New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Category: malian music

Firebrand Malian Chanteuse Oumou Sangare Returns to Her Roots

Pioneering Malian singer Oumou Sangare doesn’t put out as many albums as she used to, but she’s never wavered as an advocate for women’s rights in a part of the world where that idea is still considered radical, even taboo, in some circles. Her new album, simply titled Acoustic and streaming at youtube, is a collection new recordings of previously released material, most of it from her unfortunately overproduced 2017 Mogoya album. The resulting sound, recorded live and completely unamplified, is much more traditional, although Sangare’s lyrical content has always been daring, beginning with her first Malian hit in 1989 where she chronicled losing her virginity.

That song, Diaraby Nene is even more spare than the original, set to a spare, loping beat, Sangare joined by backing singers Emma Lamadji and Kandy Guira. The album’s opening number, Kamelemba sets the stage for most of what’s to come, a muted two-chord desert rock vamp with a big crescendo from the bandleader, virtuosically circling ngoni from Brahima “Benogo” Diakité, exuberant guitar from Guimba Kouyaté and a little keening toy organ played by Vincent Taurelle

The organ is a surreal touch in the spiky, shuffling Fadjamou; Sangare’s voice is a tinge huskier than it was thirty years ago, but she hasn’t lost any power. She builds a moodily questionining atmosphere in the syncopated Minata Waraba, while Saa Magn – a requiem for Orchestre National Badema’s Amadou Ba Guindo – has breathtaking fast, delicate guitar work from Kouyaté and spare, twinkling celeste from Taurelle.

Likewise, Kouyaté’s hammer-ons in the anthemic call-and-response of Bena Bena, more somber and circumspect in this version. With its camelwalking groove and sheets of organ, KounKoun is the album’s most hypnotic track. Then Sangare and the band pick up the pace with Djoukourou, its chugging rhythm, flurrying ngoni and guitar.

The band follow a long upward trajectory from sparse airiness in Yere Faga. The album’s most musically adventurous, rhythmically challenging number is Mali Niale. Sangare winds up the album with the pensive title track from Mogoya, Kouyaté adding more than a hint of the baroque. Fans of both older and more guitar-centric Malian music ought to check this out

Welcome Sonic Improvements For Another Reliably Good Slate of Shows at Prospect Park Bandshell

The best news about this year’s free concert series at the bandshell in Prospect Park is that the sound is vastly improved. Last year’s booking was as good as the sound mix was awful: bass and drums, mostly. An admittedly small sample – two shows last month – revealed that somebody actually seems to care about giving the bands onstage at least baseline-level (pun intended) respect this summer.

The first of those shows opened with Combo Chimbita playing a typically ferocious scamperingly psychedelic set, followed by a lavishly augmented 22-piece version of second-wave Afrobeat pioneers Antibalas. Of all the bands here this year who could have really suffered from a bad mix, Combo Chimbita top the list because of how much of a swirling vortex of sound they can create. This time, when they finally got to that point – more than a half hour into their set – the dubwise effect was obviously intentional.

Otherwise, the clarity of Niño Lento’s vineyard lattice of guitar, Prince of Queens’ hypnotically pulsing bass and Carolina Oliveros’ powerful, emphatic vocals over Dilemastronauta’s flurry of drumbeats was as sparkling as anyone could have wanted. Toward the end of the set, Oliveros finally unleashed her inner metal animal, a truly fearsome moment. Although it wasn’t as feral to witness as the band’s most recent Barbes show, it was pretty close. The bookers here have never hesitated to draw on the vast talent base who make Brooklyn’s best fulltime music venue their home, so it was inspiring to see a whole park full of people beyond the band’s usual Colombian fanbase entranced by the show.

With all the extra firepower, Antibalas hardly limited themselves to two-chord, Fela-inspired minor-key jams. There were a handful of those, perfectly executed, bass and guitars running the same catchy riffs over and over again without a split second’s deviation while the brass punched in and out. Special guests on vocals and horns, plus a trio of women dancers, took turns taking the spotlight with solos that were sometimes resonant and floaty, or ablaze with jazz phrasing. Dynamics rose and fell with lavish abandon, often down from the full orchestra to just the rhythm section and a single soloist, then suddenly up again with a mighty sweep.

A second show last month was just as entertaining and stylistically diverse. The Kronos Quartet opened with a defiantly political set, beginning with a new arrangement of Jimi Hendrix’ take of the Star Spangled Banner that had the group keening, and leaping, and shrieking, a remarkable acoustic facsimile of guitar feedback and sonic protest iconography. From a stark, plaintive version of Strange Fruit, through mutedly bluesy takes of Summertime and House of the Rising Sun, to the spare anguish of John Coltrane’s elegaic Alabama, they kept the intensity simmering. The world premiere of Dan Becker’s No More followed an eerily circling path; then children’s artist Dan Zanes brought up his acoustic guitar and led the crew through a singalong of We Shall Overcome.

The second half of the program featured the string quartet – violinists David Harrington and John Sherba, violist Hank Dutt and cellist Sunny Yang – joined by Trio Da Kali, playing songs from their new collaboration, Ladilikan. It was fascinating to hear the strings playing loping, sometimes undulating Saharan riffs while Fode Lassan Diabate’s balafon rippled and pinged and Mamadou Kouyate played incisive, tricky syncopation on his bass ngoni, often adding an otherworldly, gnawa-like groove. Meanwhile, singer Hawa Kasse Mady Diabate delivered insistent, sometimes anguished lyrics addressing struggle against oppression and the omnipresent need for human rights for all people, regardless of gender, in her part of the world. The language, considering the venue, may have seemed exotic to most of the crowd, but the message was as resonant here as it would have been on her home turf in Mali.

The next free show at Prospect Park Bandshell is this Thursday, Aug 9 with noirish blue-eyed soul singer Fiona Silver and popular blues guitarslinger Gary Clark Jr. And Combo Chimbita are playing another free show, in the courtyard at Union Pool on Aug 11 at around 4 PM.

Lavish Beauty, Depth and Relevance with Awa Sangho and the Brooklyn Raga Massive at Lincoln Center

Lincoln Center impresario Meera Dugal didn’t bother to hide how much she was looking forward to reveling in singer Awa Sangho fronting the Brooklyn Raga Massive last night. She was on to something. This show was part of Lincoln Center’s ongoing Outside India collaboration with the India Center and Brooklyn Raga Massive. Dugal promised beauty; Sangho and the band delivered their Malian/Indian mashup lavishly, poignantly and often mesmerizingly.

A moody Eric Fraser bansuri solo wafted over five-string bassist Michael Gam’s distant, low rumble as the show got underway, Sangho triumphantly raising a colorful mask to the heavens, warding off any evil spirits who might have snuck in. Violinist Trina Basu’s plaintive melody received a misterioso response from Fraser, Malik Kholy’s drums joining the nocturnal ambience along with Balla Kouyate’s slinky, chiming balafon. As the music leapt into a swinging, swaying, camelwalking groove, Kane Mathis’ spiky kora and guitarist Baba Kone’s incisive guitar joined the hypnotic mix. The instruments receded as Sangho intoned her terse, impassioned vocalese in a resonant, low midrange. A rippling balafon solo in tandem with percussionist Daniel Moreno brought the intensity higher as Sangho beamed and swayed in front of the band. That was just the first song.

Sangho dedicated her next number to her ailing mom back in Mali. Moreno opened it with a warpy wah-wah ngoni solo, the band slowly making their way in. An emphatic whack of the drums, a methodical volley of blues guitar riffs, growly bass and smoky bansuri led to a lingering Emilio Modeste tenor sax solo before the band backed away for Basu and Sangho to bring the pensive vibe back. As the waves of music rose again, the audience joined in a spontaneous clapalong.

“I’ve been fighting for 35 years for women’s rights and girls’ education,” Sangho explained, prefacing a protest song against what she termed “enforced marriage.” A resolutely vamping two-chord theme emerged as the singer’s voice grew more defiant. Pensive sax mingled with the sax and violins, Arun Ramamurthy positioned for stereo effect – and some sizzling, microtonal melismas – at stage right.

Fraser opened what he called a “condensed” duo version of Raga Yaman, establishing a suspenseful calm, tabla player Roshni Samlal raising the anticipation up to a tense, trilling peak. It was impossible to sit still. Mathis and Basu couldn’t resist joining in with their ripples and washes.

From there they segued into an animated, elegantly polyrhythmic duo piece by Mathis and Samlal with a rapidfire kora solo at the center. The cantering, vamping instrumental that followed brought to mind the Grateful Dead at their most epic, back in the 80s, For the rest of the night, the band followed Sangho’s lead meticulously, whether Kone’s aching, plaintive modalities in tandem with her exasperated “what now” delivery on a traditional tune, or Modeste’s smoky soulfulness alongside Sangho’s husky vocals in her original, Maman, which she said through tears was dedicated to mothers everywhere.

The group closed with an insistent, emphatic girl-empowerment anthem, Sangho’s uncanny ability to transcend language barriers in full effect. “Knowledge is power, stand up for your rights,” was the message. A sold-out house roared for an encore: they got a spiraling, undulating jam, an apt coda considering how close a match Indian modes can be for vampy, mostly two-chord Malian psychedelia. For Sangho and the band, it was a spectacularly successful mission.

And after a hellacious train ride, it was an awful lot of fun to cap off the evening with the tail end of Bombay Rickey’s similarly slinky set at Barbes. Frontwoman Kamala Sankaram reached for the rafters with her four-octave voice over Drew Hudgins’ slithery sax and Drew Fleming’s twangy southwestern gothic guitar, with a fat low end now anchored by former Chicha Libre bassist Nick Cudahy. Considering how much cumbia this band mashes up with Bollywood – a couple of pretty wild jams on Yma Sumac tunes, this time out – the group’s finally found their missing piece.

The Brooklyn Raga Massive plays Thursdays at around 8:30 at the Jalopy; advance tix, available at the theatre, are $10. And the next free show at the Lincoln Center atrium space on Broadway north of 62nd St. is a dance party on Feb 15 at 7:30 with Tito Puente Jr. and many alums from his dad’s legendary salsa band.

3MA’s Superstar African Improvisers Blend Their Hypnotic Powers

3MA – the trio of Malian kora player Ballake Sissoko, Moroccan oudist Driss El Maloumi and Malagasy valiha harp player Rajery – are an African supergroup. Their popularity and influence stems from how the three – each a popular solo performer and highly sought out collaborator – have developed a distinctive, hypnotically intertwining group sound. Their new album Anarouz is streaming at Spotify. It’s music to get lost in,

Although there are places on the album where the melody edges toward the Middle East, or the Sahara, or East Africa, it’s seldom genre-specific. These guys aren’t the African Dead Weather: individual voices typically take a backseat to collective improvisational genius.

The album opens with the title track: listen closely for how artfully El Maloumi takes a simple riff in the blues scale and develops very subtle variations beneath the rippling interweave overhead. There are jaunty exchanges between Sissoko and Rajery, each leaving plenty of space for the other’s tantalizingly brief solos.

Hanatra, a vocal number, has a suspenseful, insistent pulse and is also grounded in a catchy blues hook. The trio use that same minor-key riff as a springboard for solos in Lova, a magical acoustic duskcore number that suddenly hits a pulsing crescendo fueled by Rajery’s delicately incisive solo.

Samedi Glace – “Saturday ice Cream” – is a brisk, strolling vamp, the trio in perfect sync with their catchy, dancing phrases. While Rajery takes the first spiky solo in Anfaz, there are flickers where the oud pulls the music subtly toward edgy Arabic modes. Yet when it’s El Maloumi’s turn to solo, it’s mostly with voicings from sub-Saharan kora music.

Sissoko’s spiraling lines take centerstage early in Moustique, an allusively gorgeous, Middle Easten-tinged number, El Maloumi edging toward proto-blues amid the trance-inducing thicket of notes.Mariam is a gorgeous, hauntingly rising and falling nocturne with a long, suspenseful El Maloumi solo at the center – it’s the high point of the album. Aretina is the catchiest track here, raising the question of whether music like this is the roots of African-American soul music, or a refraction of it back from the old country.

El Maloumi’s misterioso opening taqsim kicks off the joyously bouncy Jiharka, the group running the catchy chorus in unison. The album concludes on a raptly peaceful note with Awal, a twinkling deep-desert nocturne. This is the kind of magic that happens when borders get broken down. 

Fun fact: the bandname is a pun on the word “trauma.”  Say “3MA” in French.

Mdou Moctar Brings Psychedelic Saharan Resilience and Rapture to Lincoln Center

In his New York debut this evening, Agadez, Niger duskcore guitarist Mdou Moctar told a packed house at Lincoln Center that “The desert isn’t for the Tuareg anymore.” Beyond those catastrophic implications, the Sahara’s loss is the world’s gain. With that, he let his guitar and his songs do the talking.

Like Hendrix and Albert King (and Otis Rush, Randi Russo, and many more), Moctar is a lefty, which might have something to do with how much more eclectic his sound is compared to his desert brethren. The revolutionary anthem he opened with was remarkably straightforward, building to a resolute crescendo over his drummer’s straight-up, swaying rock beat, the rhythm guitarist holding down a simple, syncopated strum. Meanwhile, Moctar fingerpicked psych-blues riffs through his wah, varied his textures and found a fourth stone from the sun. This is what the vastness of the desert inspires, especially if you’ve grown up there.

His vocals had a similar confidence and resilience. But the ache and longing in the opening riffage of his second number transcended any linguistic limitation and resounded even as the boomy triplet groove picked up steam. Llike any other jamband leader, Moctar works long serpentine solos, but with more dynamics and also more chord changes than this style is known for. Likewise, his hooks are as catchy as they get.

He’d leave a string open to resonate, raga style as he spun silky filigrees with his hammer-ons, leaving lots of space in between runs: the effect raised the impact the louder and faster he played. He kicked off one tune with gently shivery tremolo-picking, then the band hit a groove that was practically a waltz, finally hitting his distortion pedal for an almost venomous intensity. He stayed in red-flame, whirlwind mode for the next song as the two other musicians ran hypnotic triplets that echoed off the walls: at this point, it was clear that they weren’t missing anything by not having a bass player. Finally, toward the end, he left the midrange for a single shriek up high: talk about choosing your moment to make a point!

Echoes of Led Zep, a wryly impromptu drum solo and an even funnier disco interlude punctuated a long tuning episode: Moctar’s ear is so fine-tuned to overtones that he doesn’t use a digital tuner. He rewarded the crowd for their patience with the night’s most sizzling intro and then an irresistible if very subtle Paul Desmond quote.

The next stop on Moctar’s US tour is this Saturday night, Sept 30 at the Howland Center, 477 Main St. in Beacon, New York; cover is a ridiculously affordable $10. The atrium space at Lincoln Center has become one of Manhattan’s hottest spots for global music: the next free concert there is on Oct 5 at 7:30 PM with the charismatic “Duque de la Bachata,” Joan Soriano; the earlier you get there, the better.

Mdou Moctar Brings His Mysterious Saharan Duskcore Sound to Lincoln Center

The Lincoln Center atrium space on Broadway just north of 62nd St. has become as fertile a breeding ground for paradigm-shifting musical collaborations as any other venue in New York. Booking is as eclectic as it gets: with the exception of autotuned corporate schlock, there doesn’t seem to be any style of music that’s off limits here. If the longterm plan is to build a new customer base that draws pretty equally on every demographic, nationality and neighborhood in this city, Lincoln Center’s going to be mighty busy over the next several years. For that reason, this blog’s sister site chose the atrium as the best Manhattan venue of 2017.

What’s more, shows at the atrium are always free. The latest in the ongoing parade of global talent to swing through here is Niger duskcore guitarslinger Mdou Moctar, who’s playing on Sept 28 at 7:30 PM. Because the space is popular and security never lets it get uncomfortably crowded, getting there early is always a good idea.

Moctar’s latest album, Sousoume Tamachek, is due out momentarily and soon to be streaming at Bandcamp (there are a couple of tracks up already). As with a lot of music from his part of the world, his long, expansive songs have a nocturnal quality, a welcoming sonic oasis to get absolutely lost in, artfully layered guitars over simple calabash percussion. Interestingly, Moctar often eschews the swaying, camelwalking gait typical of Saharan Tuareg psychedelia for a hypnotically circling triplet beat.

Anar, the opening cut, clocks in at over six minutes of lingering and biting contrasts between guitar multitracks. With its aching, unselfconsciously beautiful, vamping melody,  it’s akin to a desert rock take on Australian psychedelic legends the Church (who happen to be playing that same night at the Bell House).

Moctar layers starry, glittering electric and acoustic tracks over a hypnotic, gently insistent triplet groove on the album’s title cut, sparkling with quick hammer-ons and pulloffs. Tanzaka has a similar, slow pace but with a much darker, blues-oriented tune, a simmering cauldron of lusciously interwoven textures.

Ilmouloud is hushed and suspenseful, Moctar’s vocals calm and slightly flinty. He takes his time opening Allagh N-Tarha with spare, spiky blues phrases and then follows an even sparser, mysterious, droning path. With an almost imperceptibly crescendoing trajectory, Nikali Talit comes across as more of a lullaby.

Moctar picks up the pace with the anthemic Amidini, a return to a mini-constellation of ringing guitars. The album’s closing track, Amer Lyn, slowly coalesces out of an exploratory intro to a catchy, circular vocal call-and-response and fast hammer-on guitar phrases. Lyrically, the songs – in Moctar’s native Tamachek – run the gamut: love songs, sad breakup scenarios, spirituality and in the album’s title track, longing for peace and unity in the desert. More rapturously low-key than Moctar’s countryman Bombino but more guitarishly adventurous than, say, Etran Finatawa, it’s the best and best-produced album Moctar has made, an entrancing ride for fans of psychedelic sounds.

Innov Gnawa and Amadou & Mariam at the Peak of Their Psychedelic Powers at Prospect Park

“It’s hot all over,” guitarist/singer Amadou Bagayoko remarked to the Prospect Park Bandshell crowd last night in his heavy-lidded, Malian French drawl. On the hottest night of the year so far, one of the other things he noticed that was all over the place was weed. See, Amadou is blind. His other senses are working overtime.

But it hardly took a sensitive nose to pick up on what was wafting from the slope out back: this was a show for the smokers. And the place was packed: from personal experience and a survey of random concertgoers who’ve seen multiple shows here recently, the only act who’s drawn as much of a crowd as Amadou & Mariam was Jamaican dancehall star Chronixx. Psychedelic music has never been so popular as it is in 2017.

Which is no surprise. Amadou & Mariam are arguably the world’s most individualistic psychedelic rock band. Over the years, they’ve inched further and further from their original mashup of sprawling two-chord Malian desert rock jams and bouncy central African pop, to a much more western sound rooted in the 1960s. And they’ve never sounded so interesting, or eclectic as they are now.

Mariam Doumbia – Amadou’s wife and childhood sweetheart – sang in her enigmatic, uneasily bronzed, sometimes gritty delivery in both French and Bambara, often harmonizing with Amadou’s balmy croon, going through a couple of costume changes in the process. Behind them, their drummer alternated between stomp, slink and funk while their bassist played tasteful, serpentine riffs and countermelodies, their keyboardist adding lushness and lustre on organ and several synth patches.

They opened with Bofou Safou, their driving, biting new single, sending a message that this show was going to rock pretty hard. From there they made their way methodically through a couple of leaping dance-funk numbers that brought to mind mid-80s Talking Heads, a starry nightscape with majestic Pink Floyd echoes, several similarly mighty blues-based anthems and a deliciously creepy detour into late 60s Laurel Canyon psychedelia.

It was on that allusively menacing number that Amadou took his longest, wildest, solo of the night. While his playing sometimes brings to mind the feral icepicking of Albert Collins, the twangy sparkle of Mark Knopfler and the machinegunning hammer-ons of Vieux Farka Toure, he doesn’t seem to be influenced by any of them, and with the exception of his countryman and younger colleague Toure, may not have even heard those guys. Winding up and down and around, he brought his long trails of sixteenth notes home to a final comet tail and wild applause. The band have a new album due out next month: if this concert is any indication, it’s going to be amazing.

Brooklyn’s own Innov Gnawa, whose career has taken a meteoric rise recently, opened and got a full hour onstage, a rarity at this venue. The sea of fans they’d brought to the show might explain why. Fresh off a Coachella appearance and a marathon series of New York club gigs, it’s hard to imagine a hotter band in town right now.

The only gnawa band in the world west of Morocco, they play the original drum-and-bass music. With roots in sub-Saharan, pre-Muslim central Africa, transplanted to the north, many of their hypnotic, pulsing, crackling themes date from over a thousand years ago. It’s party music, for sure, but it has even more cultural resonance for healing and spiritual purposes. With limited time (for them – this band can jam for hours) and a big stage to work with, they clanked and boomed and snapped their way through a dynamic mix of straight-ahead dance jams and trickier, turn-on-a-dime rhythms, winding up with frontman/sintir lute player Hassan Ben Jaafer running his basslines faster and faster as his chanting choir of bandmates whirled their cast-iron castnets, encircling him and bringing the show to a peak that would have been daunting to most headliners other than Amadou & Mariam.

Amadou & Mariam continue on US tour; their next show is on July 24 at 6:30 PM at Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park in Chicago; admission is free. Innov Gnawa are uptown at Ginny’s Supper Club on July 27, with sets at 7:30 and 9:30  PM; your best deal is standing room at the bar for $15.

The next show at Prospect Park Bandshell is tomorrow night, July 22 at 7:30 PM and opens auspiciously with Innov Gnawa percussionist Amino Belyamani’s similarly innovative, mesmerizingly rhythmic dancefloor minimalist trio, Dawn of Midi. Jury’s out on the headliner: are Mashrou ‘Leila the Lebanese Cure, or just another lame corporate dance-rock act?

Guitarist Derek Gripper Builds a Magical Sonic Constellation at Lincoln Center

Thursday night at Lincoln Center, guitarist Derek Gripper played a show that was as impressive a display of daunting technique and irrepressible individuality as it was an immersion in celestially kaleidoscopic glimmers and ripples. Gripper got his start as a classical guitarist and plays with the requisite precision and steely focus. But he also has an outside-the-box sensibility, not to mention a sense of humor, that transcend the limitations – at least the usual ones -in that demimonde. His claim to fame is reinventing centuries-old Malian kora music for the acoustic guitar.

Sending a shout out to a major influence, pioneering Malian kora virtuoso Toumani Diabate, Gripper opened with a steady, spiky, liltingly circling theme and closed with a jaunty, allusively tongue-in-cheek cover of fellow South African kora player Madosini’s I Like a Motorcar. In between, there were moments that echoed John Fahey, and Adrian Legg, and maybe Michael Hedges, but Gripper’s sound is unique. His dry sense of humor became apparent early on, when he explained to the crowd how he’d developed a new appreciation for an old guy named J.S. Bach, particularly that composer’s work for a “European ethnic instrument, the violin.” And then launched into a well-known diptych from that guy’s catalog, the first part reinvented with an idiosyncratically kinetic approach, the concluding fugue with an edge and bite to match Gripper’s emphatic attack on the strings. More guitarists should take chances like that.

The most fascinating of all the pieces on the bill was a number for two koras that he’d arranged for solo guitar. Employing carefree but minutely nuanced five-finger technique, he alternated between calm, minimalistically anchoring phrases on the low strings and subtly crescendoing flickers and pings on the higher ones. For a couple of other numbers, he tuned the two lowest strings to the same note – was that just a double low E? – for extra ballast,amplified by his relentless hammering, which sent overtones wafting throughout the space.

The most challenging number of the evening was a mashup of enigmatic indie classical tonalities, Steve Reich, the baroque, and West Africa. Solo gigs are always harder than playing with a group, and it’s harder still to hold a crowd’s attention, especially on an acoustic instrument. But a diverse, multi-generational crowd, most of them most likely not particularly versed in Gripper’s source material, remained fixated throughout his hour onstage. It was a subtle reminder that music, no matter where it’s from, belongs to all of us: where we take it is the challenge, and Gripper gave a clinic in how to d o it.

The next free early-evening concert at Lincoln Center’s atrium space just north of 62nd St. on Broadway is this Thursday, June 29 at 7:30 PM with Marc Anthony Thompson, a.k..a Chocolate Genius, who’s sort of the Gil Scott-Heron of newschool retro soul music. Show up early if you want a seat.

Vieux Farka Toure Releases His Best Studio Album, with a Brooklyn Show Thursday Night

The second-eldest son of Ali Farka Toure – the best-known founding father of Malian desert rock – Vieux Farka Toure is one of the world’s greatest lead guitarists. His signature style blends lightning-fast hammer-ons into a reverb-drenched resonance: he gets an orchestra worth of sound out of his custom-made amp. This global road warrior’s definitive album remains his 2010 live album, but his new one, Samba – out April 7 and due to be streaming at Bandcamp – is the best thing he’s recorded since then. Meaning “second” or “second-born in his native vernacular, it’s a welcome return to the endless volleys of electric flame that he’s made a name for himself with onstage. He’s playing Bric Arts on April 6 at around 9; as a bonus, the only Moroccan gnawa band in the US, Brooklyn’s mesmerizingly danceable Innov Gnawa open the night at 7:30. Advance tix are $15.

Spiraling multitracked guitars (Toure plays all of them here) flavor the loping, aptly titled opening track, Bonheur, Abdoulaye Kone’s ngoni harp adding yet another rustling layer to the thicket of sound. These songs are long, and there’s so much going here that it doesn’t hit you til the very end that it’s a one-chord jam.

Maffa Diabate takes over on ngoni on the next track, Mariam, and then on most of the rest of the album, joining a subtly conversational interchange with the bandleader’s spiky guitar. It’s a fond dedication to Toure’s youngest sister. Then the group hits a scampering groove with Ba Kaitere, anchored with a brisk blues bassline, eventually rising to a long, blazing guitar solo, Toure blasting with his usual blistering, icy tone.

Toure electrifies the ominously modal Malian folk song Samba Si Kairi, an uneasy anthem of strength and resilience:with the album’s most haunting guitar solo, it’s the album’s high point. The pairing of ngoni and guitar are akin to the Byrds taking a detour into the desert with their twelve-string guitars.

The band goes back to a purposeful stomp with Homafu Wawa and its echoey call-and-response, springboarding off a familiar Bob Marley riff. They vamp delicately on a catchy descending guitar hook throughout Maya and then bring back a harder-hitting drive behind Toure’s anthemic blues riffage in Nature. Kone’s ngoni harp returns to blend with the bandleader’s bristling jangle and clang in Reconnaissance, a Malian counterpart to talking blues.

Ouaga comes across as a much higher-voltage take on toweringly anthemic Alpha Blondy-style reggae, the rhythm section – Mamadou Kone on drums and Souleymane Kane on calabash, with Marshall Henry, Eric Herman and Cheikmane Ba sharing bass duties, keeps things close to the ground. The album winds up with a brief jam that sounds like it survived the cutting-room floor. All this is great advertising for Toure’s legendary, uncompromising live show. 

Ballake Sissoko and Vincent Segal Create a Vast, Starlit Sonic Universe at the French institute

Last night at the French Institute, cellist Vincent Segal and kora player Ballake Sissoko channeled the roots of a thousand bittersweetly beautiful African-American soul ballads. It was a confluence of stately baroque-inflected themes intermingled with an elegantly energetic update on a centuries-old African sound. Segal grinningly explained that the duo took their cues from the animal kingdom: their previous show might have been a bovine one, he said self-effacingly, but this one was a horse, a mighty, majestic one.

Their blend of western classical influences into richly ringing, celestially magical Malian kora music is as much a part of an ongoing tradition as it is cutting-edge. It was a night of deep contemplation, and vast panoramas, an alternate universe where beauty trumped anything that could be trumped.

When they weren’t joining forces as a single celestial generator, they exchanged roles carrying either a lead line or a melodic framework, Segal sometimes taking the role of bass player.  The rhythms grew more complex and intertwining as the show went on, as the two left the page with a sometimes breathtaking improvisational flair. Yet it was the night’s subtlest and most intimate moments that resonated most with the crowd: shivery microtone-inducing rivulets and an unexpected and spot-on gnawa riff from Segal, or supersonically flickering, half-muted volleys from Sissoko.

They opened with a spare, distantly aching ballad, the first of several mysteriously crescendoing two-chord vamps, Segal’s judicious pizzicato and austere washes against the deep-sky ripples that have become Sissoko’s signature over the years. The duo went into even more starry ambience after that until Segal it into an abrupt, stark series of riffs to shift the mood from reverie to a matter-of-factly jaunty dance. There would be many of those, from both musicians, throughout the duo’s roughly hourlong set.

Segal anchored a melancholy vamp over an insistent 6/8 rhythm beneath a river of eighth notes, the duo cleverly working their way to doublespeed and then back  Sissoko’s sepulchrally dancing figures grew closer and emerged triumphantly from the shadows as Segal maintained a hypnotic pulse. Then it was Segal’s turn to serve as exorcist. From there the two wove a spare, slowly crescendoing, plaintive melody over a wavelike, recurrently waltzlike beat punctuated by Segal’s simple, rising accents, echoed more vigorously by Sissoko as it went on. It brought one of New York’s most important musical impresarios to tears.

Segal played percussion as Sissoko bullt a dense thicket of hypnotically leaping phrases; then Segal went back to the cello as Sissoko made a big anthem out of it. The two ended the show on a more delicate, sparsely contemplative note. For the first of the encores, kora wizard Sekouya Diabate’s wife Tariba emerged from the audience to sing the first encore, a Malian praise song, unamplified, in her arrestingly intense, smoky alto. It seemed directed at Sissoko’s mom, who was seeing her son onstage in the US for only the second time in three decades.

Since their days serving as home base for the New York Arabic Orchestra, the French Institute has programmed some of the most intriguing music to emerge from the Francophone diaspora. Watch this space for upcoming artists and concert dates.