By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Picture this: ring announcer "Mean" Gene Okerlund, mic in hand, bellowing, "And in this corner, led by their manager, Youssou N'Dour, and weighing in at a combined weight of 1800 pounds, hailing from the West African country of Senegaaal, the challenger, Orchestra Baobaaaab. [Dramatic pause] And in the opposite corner, led by manager Ry Cooooodaah and weighing in at a combined weight of 1000 pounds, they have also been known by the well-earned nickname Afro-Cuban All Stars, hailing from sexy Cuuuuuubaaa, the defending world music champions of the woooorld, the Buenaaaa Vistaaa Social Cluuub." On one side, the middle-aged West African dozen, wearing matching printed shirts and charcoal slacks, and on the other, the septua/octo/nonagenarian Cuban dozen, holding onto the ropes to prevent hips from popping out. The bell rings. Balla Sidibe and Compay Segundo square off. Compay pulls out a lit cigar and is about to jab his opponent when . . . wait a minute! All of a sudden Ibrahim Ferrer of the BVSC sneaks up behind the 95-year-old and grabs his arm, looks at him, shakes his head and . . . gives a lecture on the similarities between Cuban and Senegalese music.
So what in criminy do the BVSC have to do with Orchestra Baobab and their sublime new Specialist in All Styles? From the slave trade and colonialism to driving congas, mellifluous tenor sax, and soaring vocal harmonies; from obscurity to fame to obscurity and back again; from producer Nick "Everything I Touch Turns To" Gold and master mixer Jerry "Not Jerky" Boys, quite a bit.
Much has been written explaining the invasion of Cuban tunes that hit West Africa in the 1930s and spread like wildfire from Senegal down to the Congo. Whether from Caribbean cruise ships carrying large rumba orchestras whose musicians would chill in the ports, Cuban sailors leaving waterlogged son 45s behind, or EMI/HMV releasing Venezuela-pressed Afro-Cuban dance music throughout France and the former French West African colonies, the instrumental foundation of pachanga, mambo, and cha-cha-cha invaded Senegalese popular music. Nowhere did this "new" sound take a firmer root than in Dakar, the country's capital. And no other band integrating Latin rhythms was more successful in the 1970s than Orchestra Baobab.
A brief history. Orchestra Baobab was assembled in 1970 to perform at Dakar's newest hip nightclub, the Baobab in the city's "European quarter." Named after a common Senegalese tree known for its longevity (imagine a knobbed, gnarled, and larger version of the Joshua tree), this club was meant to entertain government dignitaries, tourists, and anyone else with money to burn. At the time, it was common practice for house bands to be named after clubs; hence Orchestra Boabab-Gouye-Gui de Dakar, later simply Orchestra Baobab. Many of the original musicians and singers were plucked and swayed from other major acts, such as the renowned Star Band, and the majority of them could sing and play several instruments. O.B. were also ethnically diversefrom tribes within Senegal as well as from Togo and Nigeria. With a dozen members strutting their stuff on Latin and indigenous percussion, two guitars and saxophones, bass, and a slew of vocalists including a couple of spiritual Wolof singers, O.B. was soon the most popular dance band in Dakar. They even played at a wedding for Pierre Cardin's daughter. But in the '80s, clubs sponsoring them began to close; people wanted something fresh. Latin rhythms started to lose their attractive luster, and despite releasing arguably their best albums between 1980 and '82, Baobab couldn't keep a whippersnapper named Youssou from creating that desired new soundMbalaxwith his dynamite group, Etoile de Dakar. By 1987, Orchestra Baobab was officially no more.
Which, more or less, leads us to Specialist in All Styles. If you sift through Baobab's previous five U.S. releases, you will realize that this new album is more a re-recorded greatest-hits compilation than anything else. Of the nine songs, at least seven have been released previously. And if you were lucky and wise enough to see Baobab this past July for their very first American tour, you will recognize that this CD essentially replicates their live set.
But in the end, it doesn't really matter if the songs are 30 years old, because this music will make you wanna dance, relax, even learn Wolof. Specialist is co-produced by N'Dour, who forgoes the cheesier overproduction his later albums tend toward. Predominantly Latin tracks split equally with ones echoing reggae, high life, and afrobeat; native (Wolof and Mandinka) tongues with colonial (Spanish and French). Perhaps the most stunning songcertainly the hardest grooveis "Dée Moo Wóor," composed and sung beautifully in Wolof by Ndiouga Dieng. Over a borderline roots-reggae pulse egged on by the timbales and congas, Dieng wails about the death of his father. And though you may not literally understand his lament, you feel his pain.