Consumer Guide

Let no one claim good old well-crafted rock and roll has disappeared from the culture. See the top three Honorable Mentions, each more substantial than the Donnas' regressive little winner, not one as consistently inspired. Then look at the pictures and proceed elsewhere.

NATACHA ATLAS: Gedida (Beggars Banquet) Although production is credited as usual to Transglobal Underground, bassist Count Dubulah has departed, and so has keybman Alex Kasiek— unless he also goes by the name Tim Whelan, as some suggest. In any case, the music has morphed so that it now bears in on the always-dominant Middle Eastern pop aspect of Atlas's mystery-laden Belgian-Arab-Asian-Jewish persona. It's good riddance to the multicultural kitchen sink— bhangra rappers, hyped-up electropercussion, metaphysical atmospherics, long slow Arabic meditations on I could never care what. Instead we get a probably shallow and definitely delightful piece of exotica— ouds and hand drums and Cairo strings, tunes that hold your ear until the next one begins, perky tempos that always convey good cheer as they reduce passion to a trope. Unless your idea of magic is to switch to English and presto change-o turn into Björk, Atlas is one of thousands who prove that a terrific voice doesn't guarantee great singing. But as the icing on this cake, she could make belly dancing look like a lesson in self-determination. A Minus

ANI DIFRANCO: Up Up Up Up Up Up (Righteous Babe) Reports that she's fallen in love with the mirror are rank last-big-thingism. She's still the girl who ran away with the circus because bearded ladies do honest work, and far from going too far, her 13 climactic minutes of poetry-with-jazz attest to her unflagging esprit. She should let her junkie jones be for a while. But not her class jones. The rich are always with us. A Minus

Pick Hit: Moby

THE DONNAS: The Donnas Get Skintight (Lookout!) Teen life as teen combat, with tunes and sexual content both revved up, which synergy is the only form maturity can (as yet) take with these Bay Area molls. If more young females had a purchase on the scornful independence the Donnas transform into fun, this act might actually pose role model problems. Let's just hope it'll loom larger in the fantasy lives of shy girls than of dirty young men. Because fun they are. A Minus

MARK ISHAM: Miles Remembered: The Silent Way Project (Columbia) The auteur isn't Windham Hillbilly turned soundtrack impressionist Isham, whose mushy desecrations I would have slagged big-time if only I hadn't listened to them first. Instead, this proves the ranking companion piece to Panthalassa, with a proficient no-name band focusing the compositional skills of the auteur, who is also the greatest musical impressionist of the century. Reducing the Jack Johnson theme to five minutes, they even rock like they mean it. B Plus

SALIF KEITA: Papa (Metro Blue) This Vernon Reid coproduction is beyond fusion, crossover, world music, and the rest. The master guitarist is pure polyglot, comfortable anywhere from AOR to funk to harmolodic to aleatory, and after two decades of knocking on Euro-America's door, the master singer is at home in the white world even if he never found the fortune he sought there. So the straightforward rhythms mesh imperceptibly with the traditional instruments Keita is forever rediscovering, and though it's not clear from the credits whether such Bamako big men as Toumani Diabate (kora) and Ousmane Kouyate (guitar) ever occupied the same room as such New York delegates as John Medeski (organ) and Henry Schroy (essential on bass), their spiritual confluence is in the grooves. More than Keita's vintage work with Les Ambassadeurs, this is the natural music of a landowner-class albino expatriate. Almost as much an outsider in Mali and Senegal as in France or the U.S., he's finally arrived at a style that's indigenous everywhere. Which is what he always wanted. A Minus

MOBY: Play (V2) I doubt the little messiah sat down and "composed" this. There are no reports he even strove to unify it á la DJ Shadow. But Endtroducing . . . is the reference point nevertheless. It's because Moby still loves song form that he elects to sample Alan Lomax field recordings rather than garage-sale instrumental and spoken-word LPs. But though the blues and gospel and more gospel testify not just for song but for body and spirit, they wouldn't shout anywhere near as loud and clear without the mastermind's ministrations— his grooves, his pacing, his textures, his harmonies, sometimes his tunes, and mostly his grooves, which honor not just dance music but the entire rock tradition it's part of. Although the futurist's dream of Blind Willie Johnson that opens this complete work was some kind of hit in England, here it'll be strictly for aesthetes. We've earned it. A

WILLIE NELSON: Night and Day (Pedernales/FreeFalls) In the Nashville era, country instrumental albums have been models of dexterous precision and dispatch dominated by the sterile expanses of the Chet Atkins catalogue, a tradition that shares as much with this small miracle as Nelson's singing does with Brooks & Dunn's. Even simpatico analogies— early string bands, the looser Western swing units, the relaxation Merle Haggard's guys go for, or for that matter Django Reinhardt— don't suggest the casual musicality this long-running off-and-on octet achieves without apparent effort every time it sits down, which happens 150 nights a year. Musicians for life who've achieved a satori that barely skirts virtuosity, they adore the melody. But they adore it after their own fashion, which is Willie's fashion whether he's singing or, as here, only playing lead guitar— pretty much on the note when you listen up, only you don't because the timbre and phrasing are so talky. Is this a species of jazz? Given the awkwardness of the session Nelson once cut with jazz-identified Nashvillian Jackie King, I wouldn't bother calling it that. It's just Willie, who wants folks to think everything he does is simpler than it is and in some mystical sense may be right. A Minus

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