From the city that begat Quincy Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Ray Charles comes a collection of funk and soul sure to put Oyster Shoals on the map. The ghost of Brother Ray can be felt in the themes of “Brighter Tomorrow,” as can the crafted funk of Kool and the Gang in Broham’s “Nothing In Common” and the dirty soul of Stax with Cookin’ Bag’s “This Is Me.” The intensity of the performances, with ultra-heavy drumming and often percussive piano, compliments the subtlety and strength of the songwriting and lyrics of hope and optimism. The choice of covers is not surprising (“Hey Jude,” “Cissy Strut”), but the versions are anything but ordinary. Funkier than Johnny Damon’s swing.
Yohimbe Brothers The Tao of Yo
Fortify one supremely musical, polymorphous turntablist with the world’s heaviest funk rock guitarist and you end up with a wickedly potent stimulant. On their second album, the Yohimbe Brothers-axe-grinder Vernon Reid of Living Colour and the ever-versatile DJ Logic-hone the sexed-up bounce of their debut into a jagged, penetrating edge slicing through crunchy breaks, new jazz atmospherics, Latin grooves, and hardened political hip-hop. Reid’s MACH 3 guitar blasts through Logic’s ghostly samples and hypnotic scratches, while guests like drums wiz Deantoni Parks, vocalist Latasha Nevada Diggs, and MCs Traz and Bos Omega add aggro percussion and pointed lyrics.
Salmonella Dub One Drop East
With their fifth full-length, one of New Zealand’s greatest exports lets the sun shine in on dub’s typically murky, cavernous spaces. The five-piece brings jazzy horns, some drum & bass urgency and tides of drifting ambience into their easy, melodic mix. Album opener “Longtime” skanks with a rootsy vocal hook, acoustic guitars and rich harmonies move beneath “Slide;” “Dancehall Girl”-the album’s first single, which will kill in the progressive markets throughout New Zealand-continues with upbeat, aquamarine bliss. Even as the album gradually sets into dusky evening shades, buoyant arrangements and warm vocals keep even the more ominous, bass-heavy tunes (“Nu Steppa,” “Octopus”) from sinking into darkness.
Mighty Imperials Thunder Chicken
Two things hard to believe about The Mighty Imperials’ Thunder Chicken: 1) It was recorded by four 16-year-old kids, and 2) It was recorded in 1999, not 1969. And I mean that in the best possible way. The Imperials Cissy strut with that classic minimalist Meters soul-breaks funk, pushing organ, guitar, bass and neck-snappable drums so close together they probably need a crowbar to finish the session. Mostly instrumental, these dusty grooves reek with reverence for the old school. Vocalist Joseph Henry shows up to take it to the bridge Godfather style, and occasional horns polish up the delicious grit, but only a little.
Quantazelle Coaster
The key to any hypnotic record is the beat. Quantazelle (a.k.a. Liz McLean Knight) uses the same deep bass and stuttering synth stubs to keep you on track while she takes her static samples skating across the cosmic plains. A hot trick that could get stale in someone else’s hands, but Quantazelle melds in delicate instrumentation and slowly builds the tracks into a high-paced frenzy, a playful kind of manic with toy piano tinkering out mischievous melodies. Coaster’s collection of spry songs is genuine experimental endearment.
The Flesh The Flesh
This is the album that those ska kids Madness who sang ìOur House‘ coulda shoulda made: playful and sultry and lustily morbid. Dramatic and spitting, lead singer Nat Halpernís vocals leap all over the octaves, moving nimbly from shout to sly lick and back again. The Flesh has an archness in them, a knowing in-on-the-joke wink even as they get all anthemic on your ass, part karaoke-ready, part darkwave rock operatic. A cool as shit cannonball of an album, big and bold and splashy.
I-Wolf I-Wolf and Burdy Meet the Babylonians
I-Wolf and Burdy didnít just eat a canary, theyíve swallowed a whole avian dub dance party. Meet the Babylonians squawks like a chicken coop soundclash. It trills and quacks and warbles across the murky downbeats; under Joice Munizí voice on ìUm Prazer‘ you can practically hear the funky coo of a doo-wop dove. Animal and eclectic, I-Wolf (of Viennaís Sofa Surfers) and Burdy (of the UKís Baby Mammoth) have assembled an album of perky, strutting and warped-to-high-hell reggae complete with the oddest twists, including some Phillip Glass-like chimes and a smattering of languages from around the world. This polyglot does the funkiest chicken on the block.
Shy Child One With The Sun
Way to drum, spaztastics. These kids aren’t shy about banging the hell out of their kit, that’s for sure, and we’re all better off for it. One With The Sun‘s barely got melody, underpinning most of the songs with repeating series of half and whole steps that stay within a four note range. The dancey punky musicality comes instead from the minimal, boyish sing-song funk and the inventive, jerk perfect drumming. “Technicrats” is just handclaps and sass, and the title track is all claws and hypnotic propulsion, getting surprising mileage from the bare bones engine.
The Vanishing Still Lifes Are Failing
Enter the echo chamber of Vanishing’s Still Lifes Are Failing and submit to the shrieking, seductive dancepunk within. Still Lifes launches right into the seduction with “Lovesick,” which struts around with a sizzling saxophone line wrapped around its bare shoulders like a hussy’s bright feather boa. The Karen-O-esque vocals whip around, rising from insistent moan to all out wailing. Vanishing toys with the balance between unbearably tense and simply explosive, as “8,18” thrums like an anxious, amplified heartbeat, dancing purely on nerve endings.
Various Artists Tempo Technik Teamwork
Staubgold’s techno aesthetic has never been flashy, preferring the elegant, spare glint of restraint over overbearing bling. In Tempo Technik Teamwork, the tracks stand like individual pearls, smooth with a brittle elegance. “Help Yourself” radiates a slowly plinking serenity, while Ras Donovan’s voice floats over Mapstation’s lilting dub, touching down to the beat ever so briefly before rising up again, like a grave balloon dance. Faust and Dälek’s noir hip-hop is blown through with a surprising lightness that leads nicely into Ekkehard Ehlers and John Frusciant’s eerie spaghetti-western chamber shoegaze. And Kammerflimmer Kollektief, featured on both discs, melts its static snowflakes on your tongue.
