TERANGA BEAT proudly presents BAI JANHA alias "Sweet Fingers" and his psychedelic steamroller KARANTAMBA. Composer, arranger, guitar player of GUELEWAR & IFANG BONDI, BAI JANHA is undisputedly the most important musician to have come from GAMBIA. Band leader of the groups BLACK STAR, WHALES BAND, FABULOUS EAGLES & SUPREME EAGLES, founder of the group ALLIGATORS who later became the GUELEWAR, BAI is the one who created the unique psychedelic sound in the region of SENE-GAMBIA, mixing traditional compositions with Soul, his musical innovations contributed to the domination of AFRO-MANDING music in West Africa for more than a decade. This record presents BAI JANHA with his last group, KARANTAMBA,
a school for young musicians, in a totally unreleased recording,
recorder in Thiès (Senegal) at "SANGOMAR" Club the 16th of August 1984.
The double gatefold LP's liner notes and CD's booklet include more
information and photographs outlining all the way of the living legend's
musical career and the wicked percussive rhythms and compositions of
this album. We hope you will enjoy!
---
The 1970s and ‘80s were a heady time for west African music, with bands influenced by the funk and soul sounds from the US and UK and some musicians, like Janha, striving to re-incorporate local rhythms and instrumentation into the mix. Karantamba is a prime exemplar of this trend, with electric instruments and funky rhythms often laid over complex patterns of traditional percussion, and lyrical content particular to the concerns of west Africa.
Now Teranga Beat has released Ndigal, a live recording of Karantamba dating from 1984. With a backing band of young musicians, Janha plays a scorching set of nine tunes ranging from the the snappy “Dimba Niyama” to twelve-minute-long album closer “Gamo Jigimar”, a gloriously hypnotic squall of sound. With most of the tracks hovering at the nine-minute mark, these tunes have plenty of time to establish a groove, stretch out, and incorporate any number of instrumental flourishes and solos.
Polyrhythmic percussion forms the backbone of the songs, with piles of guitar and bass and keyboards layered on top. Tempos are fast—no ballads here, this is high-octane dance music designed to get backsides sitting and energy flowing. In keeping with the high-energy vibe, the singing might politely be described as “unvarnished.” With lyrics in Mandinga, the vocals will remain opaque to listeners unfamiliar with the language. Passion and intensity shine through, but the skills are rough-edged to say the least.
In fact, the sound overall is rough as hell, in ways both good and bad. The vocals are passionate from the get-go, and there is no trace of the smooth polished sounds of Western pop or soul. Guitars are trebly in the extreme, percussion is polyrhymic and incessant, and keyboard breaks can be alarmingly shrill. There is something to be said, however, for a little polish. The horns on “Ne Dinding Fally” are embarassingly weak, and become audibly faltering as the song stretches along its ten-minute length. By the second half of the song, the horns are flat-out missing the notes. It doesn’t sound visceral and real; it sounds amateurish. Ditto the occasional moments when the twangy guitars sound distinctly out of tune.
Those moments are relatively rare, though. For the most part, the tunes benefit from their harsh arrangements and rough performances. The energy is palpable, and does much to overcome the rawness of the arrangements. Songs like “Titi” and “Satay Muso” escape from one’s speakers in a blaze of percussion and guitar, with “Satay Muso” in particular rolling along in a hypnotic groove that establishes itself in mere seconds.
Aficianados of Afro-funk or Afro-rock may find this previously unreleased recording to be of great interest. Be warned, though—this is almost field-recording quality, with little of the lushness or clarity common in today’s studio efforts. It has more in common, both sonically and in terms of arrangements, with the “African funk” compilations from Soundways Records or Analog Africa. Listeners who are forgiving of limitations in sound technology will find this performance an unexpected time capsule to savor.
---
The Western fetishization of “world music” has, in recent years,
become both more conspicuous and less noxious. The gross exoticism that
accompanied much of the early blog love for M.I.A.’s early material (and
helped lead to the backlash met by 2010’s MAYA) has been
supplanted by a pointed rejection of what constitutes “Western” pop
culture and an increased accessibility to music being created all over
the globe; this has been facilitated by the internet’s far-reaching
grasp. The inevitable downside to this easy satisfaction of voracious
cultural appetites is acute mercuriality — not to mention a pointlessly
obsessive focus on relevance. Which is where Ndigal, an album
recorded in 1984 by the Gambian group Karantamba that has not seen
release until now, comes in. It’s not specifically relevant to any
current musical trends, but its timelessness effectively transcends
issues of coolness and shoots straight for the aurally sublime. Filled
with an unabashed sincerity that enlivens the best chamber ensembles,
the long live takes that make up this record have an infectious,
palpable energy. Witness the giddy shuffle of “Titi,” which has
contemporary relatives in the optimistic house revivalism of The 2 Bears
and the tropical dance music being created by artists as far-ranging as
Unicorn Kid, Tanlines, and Elite Gymnastics. Here and throughout,
rhythm plays a pivotal role, providing the jumping-off point for the
songs’ disparate melodic licks and vocal stylings.
And oh, what rhythms they are; kaleidoscopically unfolding as if they were being looped upon one another, the drums on this album work magic. “Na Dinding Fatty” has a particularly hypnotic pattern that expands and contracts periodically, but irregularly; the result is breathing room in a track that never stops to breathe. Additionally, the trumpet hook running throughout a good two-thirds of the 10-minute jam is filled with cracks and inconsistencies, giving the song a distinctly humanistic edge. Such unpredictability also creates an atmosphere of uncertainty, a general feeling that is amplified by the asymmetrical lengths of Ndigal’s vocal phrases. At times, two vocal lines repeat at different intervals, coming together and breaking apart in the dense musical tapestry. Thanks to the album’s warm and pristine production, we can hear every element in the mix clearly, and tracks like “Goré Nga” sound at once both carefully constructed and spontaneous. Present alongside the driving positivity that makes Ndigal sound so alive is a jammy anxiety, the incessancy of its uniformly quick tempi creating the slightest layer of unease.
But despite occasional flashes of uncertainty, the dominant emotion here is always joy. Understandable, given the story of the group’s genesis; Karantamba was founded by Bai Janha in 1982 in order to train young musicians — to “bring them up to a professional level,” as Janha says. And so the mood is consistently that of youthful curiosity, which — in Janha’s hands, at least — is always a friend to artistic symbiosis. As the guitars of the penultimate “Linga Ham” pass waves of sound between each other, the communication between players is almost audible; ditto for the perfectly executed tempo change that occurs at the one-minute mark. It’s a mesmerizing effect that calls to mind the best chamber group working today, the Bang on a Can All-Stars. Karantamba may not have that ensemble’s larger-than-life technical abilities, but they play with admirable gusto. Admittedly, this unstoppable dynamism can be a bit soporific when absorbed over the album’s 80-minute runtime. But in slightly smaller doses, and at its jubilant best, Ndigal glistens with propulsive vigor. In essence, it feels absolutely, completely vital.
And oh, what rhythms they are; kaleidoscopically unfolding as if they were being looped upon one another, the drums on this album work magic. “Na Dinding Fatty” has a particularly hypnotic pattern that expands and contracts periodically, but irregularly; the result is breathing room in a track that never stops to breathe. Additionally, the trumpet hook running throughout a good two-thirds of the 10-minute jam is filled with cracks and inconsistencies, giving the song a distinctly humanistic edge. Such unpredictability also creates an atmosphere of uncertainty, a general feeling that is amplified by the asymmetrical lengths of Ndigal’s vocal phrases. At times, two vocal lines repeat at different intervals, coming together and breaking apart in the dense musical tapestry. Thanks to the album’s warm and pristine production, we can hear every element in the mix clearly, and tracks like “Goré Nga” sound at once both carefully constructed and spontaneous. Present alongside the driving positivity that makes Ndigal sound so alive is a jammy anxiety, the incessancy of its uniformly quick tempi creating the slightest layer of unease.
But despite occasional flashes of uncertainty, the dominant emotion here is always joy. Understandable, given the story of the group’s genesis; Karantamba was founded by Bai Janha in 1982 in order to train young musicians — to “bring them up to a professional level,” as Janha says. And so the mood is consistently that of youthful curiosity, which — in Janha’s hands, at least — is always a friend to artistic symbiosis. As the guitars of the penultimate “Linga Ham” pass waves of sound between each other, the communication between players is almost audible; ditto for the perfectly executed tempo change that occurs at the one-minute mark. It’s a mesmerizing effect that calls to mind the best chamber group working today, the Bang on a Can All-Stars. Karantamba may not have that ensemble’s larger-than-life technical abilities, but they play with admirable gusto. Admittedly, this unstoppable dynamism can be a bit soporific when absorbed over the album’s 80-minute runtime. But in slightly smaller doses, and at its jubilant best, Ndigal glistens with propulsive vigor. In essence, it feels absolutely, completely vital.
---
Tracklist
1. Sama Yai
2. Satay Muso
3. Ndigal
4. Dimba Nyima
5. Titi
6. Na Dinding Fatty
7. Goré Nga
8. Linga Ham
9. Gamo Jigimar
10. Kuru Wo Kuru (bonus track LP only)
No comments:
Post a Comment