Unpatriotic?! Moi?

No way, Ari. But two theses. First, most current American pop and semipop was conceived for a normalcy currently beyond the reach of our imaginations. Second, if Americans don't have it in them to get more cross-cultural, they're fucked—by which I mean, patriot that I am, we're fucked.

With all protestations of American optimism sounding false and forced, I woke up one day with a yen for Chuck Brown's "Bustin' Loose" and didn't-stop-no-I-didn't-stop playing this definitive genre comp for two hours. Like most dance music, it's a little long-winded for home use; like most two-CD sets, it gets less definitive as it goes along. It merely documents and celebrates a local movement by a nationally disenfranchised audience that was utterly undaunted by their music's failure to take over the world 15 years ago. Without ever truly busting loose, go-go remained an autonomous realm of freedom—an option ripe for exploration by any other audience with the will to make it so. A MINUS

Twilight (Carrot Top)
At a moment when any depressive with a good line of patter is positioned to convince disaster-dazed dissidents he's the prophet Jeremiah, lyricist Rennie Sparks and her doleful husband and music provider Bret deliver a new sheaf of morbid songs. These feel right even when their melodies dim out, in part because they aspire to mood rather than prophecy. More than half concern or mention animals, usually but not always still alive. One significant exception is a billion passenger pigeons, another the dog, cat, gerbils, goldfish, rabbit, chipmunk, squirrel, and insects to whom she/he bids so long. Right, the pets are supposed to be funny, in a morbid way. None of the humans who populate this album are so lucky. A few of them are deaf or blind, though. A MINUS

Rumba Congo (Stern's Africa)
Led by the now ailing guitar legend Papa Noel, eight well-grizzled veterans of the soukous wars sit around the kitchen of the heart and play some songs they've been working on. As long on lilt as it is devoid of drive, the abiding quietude is irrelevant to an up-and-at-'em mood. But when nothing seems sweeter than home, it's a blessed comfort—the harmonies whispering, the drums twining, the groove massaging each overtaxed muscle until the blood can do its work there and flow on. A MINUS

Feminist Sweepstakes (Mr. Lady)
Here's one new rock record whose optimistic abandon is specifically conceived as a response to deprivation and attack. Or so I theorize—could just be that they got more jam than Sum 41 or the Strokes. They're not at their best when they catalog grievances (e.g. "F.Y.R.," for "fifty years of ridicule"). Who is? But over and above their jam, they're committed to naming names and utterly unwilling to give up on lives they're still learning to enjoy. It's not just "the ladies and the fags" who need that example anymore. Never was. A MINUS

Classic Yo-Yo (Sony Classical)
Ever since I encountered Ma (on Sesame Street, since you ask), he's been my classical crossover guy of choice. His freedom from smarmy noblesse oblige is typified by his approach to repertoire—he accords bluegrass and tango the same modest respect he does Bach and Tan Dun, never showboating for some ill-imagined gallery. Master tunesmith Bach gets three tracks on this subtly sequenced best-of, New York-raised Astor Piazzolla and bluegrass crossover guy Mark O'Connor two apiece, and even the John Williams ringer sounds OK when Ma is adoring the melody on his rhymes-with-mellow, although the orchestration is to barf at. This is the best of the European humanism the classical elite so often falsifies, reifies, and wills to power—not just beautiful and reassuring, useful attributes these days, but tolerant, curious, democratic. Just like me for giving it a shot. A MINUS

Cruzando El Rio (World Circuit/Nonesuch)
Moorish and/or North African Spain is the idea, beginning with a flamenco colombiana—a folkloric variant that arose in the '30s claiming cross-Atlantic roots, only the hook goes to a Renaissance oboe called a cromornos, one of many medieval instruments on display. Which means that in a time when sensitivity to the Euro-Arab nexus is the way of both justice and survival, what's most original about this band is its translation of medieval into modern—which does constitute a sonic reminder that European culture isn't as pure as Silvio Berlusconi believes. What's most entertaining about it, meanwhile, is its new embrace of the supple and the songful. What's most annoying about it is its fusion and art-rock retentions. B PLUS

Dreams and Secrets (Anonymous Web)
African-American synergy, retain hyphen please, that improves simultaneously on trumpeter Smith's Yo Miles! projects with guitarist Henry Kaiser and the two solid-plus albums the chimurenga revolutionary has cut in Oregon since developing a taste for what he's proud to designate "the American way." Even with Kaiser and Woody Lee Aplanalp wailing and wahing, Smith's N'Da Kulture band can't generate the paradoxical melodies and shape-shifting rhythms of electric Miles. So Mapfumo's song-making provides welcome diversion from N'Da Kulture's straightforward postmodern r&b just when you're ready to move on to that Willie Mitchell retrospective. The mbiras and percussion devices of Mapfumo's Blacks Unlimited also jazz things up, which is fine with Smith, who's been calling jazz world music for decades. It's always been a dandy idea in theory. This is the practice. A MINUS

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