Beseeching, heartbreaking, balladeering Thai popular song, with a new, post-war urban polish and sensibility, and measured display of western styles like jazz, tango, and rumba. Lovely stuff.

The first half of the Something Is Wrong CD set, beautifully pressed and presented, with its own twelve-inch-square booklet.

Gonzalo Benitez and Luis Alberto Valencia were kingpins of the musica nacional movement in Ecuador. Check them out on the cover, on a rooftop in Quito’s Old Town, surveying their dominion.
In 1970, when Valencia collapsed onstage during a performance of the yaravi Desesperacion — ‘My heart is already in ashes’ — and died four days later, aged 52, his coffin was carried through those city streets on the shoulders of a throng of his fans.
They began singing as a duo in their mid-teens. During twenty-eight years together they recorded more than six hundred songs, for Discos Ecuador, Nacional, Granja, Ortiz, Rondador, Onix, Fuente, Real, Tropical, Fadisa, RCA Victor — and of course CAIFE.
Their exquisitely romantic harmonising is a sublime blend of collected forbearance and abject self-annihilation, underpinned and elaborated by the heart-piercing, improvisatory guitar-playing of Bolivar Ortiz. Effectively the third member of the group. ‘El Pollo’ sets the tone and intensity for everything that follows: listen to his soloing at the start of our opener, Lamparilla.
Musically a pasillo — a cross between a Viennese waltz and the indigenous yaravi rhythm — Lamparilla draws its verses from a poem by Luz Martinez from Riobamba, written in 1918 when she was 15, under the influence of Baudelaire and Mallarme. Another pasillo here, Sombras (‘Shadows’) is one of the best-loved songs in the musica nacional canon, setting poetry about undercover sex and lost love by the Mexican poet Maria Pren, which was considered pornographic on publication in 1911. ‘When oblivion comes / I will lose you to the shadows / To the hazy gloom / Where one warm afternoon I laid bare my unbridled feelings for you / Never again will I search out your eyes / Or kiss your mouth.’
And Benitez & Valencia looked back still further, to the indigenous roots of Ecuadorian music, as the key to its future. Carnaval de Guaranda is their take on a song dating back to the era of the Mitimaes, a broad group of Bolivian tribes conquered by the Incas and displaced to Ecuador. ‘Impossible love of mine / I love you for being impossible / Who loves what is impossible / Is the truest lover.’
Fiercely beautiful, desolate music from the shadowy mists of time, the lip of oblivion, for anyone who had a heart, for anyone who ever dreamed.

Partner of the Expressions East set. Heavy vinyl, too.

An electrifying, previously unreleased studio album, recorded in 2003, this stunning solo piano suite condenses Mseleku’s visionary overstanding of South African music into a flowing, pulsing statement in six parts. With jazzwise echoes of marabi, amahubo, maskanda and Nguni song forms binding it to the deep music of Mseleku’s Zulu heritage, Beyond The Stars provides what Blue Note recording artist Nduduzo Makhathini describes in his liner notes as ‘a divine summary’ of Bheki’s life story: ‘a sonic pilgrimage from the beautiful and organic landscapes of Durban, to the vibrant energy of London and ultimately toward the inner dimensions of one’s being.’
A magnificent start by new label Tapestry Works.

The out-of-this-world recordings of Dilson de Souza, leading a kind of tropical chamber jazz on leaves from a ficus tree.
Dilson was from Barra do Pirai, in the Brazilian countryside; moving to Rio as a young man, where he worked in construction. He recorded his first record in 1954, for RCA Victor. He travelled to Quito around 1957, soon hooking up with Benitez & Valencia, who introduced him to the CAIFE label.
Dilson played the leaf open, resting on his tongue, hands free, with his mouth as the resonator. Though a leaf can also be played rolled or folded in half, this method allowed for more precision, a tethered brilliance. A picked ficus leaf stays fresh, crisp and clean-toned for around ten hours. He could play eight compositions, four at each end, before it was spent.
Biluka plays trills and vibratos effortlessly, with utterly pure pitch, acrobatically sliding into notes and changing tone on the fly. In Manuco, he leads Los Caníbales into a mysterious landscape on a rope pulled from an Andean spaghetti western, and corrals and teases them into a dialogue. A leaf, a harp, a xylophone, and a rondador — joined in Bailando Me Despido (Dancing As I Say Goodbye) by a saucy organ, doing sloshed call-and-response. In Anacu de Mi Guambra,  Biluka shows his full range of antics, hiccuping melodically over a set of magic tricks. His expressiveness was boundless.
The eucalyptus leaf is popular among Aboriginal Australians. In China, they’ve played leaves for 10,000 years. In Cambodia, people play the slek, a leaf plucked from either the sakrom or the khnoung tree. But ain’t nobody like Biluka, ever.
Astounding music.

Plenty of TKOs — the Colombian opener, for example — beautifully presented.
A moving, mind-boggling testament to Afrobeat, with shout-outs from Ghana, Trinidad, the US and elsewhere.

A new compilation of this mid-seventies Kenyan afro-rock group, crossing Purple and Floyd with Mandrill and the Ohio Players, and adding some politics and rootical folk.
‘Like a Cymande from Kenya,’ says Gilles. ‘Super fresh.’

‘Egypt’s ‘official’ popular music throughout much of the twentieth century was a complex form of art song steeped in tradition, well-loved by the middle and upper classes. The music business was highly structured and professional; centred in Cairo. However, far from the metropolis, to the north and northwest, in towns like Tanta and Alexandria and extending across the Saharan Desert to the Libyan border, a raw, hybrid shaabi/al-musiqa al-shabiya style of music was springing up, supported by small, upstart labels.
‘This compilation covers the full range of styles presented by the short-lived but fecund Bourini Records, launched in the late 1960s in Benghazi, Libya. Gobsmacking moments include Basis Rahouma’s transformation into a growling, barking man-lion, and Reem Kamal’s onwards-and-upwards hand-clapping party banger, with a grooving nihilistic dissonance reminiscent of the Velvet Underground. The thorough-going contrast with mainstream Egyptian popular music is stark in Ana Mish Hafwatak, its vocal woven deftly through a constant accordion drone, and the sparse, slow-burning lament Al Bint al Libya. Whereas the mainstream was aspirational, projecting Egyptian culture at its most refined, the performances captured by Bourini were authentic expressions of ordinary, everyday life. More than half a century old, this music has lost none of its urgency, presence, or relevance.’

From 1990 — a trio with oud, violin and percussion.

Ravishing, chilled interplay between oud, piano and accordion.

The master oudist with Jack DeJohnette, Django Bates and Dave Holland.
‘Not only one of the year’s best ECM releases; it’s a classic-in-the-making that should ultimately be considered one of the label’s very best recordings in its nearly fifty-year history’ (All About Jazz).