Look, I understand. There’s already too much music around that you feel some foothold in. The hint of anthropology weirds you out; the good-for-you wrinkles your nose. You hate the term “world music,” whatever its enormous effectiveness as a marketing term (which is all it ever was to begin with). Your Caucasian uncle looks really stupid in a caftan. You can’t pronounce the names. Whatever. Because if you love screaming guitars, smoking beats, flailing horns, unhinged energy, that kind of thing, one listen to Pivi et les Baladins’ “Samba,” from 1972, and you won’t be able to pronounce anything. It’s on a new comp called Authenticité: The Syliphone Years and an older comp called Discothéque 72, where I first encountered it at the beginning of the decade. 10.0, no bullshit. For once in your life be this good to yourself, will you?
I used to sell hologram bolo ties at the Mall of America