
contralto that dominates the disc, lending it an emotional coherence that
blurs the borders of language and genre. Her dulcet quaver is small but
eloquent, able to convey a range of feelings with subtlety and depth. On
“Volcano,” it floats in the band’s warm acoustic thrum
for awhile, starts to simmer, and then quietly erupts. On the dreaming,
droning “Palomita Ingrata,” she sounds like a pleading child,
whereas the Santanaesque “Né Quelque Part,” with its
twanging guitars and hypnotic background chanting, elicits a more defiant
performance. By turns regal, fierce, sorrowful, and sultry, her voice is
fluent in the only speech that matters, the kind that needs no translation.
Megan Reilly
Let Your Ghost Go
(Carrot Top)
On her second album, Let
Your Ghost Go, Megan Reilly evokes a bit of
Memphis, where she grew up, and a bit of Brooklyn, where she now resides.
Memphis comes out in her accent, which betrays the remnants of a twang
(“tired” sounds like “tarred”), and her sporadic
vibrato, which recalls the great honky-tonk angels of yore. Brooklyn comes
out in her edgy art-rock arrangements, which producer Sue Garner and
Reilly’s all-star backing band (featuring members of the Mekons, Pere
Ubu, and Cat Power) carry out to perfection. Regional markers aside,
Reilly’s natural milieu seems to be the liminal — harder to
pinpoint, perhaps, because it’s nowhere and everywhere at once,
saturating the songs like a half-remembered dream. Her flickering folk-pop
conjures sepia-stained memories and vague apparitions, intimations of
mortality that darken every spangly surface. “On a Plane,” a
lovely but unsettling ballad, elegizes Reilly’s dead grandmother; the
title track, a more rollicking number with a pronounced Celtic flavor, pays
tribute to the late Thin Lizzy frontman Phil Lynott, whose “Little
Girl in Bloom” Reilly covers immediately beforehand. At its best, her
music works on an almost subliminal level, lulling you into a state of
perfect receptiveness and infiltrating your consciousness like a restless
spirit.
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