The law of diminishing returns (returns)....
I chose each track as three brilliant examples of interplay between voice and simple instrumentation, each one becoming progressively sparser: from kamalengoni/ violin/ voice to (similar to kamalengoni) nyatiti/ voice to a cappella voice. Each is a perfect example of how beauty can be taken from the simplicity of arrangement. 'Kayi Ni Wura' is a song from the Wassoulou tradition, an introductory song to placate djinn spirits before an evening's entertainment. Yet what it introduces- a radical feminist step into the heart wassoulou tradition- is anything but: Oumou's recording of 'Kayi ni Wura' thus challenges her audience to view her subsequent statements and political intent as much as part of her role as kono (social commentator) as, say, a traditional hunters' song would be. In effect, she uses it to say: this is what I have to do; she backs thuis with an incredibly serene yet take-no-prisoners vocal which soars, slides in descending runs (mimicking the violin- thus perhaps suggesting the parity between her and her [male] instrumentalists, portending her subsequent feminist songs), throws question phrases at her chorus, as if challenging them (and us) to share her philosophies...it also happens to be fantastically danceable, an invocation to enjoy her following upheaval of the oppressive gende! r relationships of the society she has grown up in. 'Bolo Bolo' is likewise from tradition, this an invocation to Shiva, set against the revelatory clarity of Ayub Ogada's nyatiti- what initially strikes as the most simplistic track on Salt Rain likewise takes new ground when we consider its positioning and vocal style. Chiefly among the latter is Susheela's stress on the phrase 'Ne noota me/ Ghanga dharill' (literally 'the Ganges flows from his beard'), bubbling, rising liquidly into a repeated set of hawkish, desperate repetitions of the name Shiva. This, at this time, reminded me incredibly of central India's drought problems caused by Coca-Cola bottling plants (i.e. the plants, sourcing from groundwater, caused the water table of some areas to drop shockingly leading to famine): placed between a languid version of 'Trust In Me' (indicating how traditional Indian culture is no longer perceived by the West, instead being subsumed by colonialist, Jungle book-esque pastiches) and her self-penned title track (exploring how so ! many people remain silent in the face of oppression) it seems to draw parallels between traditional village songs of India and the pressures that it, as a modern nation, is willingly placing itself under from more economically influential countries. And then (again) Ogada's nyatiti: I know I mentioned it before, but the Luo-speaking area of Kenya is experiencing much the same pressure over groundwater supplies, and the gentle liquidity of his playing.... 'Farewell Song' is an invocation to the audience, saying: go from me; go away happily. Leave me alone here. Let me alone. Bella Nosyreva's voice yearns, moans within a narrow, seemingly artificially constricted vocal range- as if she is subliminally trying to convey that she does not really mean tghis, but feels that for the good of the audience she must let them leave. This incredible, sparsely melancholic ambiguity is vocally stunning- proof that even in the least technically interesting arrangements, something scintillating can be captured. Her two prior tracks (a calling song and a song to her dead mother) are also worth listening to...