ORCHESTRE NATIONAL DE BARBES - Rendez-Vous Barbes (Le Chant Du Monde)

Rendez-vous Barbès marks something of a return to form for the Maghreb assemblage which has planted its musical flag in the Parisian cultural mélange after which the band is named. Their previous album, Alik, held plenty of appeal but was blighted in places by its Négresses Vertes/Rachid Taha-style rock pretensions, and although the hard-edged urban cool, gruff vocals and deep and groovy rhythms remain, the solid north African roots of earlier releases are once more totally to the fore throughout.

Having stripped away much of the in-yer-face guitar and drums, the beguiling mix of whirling chaâbi synthesizers, accordion, oud, solid bass grooves and shuffling percussive phrasing becomes more apparent, all of which is leavened with just a taste of Arabic pop fromage.

Algeria is always the biggest North African influence, on top of which is added some down and dirty Moroccan funk, driven by the twanging woody drive of the guimbri (Moroccan bass-lute) on gnawa-influenced tracks such as the album’s high-watermark, the stark and hypnotic Laafou.

There’s plenty in the way of lighter stuff too, albeit not always as successfully delivered as the trademark rollicking Barbès fare. No No No has an enticing Moussou-T catchiness, but maybe lacks some of the Occitan troupe’s self-awareness, and Rod Balek veers too close to cod reggae at times (in contrast to Chorfa’s appealing dub skank). But these weaker moments are outweighed by tracks such as Denya, a bright slab of rai-pop which possesses the authentic ache of Algerian love balladry. And closing track Allah Idaouia is subtler still, with oud to the fore as the song shuffles along with a chorus that treads just the right side of the line between and singalongability and banality. They’ve softened quite considerably for this one have Orchestre National de Barbès, whilst retaining enough edge to keep established followers happy. A satisfying move in the right Arabic-pop-meets-roots direction.

www.lechantdumonde.com

KHALED - Liberté (Wrasse)

The statement, “if you have to buy one Khaled album, make it 1984’s Hada Raykoum” is surely incontestable. It may well be that the same can now be said for the next best thing to that North African classic.
Hada Raykoum — by the-then Cheb Khaled — was one of the early internationally released African albums that hit an unsuspecting western listening world between the eyes, upturning its preconceptions about Arabic pop music for good. No respecter of traditions, the self-styled Rai King of Algeria couched his raunchy urban Oran style in swirling keyboards and electric guitar as well as the more usual sweeping string arrangements, poly-rhythms and accordion used in this gritty, thrusting genre from the busiest and most eclectic port in Algeria.

Since then, Khaled’s output has been regular and consistent and usually contains fine moments, although often (especially in the ’90s) getting bogged down in ‘modern’ production values such as soulless studio pre-programmed drums, an accent on keyboards at the expense of other instrumentation, and over-production of Khaled’s magnificent, soaring voice. Recent albums have seen a welcome move back to a more organic approach, and in Liberté at last we have a release to compete with that early ground-breaking Triple Earth release. Produced by long-standing colleague Martin Meissonnier, this album shivers and it snaps in funky, organic arrangements, with a real-live sweeping and stabbing string section (recorded in Cairo) that infuses the album with drama and depth. With it comes the return of melodramatic intro tracks in which Khaled unwinds a prelude to the song proper in undulating, pleading vocal tones, with keyboards, accordion, oud twisting and turning higher, ever higher around his voice, before breaking into dense and funky grooves. The Egyptian orchestra strings are the ever-present backdrop, alongside a mixed melange comprising elements of blasting horns, high-voiced backing, chattering percussion, violin, oud, electric guitar, ney flute and electric bass, all of it applied in judicious style in the clear and spacious arrangements.

Uptempo pop-rai is the core, but interest is also maintained by a handful of ballads (all of which avoid tipping over into cheesy bombast for a change) and a few old favourites — including a loose, poppy update on Raikoum itself, which features Rita Marley and friends on backing vocals — and one or two delves into the hypnotic gnawa grooves of Morocco. This ia an album that can be recommended without reservation.

WATCHA CLAN - Diaspora Hi-Fi (Piranha)

"File under World / France/ Algeria/ Mediterranean" is the advice given on Marseille-based Watcha Clan's latest album, and you could well add Balkan / Hip-Hop/ Sephardic/ Reggae to that list as the fiery collective from France's cultural melting po(r)t stretch a host of disparate genres to modern-beats-driven breaking point.
Suprem Clem is the programmer and sampler, Matt Labesse the funky bassist, but vocalist Sista K is the focal point, a multilingual Franco-Algerian Ashkenazi Jew who is at home in a variety of styles, notably the strident Sephardic rocker Marashtein, jaunty Balkan party piece Balkan Qoulou and the Arabic-Andalusian acoustic ballad Ch'ilet La'yani.
However, the inclusion of a multitude of musical flavours is hard to sustain consistently over a whole album, and there are times when the modern beats swamp melodies too fragile to hold their own.
But it all clicks into place more often than not, and it's well worth sticking around all the way to the adventurous closing track Oued El Chouli, where Sista K is joined on vocals by guitarist Nassim Kouti on a lazy reggae skank that switches into a brooding dubbed-up gnawa groove. Compelling.


Piranha Records

ORCHESTRE NATIONAL DE BARBES - Alik (Wagram)

If ever there was a group that reflected the area from which they hail, it's Orchestre National de Barbès, the collective which claims the multicultural Parisian quarter after which they are named as a nation in its own right and pays tribute to the area's tough, bustling diversity with a thick stew of spicy Arabic-French rock music.
North Africa provides the main foundation for the sound, more specifically Algeria (where the principle members' roots belong), so rock clashes with chaâbi, soukous guitars augment tight gnawa grooves, whilst Rai's urban rebellion and a streak of inner-city radicalism run like threads through most of the songs (the semi-acerbic anti-ID cards attack song Residence hits its target with a particularly satisfying Congolese-guitar-led élan).
The album opens at ninety-miles-an-hour with the hard-rockin' Civilise and speeds up from there, rattling between Arabic and French language songs driven by relentless beats and the twin electric guitar attack of Fathellah Ghoggal and Khlif Miziallaoua.
Most songs work from a Taha-esque dark-glasses-and-leather-trouser rai-rock template - although Fatah Benlala' vocals are more cool Khaled than rough Rachid - but there's a distinct Parisian influence as well, not least on La Rose on which a waltzing java accordion pushes along a jaunty, ironically delivered sing-along-a-love-song.
There's only one real bum note (if we pass over a barely-passable French-language cover of the Stones' Sympathy for the Devil) in Madame, more shabby than chaâbi in its crude plastic punkiness, and it is to be hoped that this song (and the album's general leaning towards a more rock-orientated edge than previously) doesn't signal too much of a change in future direction. It's true to say that admirers of the Orchestre National de Barbès of old might be slightly disappointed at the loss of many of the rootsier elements of the band's sound (there's nothing on the album that comes close to the gloriously hypnotic desert blues title-track of Poulina, for example) but with the flame of originality still burning strong, there's plenty here of interest for now.

UK distribution via Discovery Records

This review first appeared in fRoots magazine.

MARZOUG

It wasn’t easy tracking Marzoug down at this year’s Womud festival at Charlton Park. Their top-to-toe all-white desert garb makes for an impressive visual focal point in an energetically mobile stage performance, the eight band members twirling and swirling their robes to the spiralling notes of leader Jelloul Soudani's checkwa (Algerian bagpipe) with vigorous support from tabla drums and qarqaba castanets.
But the striking get-up was not exactly conducive to getting about in the six inches of gloopy mud that bedecked the festival site, although whatever oasis of grass they managed to colonise clearly did the trick because they remained immaculate throughout their two high-octane performances, and I finally caught up with them after the second of those performances as they perched on the backstage steps of the Siam Tent waiting for one of the overworked artists' buggies to take them back to dry land.
"We come from Biskra, which is to the south of Algeria, from what they call the doors of the desert," they explain (the conversation is as head-spinning as their performance, each member chipping in with thoughts and observations, translated from French and Arabic by manager Halim). "The neighbourhood we live in is called Sudanese El Alia, which helps explain the African rhythms. This is ancient music that we play in Biskra, which we call 'durs'. Our culture takes many influences from all around because Biskra is such a vital commercial centre, caravans have always come from everywhere carrying Berbers, Bedouins and Africans - so, the influences are Arabic, African and even Barbarian! Some people say the music itself has been around since the first century, but we think that the chekwa might have originated in the Middle Ages during the Christian Crusades when the Franks came to Palestine to force the Muslims out. They will have brought the cornemuse (bagpipe) with them."
The chekwa is at the centre of the Marzoug sound, winding its wailing notes around rhythms clearly derived from sub-Saharan Africa, and although it's not that unusual to see an instrument such as this in the Maghreb – there's the mizwid music of Tunisia, for example - this particular instrument and its sound seem unique to this part of Algeria. Comprising two reed tubes tied together at the tip with one part fixed to the inside of the air pouch, at the top end of the bag is the blow-reed and two small gazelle horns, the latter giving the incongruous impression that the musician is blowing into an animal's head. The master of the instrument and leader of the Marzoug troupe is the elegant and eloquent Jelloul Soudani:
"My father played checkwa and created the band in 1962, but I learnt from my uncle who preceded me in this group. Marzoug is our family name, we are all related, cousins, uncles, brothers. The chekwa was traditionally made of goat skin, but we use synthetic materials these days. It used to be played in unison with others, but my uncle’s father decided to make it the instrument of the soloist. We added the two extra reeds to give the instrument a richer, more varied sound that can be integrated with the drums. We call the instrument a chekwa to differentiate it from the cornemuse mezoued found elsewhere in North Africa.”
As for the sound produced by the checkwa, it is a distinctly high Arabic homophonic tone but there are echoes of the Celtic and possibly even Balkan roots in the melodies produced by those extra reeds.
"Yes it is a bit similar," agrees Jelloul, "but technically it's not the same, our modes are unique and we don't have the drone sound you get with Scottish bagpipes, for example. But everywhere we play people love what we do and say that they can hear similarities in the music. We've played in Switzerland, France, Germany, England, Ireland and the reception is always great. In Brest we played with [legendary Breton pipe player] Patrick Molard. He asked to meet us after picking up some records in Algeria. His biniou looks and sounds very similar to the checkwa, it is clear that here is a common history."
It's not all wailing bagpipes - there's a rocking backdrop to each song, an exuberant, polyrhythmic attack that grows in an intensity matched step by step by the organised chaos of the constantly interchanging dance steps of each band member. The boys really know how to make full use of a stage unencumbered by cables (a microphone for the occasional vocal track being the only plugged-in instrument).
"The tradition of the drums come from the family Diwan [traditional devotional ceremony with song and dance]," they explain, "where we sit around and play drums, all day all night, seven days at a time, until we are in a trance. The songs are love songs and ones about the saints, some traditional, some written by the family. We like to mix things up a bit."

This feature first appeared in fRoots magazine.