I very rarely shoot people in public without their permission, but this was a photo I just could not pass up. Probably one of my favorites of all time. Amazing how despair can inspire beauty.

One of the things Morocco is well known for is being colorful; this fountain makes that point.

Medina doors always make me stop to ponder…

…like this one, overlooking a cemetery on the Pacific.

Wandering through the medina…

Well, they asked me to put it on Facebook….

Into Rabat’s souk…

Chilling.

We then crossed the river and entered Sale’s medina.

Across from the medina’s edges is a pretty epic beach that offers this view.

And finally, to our hotel, where there was plenty to keep us occupied…

…especially with its water theme.

]]> http://www.globalbeatfusion.com/african/walking-around-morocco/feed/ 0 http://www.globalbeatfusion.com/featured/play-it-again-sameer-at-festival-de-casablanca/ http://www.globalbeatfusion.com/featured/play-it-again-sameer-at-festival-de-casablanca/#comments Mon, 25 Jul 2011 12:54:39 +0000 globalbeatfusion http://www.globalbeatfusion.com/?p=176 With festival officials estimating 65,000 cramming into Scène Corniche El Hank to witness hip-hop artist 50 Cent’s first Moroccan visit, I was not particularly shocked to later hear that that number was bumped to 100,000. 50 himself tweeted 200,000. I suppose from the vantage point of the stage, with the endless swarm of raised fists and ‘I Love 50 Cent’ posters, 65k could be two million without much thought. With a reported 70% of Casablancans being under the age of 30, American rappers easily usurp religious icons in a country that is commendably evolving socially, politically and musically. America has much to learn from the progressive kingship and open-minded populace of this nation.

I was able to snag a few photos and video of 50 before being whisked away to Scène Rachidi to watch an upstart Moroccan vocalist, Oum, blend beautiful strains of jazz, reggae, Moroccan poetics and R&B into a truly unique music before her own tens of thousands. Combine that with Moroccan rock band Hoba Hoba Spirit throwing down at Scène Sidi Bernoussi, and you’d have guessed that the entirety of Morocco ventured outdoors for these free concerts. One of some 50 annual festivals occurring in this pioneering Islamic country, the diversity of Festival de Casablanca serves as a beacon for the future of global citizenry.

Music has brought me to Morocco three times in the past three years, twice in the past month alone. Festivals in Fes and Rabat were outstanding, but neither stood up to the raw energy and forward-thinking mentality of this city which has been long tattooed in the American imagination thanks to the classic anti-German Bogart/Bergman flick. Craftily manipulated in a Burbank studio (and at Van Nuys airport) into World War II-torn African struggling for identity between French and German occupation, the actual identity of Moroccans figured very little into the movie. Like many other Warner Brothers films, Casablanca had a definitive political agenda — one that did not involve Morocco having its own voice.

Yet Morocco has plenty to say. The country that predominantly avoided the Arab Spring thanks to King Mohammed VI’s reforms — a recent initiative passed by 98.5% of voters officially recognizes the Berber language and promotes gender equality — is setting an example for the Arab and American worlds to learn from. While some feel that the government is moving too slowly, that the government moves in the right direction at all is a hopeful sign. Progress is palpable on the streets. The economy is thriving; Mohammed’s focus on infrastructure is apparent throughout cosmopolitan regions; and the promotion of art and culture, both Moroccan and international, is one of the most important steps that any country is taking in forging a global population ready to handle the tasks of this century.

We arrived in Casablanca on Thursday morning, having missed the first evening of festivities. A long delay on the tarmac due to a massive rainstorm and something that smelled like fire, which may have helped to ignite a near fistfight between a Moroccan and Senegalese woman directly above my head, kept us drowsy until a few shots of Arabic espresso juiced my veins. I was bummed to have missed Brazil’s Carlinhos Brown, though excited to check out California reggae band Groundation presenting a Bob Marley tribute concert that night. Moroccan R&B/hip-hop-ish singer Barry kicked off Thursday night with an impressive though postured performance. I had no idea that Yankees hats were a required uniform for any young Moroccan, and Barry played that role to a tee. His crossed arms and fake limp were unnecessary accoutrements awkwardly adorning an otherwise excellent show. Dude can sing, and well, his music playful and solid. Hearing flow in Arabic is immensely interesting, and while he may be rapping about his pet cat doing cartwheels or, hopefully, something intriguingly political and social, he’s got the musicality down.

Groundation is an epic live band. Being backstage is always a trip, as you see the deities on stage as the humans they really are. Harrison Stafford, the group’s confident and forthright lead singer, nodded hello before I even introduced myself, and we chatted easily for a few minutes before I sat down for an actual interview. On record, he sounds like a 60-year-old Jamaican man who’s been hitting the chalice since age three. In person his patois is subdued; you can immediately landmark his accent as Rastafied Northern Californian. There are few bands that I would imagine could seriously pull off an entire hour of Bob Marley songs (this show was part of the group’s annual tribute series), yet they had just enough Nesta and just enough Groundation to make it unique and sonically incredible. The only tragedy of the evening is that Afrocubism was simultaneously playing across town, and given that Casablanca traffic is somewhat like Soho on a Saturday night, though with absolutely no regard for things like traffic lights or pedestrians, I had to choose my venues smartly. By the time 1:15 am rolled around, I was not upset by my decision.

It may have taken a savvy business mind 62 years to think of it, yet we had no qualms with eating at Rick’s Café on Friday afternoon. Having spent an entire morning shooting video and photos in the souk, as well as being handily accosted by a group of Berber men trying to sell carpets — if this were my first time, I might have been taken in by their undeniable charms — Paul and I met up with the crew at Rick’s, which opened up in 2004 and plays Casablanca on loop in the upstairs bar. It was here that I got to sit with the aforementioned Oum for a chat (the subject of another article). After spending a few challenging minutes explaining to the waiter that no chicken is not vegetarian, no fish is not vegetarian, no not even shrimp, I had a wonderful plate of vegetables and pasta that was really an assortment of whatever non-meat offerings they already had on the menu.

That night the venue choice was easy: Scène Rachidi. I’ve been a fan of the South African hip-hop band, Tumi and the Volume, for years. I had not planned an interview ahead of time. Walking into the backstage area, the press liaison asked if we wanted to talk to Tumi. My compatriot at the moment, Jet’s Miki Turner, said yes, and I was thankful that my iPhone is also a voice recorder. Tumi has a sharp intellectual slant tempered by a commendable ability to write outstanding hooks; during his show, he had no problem leading thousands of Moroccan into call-and-response vocal parts. Speaking of hooks, I was the first time I heard ‘Floor’ and ‘Bus Stop Confessions’ from Tumi and the Volume. The band’s latest, Pick a Dream, forgoes much of the poetry for songwriting, which is a marker of the band’s natural progression. Turning around in the photo pit to watch hundreds of teens pressed against the gate yelling ‘I can’t decide if it’s the money,’ while Tumi replied ‘that got the people out of the control,’ is an image that will not be quickly forgotten.

Moroccan concert security is appreciatively lax. Guards do their job with a smile, firm and not obnoxious, traits rare at American concerts. I’ve been manhandled in the photo area simply for being a photographer. In Morocco, guards are too busy singing along to pay too much attention to what I’m doing. So when the enormously popular Gnawa musician Maâlem Mahmoud Guinea and his outfit of young acolytes were leaving their tent, I decided to trail them through the side-of-stage corridor, up the ramp and onto the stage. Instead of cutting me off, the head security guard showed me a good spot to stand. This is something that would have gotten me a fist and/or elbow and an ejection from most any American venue. Maâlem is what happens when you give Jimmy Page a sintir and hand qaraqib to six John Bonhams. Gnawa music is the trance-inducing folk sound of Morocco, rightfully considered one of the harbingers of American blues. When two-dozen military guards poured into the crowd as spectators alongside the thousands of youthful fans, I knew this music truly cuts across any boundaries in Morocco.

Saturday night was going to be a challenge. While I had to pass through two extra layers of security to get to 50′s backstage area, I still never once received an evil glare. Earlier that day with a member of 50′s management was another story, as my questioning of why journalists were only ‘allowed’ to ask the emcee certain questions was met with immediate confrontation, until he found out I was interviewing him for an edition of Rolling Stone. This did not bode badly for 50, whom I found honest and eloquent. Sure, he hyped himself (‘I’m one of the few artists who can afford to live that lifestyle [portrayed in hip-hop videos]‘), but I suppose if you sell 12 million copies of your debut, you can afford to be. I only was able to catch three of his live songs before heading to once again to Scène Rachidi to check out Oum. In true American rap fashion, he went on a half-hour late (his crew was setting up DJ equipment 15 minutes after start time). As for those three songs, however, I knew why 60 or 100 or 200 thousand people showed up. Hip-hop writer Shaheem Reid, who was in 50′s van, later told me that some 5,000 kids would not let the entourage leave. One teen threw himself onto the van, screaming ’50 Cent is my life!’ According to a member of 50′s crew on the flight back to New York, it was the second craziest show of his career. Angola still held the top spot.

It was fitting to conclude my journey to Casablanca watching Oum present songs from her upcoming album, Sweerty, which includes an immigration-themed song with Brooklyn-based Ghana rapper Blitz the Ambassador that is currently blowing up Moroccan radio. Oum’s self-produced debut, Lik’Oum, has garnered her major accolades as an Arabic visionary (and over 67,000 Facebook fans). You can hear her influences in her music, from Billie Holiday and Erykah Badu to Moroccan great Malouma Mint El Maidah (whose album, Nour, has spent much time in my iPod) and the late South African legend, Miriam Makeba. Even after being nearly assaulted for my press badge in the parking lot behind 50′s stage, we were able to catch the last four songs of Oum’s performance. The stark contrast between his and her crowd was instantly apparent. It was the difference between chewing a bundle of khat and indulging in the silky strains of strong Moroccan hashish. The latter is a fitting metaphor for the jazz-inflected strains of Oum’s music, the singer that night brightly adorned in a yellow Badu headwrap and dress, a splash of orange tastefully circling the collar. Her voice draws you in, her ease and comfort on stage makes it hard to look away. I became an instant fan.

In this mellow mood I reflected on the whirlwind three days in Casablanca. After the set a local journalist packed a heady mix of hash and tobacco, a European habit that I never quite understood. The rough leaf scratched the back of my untrained throat — sometimes you take the sweet with a tinge of sour. This truism applies to people as well as nations. Coming from a country experiencing some of the bitterest social and political posturing in American history, I lavished in the sweet of a Morocco that is comfortable with correcting stupid mistakes, eerily similar to problems that our leaders can’t stop creating. These issues have to do with listening to the people, opening up to the world outside while solidifying internal strengths. No land ever was or will be an Eden, but Morocco is doing a damn fine job at making its case.

There is much irony in this statement. When you hear the opening “Espirita” by a group of 20-some Italian 20-somethings basing their music on the traditional banda music of Sicily, the unique sound of Banda Ionica—as well as a number of incredible groups on the first edition of Bucovina Club—engage and invade your auditory senses with some of the most interesting rhythms and melodies on the planet. Now as much an institution as a CD, Shantel’s famed Bucovina Club nights have launched from his Frankfurt base to the far reaches of Europe. Yet upon the first outing, which featured a mind-blowing cast including Taraf de Haidouks, Fanfare Ciocarlia, Goran Bregovic, Gogol Bordello and Kocani Orkestar, it was an unconvincing sale. Indeed, the battle is far from over.

Shantel started creating a turntablism career in the ’90s dropping a more expectable soul, house and jazzy cuts indicative of open-minded heads and hips. He was long aware of the regional musics of Southeastern Europe, and carried around vinyl for kicks. One evening while performing at a fashion show in Paris, one filled with “all this attitude, this coolness, this stylish whatever,” he decided to test a hypothesis. While usually relegated to ceremonies, Shantel pulled Macedonian wedding music from his bag of tricks. The tunes, heavy on brass and Turkish percussion, were considered dance music, albeit in a much different setting than fashion gatherings and discothèques. “The music changed totally the attitude of the night. It opened a strong emotional area, with all those clichés of people dancing on the tables.”

Shortly afterwards he was throwing down at a photo festival in Houston, Texas, and a similar trend manifested. It was a quick and, as it turns out, lasting love affair. The music of Romania, Macedonia, Hungary and Serbia has always worked amazingly well to get a dance floor cracking…when performed live, that is. On record, as Shantel points out, most albums retain a “world music” feel more appropriate for the ears of ethnomusicologists and not club kids fiending for a fix. Shantel took it upon himself to disprove the myth. Nearly four years after the release of Bucovina Club, he has seen the release of a second edition, numerous gigs in production with up-and-coming acts like Mahala Rai Banda, and the launch of his first solo effort, the excellent and adventurous Disko Partizani.

“It was a kind of explosion,” he says from his home in Frankfurt. “These elements, these melodies and rhythms and character and harmony, they are something you have to create out of. It was quite hard to find good recordings of the ideas I had in those days. The problem was all these recordings sounded a bit flat. I missed the bass, and the bottom, which I found had to be upgraded. I found myself immediately in a production situation.”

The situation was not a bad one, proving most fruitful to both his career and the direction of Eastern European folk music. Shantel began hanging around the style’s legends, refining and remixing their soulful creations with an understanding of what club-going audiences crave. He created a niche where none existed. While in America Balkan sounds continue to hover on the fringe, Shantel is leading his European adventure in the re-creation of a music endowed with a long history of fusion and cultural assimilation. Originally military music connecting the political paths of Eastern and Western explorers (and exploiters), the yoking of Middle Eastern percussion with loud, blaring brass and, for bands like Taraf de Haidouks, violins and cimbaloms, helped create a distinct sound where the low end is driven by tubas and horns create the rhythm. In the context of gin-inspired dance houses and festive weddings, this is some of the most danceable music imaginable. Enter Shantel and ProTools and a new era in the replication and distribution, as well as cultural understanding, is born.

Shantel’s own knowledge of the importance and subtleties of these music forms proves equally commendable. He knew that to raise ears “it was not necessary to do all these crazy remixes, to beat a sample beat and bass line.” He sounds ecstatic when explaining that Marko Markovic, son of legendary Serbian trumpet player Boban, has included some of his compositions on his latest recording. It’s strong validation for Shantel. Sometimes criticized for splicing and dicing the Balkan genre into computer files, Shantel has taken extreme caution to avoid any such possibilities. When working on his first solo outing, this was of top concern.

“It was very important to properly produce the brass section,” he says of Disko Partizani. “It’s a very important element of this sound that there is a tradition in playing the melody. It’s not something that you can just write down as notes. It needs this kind of attitude while playing. The problem always when you are remixing is that you have to edit, and you have to edit brass on the beat, and this is something I didn’t want at all. All the drums and grooves were recorded, and the brass came on top of it; it was much more into the groove, but also had the chance to be colorful. This combination brings you immediately to the dance floor.”

I can personally vouch for this success. Turned onto Shantel’s work from the Six Degrees-licensed Electric Gypsyland compilation in 2005—the first wave of this sound breaking to American audiences—Shantel’s remix of Taraf de Haidouks’ “Carolina” was on my regular rotation during DJ sets. The song never failed to move the dance floor, and when that epic guitar line signaled the beginning, cheers would commence. It is such a unique and inspiring take on what was such a different song (listen to the original on the first Bucovina Club), that when the bottom dropped in, shouting seemed an automatic reaction.

Every theory is only validated by repetition, and the more times I played it, the more this occurrence became fact. I’ll never forget DJing to 2,200 people waiting for Jamiroquai and watching the effects of this particular song. The folk music of Romania left a tremendous imprint on a completely unsuspecting crowd, something Shantel’s career is defined by.

With Disko Partizani that crowd continues to grow. Not wanting to repeat himself with a third edition of Bucovina, he accomplished the most daunting task imaginable in this genre: making an accessible pop record with tubas, trumpets and dumbeks. Once again he has succeeded. Describing the process of production to be “like a movie”, the entire album plays out like a soundtrack to a life lived well. His concern for the vanishing traditional music of the Balkans created an emotional response that hits the hips and heart hard. And our response remains among the greatest of human pleasures: to dance.

When Americans reflect on Morocco in 2011, the initial image brought to mind will most likely fall on April 28, when 16 people were killed in Marrakech during a bombing at the touristy Argana Café. Reports of Al Qaeda were invoked in this usually stable country, and though having denied any involvement, Islamic terror reigned once again during the American 24-hour news cycle. It’s the sad reality of a predatory media environment that covers almost exclusively messages of doom and destruction while generally ignoring great strides forward. One of the main dangers of this mental association game — Islamic country=terrorism — is that when amazing displays of humanity emerge, they fall on deaf ears.

Currently celebrating the tenth anniversary of the momentous Mawazine Festival in the capital city of Rabat, in which two million people converge to celebrate indigenous Moroccan music (such as Gnawa, Berber and Sahawari), Arab pop, and a broad swath of sounds from all over Africa, Asia, Europe and America, Morocco has plenty to teach the Muslim world, as well as America and our current relationship with the arts. The small country in North Africa not only avoided the Arab Spring (outside of a few regional protests), but may also prove to be a blueprint for the future of the Islamic world.

Most festival officials and random Moroccans that I met while spending four days covering Mawazine this week referenced the forward thinking policies of King Mohammed VI as an explanation as to why the country remained relatively quiet during this heated season of revolts and unrest. After assuming this role in 1999, following the death of his father, at the young age of 36, Mohammed’s tenure has included a series of rewritten laws that promote gender and social equality. He has also ramped up his nation’s economy (I was told of 5% annual growth) with a strong emphasis on infrastructure. When protesters peacefully crowded around Parliament in February (an elected body that assumes a good deal of power) and demanded constitutional changes, the king declared he would concede to such amendments, including limitations to his own power. Egyptian and Libyan leaders have much to learn from such an attitude. The changes might not be fast enough for some, but they are being set into motion without bombs or armies.

Of equal importance to social issues is the emphasis Moroccans have placed on promoting and spreading the arts. Festival directors understand the two go hand-in-hand. Spread over ten days and eight stages, Mawazine is a juggernaut of a celebration of diversity and musicality. Abbas Azzouzi, director of the Association of Maroc-Cultures, told me there were at least 50 national festivals held in Morocco every year. Foreigners are familiar with the epic Sacred Music Festival held every June in Fes, as well as the roots-driven Gnawa Festival in Essaouira a few weeks later. Mawazine, as large as (though more spread out than) Fes, which this year featured international artists such as Shakira, Kanye West and Quincy Jones, is not yet name-checked by hip wanderers — the exact reason for the outreach to journalists to hop across the pond from America. While tourism is the second largest economic driver in Morocco (behind phosphates, in front of remittances and agriculture), most travelers stick to the exotic spa promises of Casablanca and Marrakech, which is like going to Cancun and saying you’ve been to Mexico.

The general association that some Arabs make between Morocco and California is fitting: it lies on the continent’s west coast and has been a destination for backpackers since Paul Bowles invited Beatniks over to smoke powerful hashish and drink thé de menthe in the souk. Muslims sometimes roll their eyes when conversation turns to Moroccans, the way you do when gossiping about that wayward cousin who still lives in his parent’s basement playing Xbox and trying to secure patents on machines that reduce the toxicity of marijuana smoke. And then that cousin has a breakthrough that blows your doubting mind wide open, which is why it should not surprise us that Morocco might be in possession of one of the most important keys for both promoting cultural variety within its borders and showing a skeptical America that Islam has plenty to teach about communicating with foreign nations and accepting foreign ideas. It all begins with the emphasis they are placing on music, cinema, painting and photography, displaying local artists and importing international sounds and sights.

In a geographical region dominated by youth movements, Morocco seemed prime for revolution. Flanked by Algeria and close to Tunisia, Libya and Egypt — areas defined by youthful unrest — from my perception teenagers in Rabat and Fes seem pretty free being themselves. Azzouzi mentioned that 60% of the population is under the age of 25. He said that having a relatively young leader in a recently changed administration helped stave off serious threats of revolt. Think of the unswerving decades-long reigns of men like Mubarak and Gaddafi and it’s easy to understand how frustrations collect and boil over. This line of thinking is unbroken between social policy and artistic integrity. Last year, when Elton John was announced as one of Mawazine’s headliners, a minor controversy arose when fundamentalist Muslim voices demanded that an openly homosexual man not be allowed to perform. Mohammed VI stood by John, stating that his sexual orientation had nothing to do with his artistry or importance in spreading diversity.

In fact, ‘diversity’ was the word I heard most when chatting with festival directors. They assured me that it’s the raison d’être of all of Morocco’s festivals. They were not lying, a fact that was verified while I watched the tens of thousands of people in each crowd that I witnessed. Teens sang along to (or made up their own versions of) Syrian chants by Mayada Al Hanaoui, clapped in rhythm to Majid Bekkas’s Gnawa fusion, pumped fists of appreciation when Malian hero Salif Keita performed his classic tale of agriculture, and climbed over each other’s backs in sonic ecstasy when Saharawi divas Saida Charaf and Rachida Talal took stage in front of their orchestras. This itself is an important sign of cultural appreciation. The Saharawi live in Western Sahara, a small southern region that remains one of Earth’s few remaining contested lands. The Moroccan government claims a sizable portion as its own, though surrounding countries do not recognize this claim. The indigenous inhabitants, mostly of mixed Arab and Berber blood, can be fierce fighters when their independence is contested, much like the Saharan Tuareg to the east. Borders did not stop an incredible amount of Moroccan youth knowing every word to the Saharawi songs. Despite extra security at this show, there was no sign of violence anywhere.

Attending concerts is one thing, experiencing the city quite another. Journeying through Rabat’s souks, I arrived at the ocean to find thousands of teens kicking soccer balls and wrestling on the beach. In one area roughly 40 boys and girls circled a bendir player keeping a simple beat. They clapped their hands and chanted in Arabic, while those in center danced in gyrating, circular motions. It was sexual without being seedy. The ritual performed on a hot afternoon was effectively what teens comfortable with their bodies (and learning how to use them) do around one another. This generational shift has occurred over the past decade, Mawazine press director Marcy DePina informed me. Even just three years ago, while wandering Fes’s medina, I noticed a certain distance between boys and girls, staring and flirting with little actual contact. That scene reminded me of those god-awful chaperoned dances in junior high where everyone stood around waiting for one brave soul to break the invisible boundary of the basketball court and ask a girl to dance. Three years later you’re bumping and grinding in a dark basement after your friend’s parents believed him when he said he wouldn’t have a party while they went to Wildwood for a long weekend.

Not to trivialize the matter, but let’s face it: being free to be human is of dire importance to social wellbeing. While I personally am stared at in Morocco — I was told that having tattoos means you either spent time in jail or are in the mafia — I have never felt threatened. I’ve had scarier moments in Brooklyn than anywhere abroad. When I pulled out my camera to capture an image of a spice market in Salé’s souk, three teens yelled at me to take their picture. After the shot, they asked me to put it on Facebook. This kind of interaction took place daily. I’m not glorifying the role of the tourist, but it is important to note that I rarely if ever see these types of events in New York City. Maybe I’m blind to it being an inhabitant of this city, but then again millions of Americans are blind to the general workings of a Muslim society. And while my experiences are relegated to two trips to Morocco thus far, both have been incredible and inspiring in many senses of those words, with nothing that has to do with the overpriced patterned tiles, expensive leather poofs and “exotic” lemon preserves that I find in Chelsea markets and Soho boutiques.

Sharing and promoting the arts is crucial in societies that express the desire to evolve and flourish. While Mawazine is mostly privately funded, it is heavily promoted by the government. Contrast that to American politicians refusing to end oil subsidies or raise taxes on millionaires while simultaneously casting NPR as the devil and the NEA and NEH as unnecessary expenditures, and you get a clear idea of where we are as a nation. Art is oftentimes a reflection of the culture that creates it. Peel back the layers of gloss and sheen that dominate American pop music and you’ll find many levels of frustration in our independent arts. While initiatives like Kickstarter have been a blessing, major media companies rarely support festivals in the way being done throughout Morocco, with minimum intrusiveness and complete faith in the directors. (Azzouzi told me that corporate sponsors have absolutely no say in programming.) America has long been rich in diversity. I only hope that we can celebrate it on the levels that others are actively pursuing today.

String quartet Brooklyn Rider pulls from one of his lesser known cinematic works, Bent, a beloved theatrical piece focused on three homosexual men fighting persecution in pre-Nazi Germany turned into a film in 1997.

Opening disc one of the double-album, Brooklyn Rider Plays Philips Glass (Orange Mountain Music), the eight movements are exquisitely rendered by the two-violin/viola/cello group that initially made its mark on the gorgeous 2008 collaboration with Iran kamancheh master, Kayhan Kalhor, Silent City.

The quartet follows with six pieces from “String Quartet No. 3,” originally written for the Kronos Quartet for the 1985 film Mishima. Based on the life of the Japanese Nobel Prize author Yukio Mishima, Brooklyn Rider’s interpretation of Glass’s tense, melancholic vision (Mishima committed ritual suicide by sticking a sword in his stomach in speaking out against his government) is a cathartic and delicate masterpiece. The group’s work on two chamber pieces also composed for Kronos, “String Quartet No. 4″ and “String Quartet No. 5,” is equally delightful. Once again, these four young musicians are proving themselves to be among the most fearless in the classical world today.

I’ve talked with Brooklyn Rider violinist Johnny Gandelsman on a few occasions. He is not confined to classical music; his tastes are rather broad, which helps explain his quartet’s hunger for experimentation. Gandelsman is also acutely aware of the necessity of grassroots promotion and community support. He started In A Circle Records to keep fellow musicians playing and producing, releasing the exceptional Silk Road Ensemble album, Off the Map, which received a Grammy nomination in the tellingly titled Classical Crossover category.

His latest release is by solo guitarist Jon Mendle, L’Infidele. The subtitle, “18th century music played on 11-string Archguitar,” tells you this is not your ordinary acoustic music. The 12 songs come from three composers — Adam Falckenhagen, Carl Philip Emanuel Bach and Sylvius Leopold Weiss, whose “Entrée” you can watch below. Suffice it to say, the entire album is as stunning and textured as this performance.

From the classical world of cinema and performance, we travel a half-day by airplane to a completely other form of movie music: Bollywood. Today associated with flashy pussycat dolls and pimped-up pop stars, there is still a strong connection to roots music in the film industry. The two-disc collection, Sufis at the Cinema (Times Square Records), covers the past 60 years with a healthy emphasis on qawwali, the focal and vocal sound of Sufi culture.

Mohd Rafi, most famous for his ’70s era funk-drenched Bollwyood sound, is fascinating alongside Balbir on 1958′s, “Aaj Kyon Humse Parda Hai.” There is a strong distinction between devotional qawwali, and the mainstream-oriented filmi version, which you can hear on the dramatic but amazing contribution by Lata Mangeshkar on 1960′s “Teri Mehfil Mein Kismat Azmakar” (which you can watch below).

Undoubtedly, the most famous Sufi name on the planet, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, makes three appearances on this 25-track collection. “Haq Ali” is a shortened qawwali, though true to traditional form the song features only vocals, handclaps, harmonium and tablas. Ali Khan is pure fire on this version, from the 1981 film Nakhuda. When he returns in the late ’90s, two songs recorded shortly before his death are the side of Nusrat you don’t need to hear. His collaborations with the likes of Michael Brook and Eddie Vedder were exceptional ambassadorial fusions with masterful artists; this electro-Indian sound is the product of a direction that Bollywood didn’t need to go, but did.

Fortunately, this compilation ends in the 2000s, and both tracks by the Wadali Brothers are solid (albeit “Darda Marya” is a bit overdramatic). Nusrat’s nephew, Rahat, who has scored big in the film industry lately, closes this fine collection with the gentler, ballad side of qawwali, on “Mann Ki Lagan” and “Jiya Dhadak Dhadak Jaye.” These do not represent Rahat’s finest musical moments either, but what can we expect from the movies? They were never intended to be real life, and when dealing with the enormous budgets and over-the-top story lines of Bollywood, we can’t expect them to be. Disc One is a classic; on Two, pick and choose.

Bollywood may be India’s biggest musical export these days, but the classical tradition is still going strong, especially when the land’s premier artists seek new forms of collaboration. For example, consider Scotland: It is not surprising to learn that Scottish Chamber Orchestra conductor David Murphy is a huge fan of Ravi Shankar, given his recent work with master sarod player Amjad Ali Khan.

On Samaagam (World Village), the two men have created a masterful work akin to Pandit Shankar’s work alongside Philip Glass and Yehudi Menuhin. Not that this new recording is sonically similar to those exceptional records; the comparison lies in the idea of weaving Indian and Western classical music together, which Ali Khan and Murphy have nailed on this 16-track album.

The first three songs are shortened versions of traditionally played ragas, including a gorgeous rendition of the popular “Bhairavi,” as well as the well-known “Bhupali.” Twenty-three minutes in begins the thirteen movements of “Samaagam,” where Ali Khan delicately blends his sarod into a rapturous serenade of strings. Murphy has taken close notes at what to do when bringing these cultures together; in the end, all the musicians have together created a record of great value and beauty.

Which is why international music is so crucial in the modern, interconnected world. Let’s begin with Indonesia. What you first learn about this 17k+ chain of islands in Southeast Asia is that it houses the planet’s largest population of Muslims. While this might not stop us from eyeing the “exotic” coffee beans produced in its tropical climate, the biggest news stories usually revolve around the turbulent political — and inevitably religious — climate. While politics affects the nation’s 238 million people, music is what actually offers us a glimpse into their soul.

When I was born in 1975, the music world was ruled by Led Zeppelin, Stevie Wonder, Little Feat, the various tentacles of the Beatles and increasingly (and to my ears, unfortunately), the burgeoning sound of synthesizer-fueled disco. World music meant, well, not much as the term wouldn’t be coined for nearly a decade, but in a nutshell, anything that landed on a Channel 13 nature documentary. Yet across this shrinking planet, those very rock and funk legends we were championing were influencing artists. First stop: Indonesia.

Titled Those Shocking, Shaking Days: Indonesia Hard, Psychedelic, Progressive Rock And Funk 1970-1978 (Now-Again Records, March 14), this forthcoming 20-track retrospective sounds like lo-fi rock that could have emerged on American shores. “Psychedelic” is an understatement. The guitars, harmonicas and keyboards that color these tracks are unapologetically spacey. Like the American players that inspired these Indonesians — especially men like Bill Withers and John Lennon — the tone is entirely political, which is why many of these songs are sung in English. It was easier to slip a message by Suharto’s “New Order” censors in a foreign language. Those crooned in Indonesian rock equally hard, but I’m guessing (or at least I’m told in the extensive liner notes) that they were toned down. Even though the rising popularity of the pop-focused Dangdut held the populace’s attention, rock music was potent and influential. Ears were listening.

While spinning these songs three decades later, we can imagine the bell-bottomed, long-haired men idolizing the rock legends oceans away. While a digital music junkie, this is one album I highly recommend physically buying. The liner notes are substantial and graphic — the visual effect is stunning. Most bands look like bad outtakes from the musical Hair. Flute players in forests, ill-fitting suits worn in front of Marshall stacks, pastel button downs and large dogs on flimsy leashes are represented. My favorite track, “Shake Me,” is by possibly the only band ever named after the leader singer’s pharmacy. AKA is the acronym for Apotik Kali Asin (Kali Asin Pharmacy). At the outset of the song, Ucok Harahap ironically asks his “boys” if they like LSD, “glass” and what sounds like “muffin.” (You tell me, listening below) Then in his pigeon he asks if they like “stone.” They emphatically scream “No!” perhaps as in “no censor here.” Then he asks if they like sex. You can guess the reply. The James Brown beat that drops is a monster.

The liner notes that arrive with the equally sensational Psych Funk Sa-Re-Ga! Seminar: Aesthetic Expressions of Psychedelic Funk Music in India 1970-1983 (World Psychedelic Funk Classics) are just as worthwhile. The album covers, even better. In fact, the best vinyl cover I’ve ever seen might be German saxophonist’s Klaus Doldinger’s Valentim Mehler’s Herbsplatte ’69. The trio’s heavy-footed Krautrock drumbeat was met by a winsome sitar, earning it a place on this compilation of obscurities four decades later. On the cover, Lothar Meid is holding a bow over his stand-up bass while smoking a pipe in a fur cap; drummer Wolfgang Paap is interviewing a pig; Doldinger is shoved in the back of a winter forest, smoking or talking into the head of a vacuum. I only wish I could have bore witness to the planning of this epic photo shoot. There might be plenty of Germanic symbolism embedded in this surreal landscape, but that would require having any clue what Germans are talking about, which I clearly do not, even if some of my ancestors were born there.

Most of the songs here are played by actual Indian musicians. Four by late composer RD Burman are especially noteworthy. He is perhaps the most famous of this lot, for good reason. No Bollywood producer embraced psychedelica as he. A more famous cut, “Lekar Ham Diwana Dil,” features playback extraordinaire Asha Bhosle and Kishore Kumar. Efforts like the Bond spy flick-themed “Everybody Dance With Me” by the ever-outlandish Bappi Lahari and Kalyanji Anandji’s saxophone-driven “Somebody to Love” give this comp sturdy legs to stand on. This is the crazier side of Bollywood, one I sometimes wish the genre would return to (though it has made strides in recent electronica-based scores).

I didn’t get the whole package for The Sound of Siam: Leftfield Luk Thung, Jazz and Molam from Thailand 1964 -1975 (Soundway Records), so I can’t comment on hairdos, boots or speaking swing. They must be thorough, though; the label sent me a Word document that reveals plenty. Of the three comps described here, this is by far the most fluid and integrated, with one clear sonic line decorating these 19 songs. It’s easy to get sucked in right away with the first two tracks, both by Chaweewan Dumnern, considered the “queen of molam.” A layman’s folk style traditionally backed by zithers, fiddles and flutes, Dumnern was part of a wave popularizing the sung poetry with guitars, bass and drums. This was pop music two generations back, and much more rewarding than the tinny orchestrations of dance music that calls itself Thai pop today. I’d rather singers emulate Robert Plant and Janis Joplin than Lady Gaga any day.

While the vocal tracks are pretty much all ingenious, my favorite is the Petch Phin Thong Band’s “Soul Lam Plearn,” which you can listen to below. Started by phin (three-stringed, pear-shaped lute) player and rickshaw driver Noppadol Duangporn, he wanted to revive the music of his native Isan. He started his own label and recreated his indigenous sound, much like the way Horsemouth was doing in the epitome of ’70s reggae, Rockers. His perseverance paid off, however delayed, though he did reach fame in Thailand when his records dropped. Four decades later, Duangporn, like many of his contemporaries, have gone global, thanks to the help of studious ears digging through rare vinyl to highlight important social and musical periods of our recent past–nothing less than a feat in the politically and personally fickle and rapidly changing world of today.