M.I.A.
Kala
(Interscope Records)
M.I.A. (Maya Arulpragasam) fled Sri Lanka with her family at age 11, and, at 28, has found her way onto the dance charts. Kala, her sophomore album (whose Technicolor insert looks like a Tokyo Times Square), injects Third World rhythms and perceptions into the typically European realm of dance-electronica, though she does rap in a unique sort of Sino-British accent. String samples and '70s disco beats recall the Scissor Sisters; there are nods to punk icons like Jonathan Richman and The Pixies, but the overall recipe simmers somewhere between Peaches and Cibo Matto. The track "Paper Planes" is reminiscent of 1980s synth-pop a la Nina Hagen or Heroes-era Bowie, but mixes in African beats and other textures. Analysis: Hello Kitty with an Uzi.
—Tom Sturm
Oliver Mtukudzi
Tsimba itsoka
(Heads Up)
Thomas Mapfumo is called the "lion of Zimbabwe," but Oliver Mtukudzi prefers to purr rather than roar. Tsimba itsoka, Shona for "no foot, no footprint," is emblematic of the light and bright way in which Mtukudzi glides across the musical terrain. Shona speakers might see "Kuizpedza" as the album's signature theme; in it, Mtukudzi declares negative emotions a waste of time. One remedy, clearly, is dance. Mtukudzi's smooth vocals are often the call to female response singing which, in turn, gives way to infectious instrumental cadences that invite swaying and swirling. Aside from a few hints of free-form jazz, there's nothing new here, and one could accuse Mtukudzi of mailing in his performance, but there's much to commend his gentle step.
—Rob Weir
Every Time I Die
The Big Dirty
(Ferret Music)
Holy crap! I had never heard of these guys when I popped their disc into my innocent desktop PC, and now I feel like I need to call a haz-mat team to disinfect my poor, violated machine. These Buffalo-based aural rapists describe their origin as the moment when "Sam Elliot put out his cigarette in Robert Plant's blood." Though I might modify this claim by changing "Sam Elliot" to "Sam Kinneson" (the singer does more screaming than singing in any melodic sense), I can't argue with the band's incredibly sick rhythm section, the thick, compressed guitars, and the record's top-notch metal production value. These guys probably eat Wolfmother or Priestess albums for tea-time snacks, and I doubt they even spit out the bones.
—Tom Sturm
Mike Brosnan
Beneath Southland Skies
(Flying Kiwi Music)
Kiwis joke about being "world famous in New Zealand." And Mike Brosnan has four previous albums to his credit that few have heard, which explains why he's moved to Germany, hangs out in Nashville, packages himself as an "Americana/roots" performer and touts comparisons to Ry Cooder. The latter claim is ballyhoo, but Brosnan is worth a serious listen. Beneath Southland Skies showcases his songwriting, and Brosnan's got the Americana formula of love, heartbreak, longing and life on the road down pat. He also writes memorable musical hooks and sings in a voice that's simultaneously pleasing and ever-so-slightly weathered. Brosnan tosses off the occasional crunching chord to keep us off balance, but this is mainly a smart blend of country, pop and folk.
—Rob Weir
