Esta celebración se realiza en otros pueblos del Perú, pero el valle del Mantaro es el que le brinda mayor realce al “señalacuy”, o la marcación del ganado.
La fiesta empieza el 24 en la noche. Los diferentes poblados de Huancayo se alistan desde temprano para cuando el reloj marque las 12 a.m. todo esté listo para celebrar con bombardas y buen licor el día de Santiago y el cumpleaños de los animales.
Al día siguiente, el ganado será adornado con vistosos aretes, coloridas cintas y gracioso adornos que representas las bendiciones que el apostol Santiago brinda a la comunidad. Abundancia y fertilidad. Pero, no solo estas cualidades son brindadas a los animales, encargados de colocar las señales al ganado son hombres y mujeres solteras. Vaca, para el macho; toro, para la hembra. Los niños que nazcan a los nueve meses de este rito llevarán el nombre de Santiago, el santo español.
Especialistas cuentan que estas costumbres datan de tiempos primitivos, donde las sociedades andinas para identificar a sus ayllus adornaban a sus llamas con “achalas”. Otros piensan que es una ceremonia de cortejo para los próximos matrimonios.
Por dos días la ciudad de Huancayo les brinda completa diversión. En la noche de víspera, los wuapeos de las mujeres al danzar dan un ambiente festivo y fertil. Mientras, a un extremo de la plaza, la pachamanca y el caldo de patasca se alistan para las posibles fatigas. Cuando las bandas tocan los huaylash y el popular Santiago, “la ciudad incontrastable” vibra. Animales y pobladores se unen para rendir culto a los a los Apus y al patrón Santiago que un año más les ha brindado abundancia.
The 13 or so musicians who make up the Abayomy Afrobeat Orchestra’s dizzying array of saxophones, brass, keyboard and percussion first met back in 2009 when they assembled for a gig at the inaugural Fela Day in Rio de Janeiro (an annual celebration in tribute to Nigerian Afrobeat king, Fela Kuti). United by their love for afrobeat, they decided to join forces, selecting a name that lends a clue to their convergence. Abayomy means ‘chance encounter’ in Yoruba and since this incidental meeting in Rio, the band have made it their mission to establish the legacy of Kuti and his contemporaries in Brazilian music and culture.
Their debut release, Abayomy, was recorded live in four nights back in 2012 and features hit tracks such as “Eru” and “Malunguinho”. Now the group has released their second album Abra Sua Cabeça (Open Your Mind), released early this year, with an aim, once again, of stamping their authority on Brazil’s emerging afrobeat scene.
The overarching sound from this release is the spirited horns-rich, funk-infused style we have come to expect from Abayomy. This is served from the outset as the first track, “Abra Sua Cabeça”, opens with a recording of drummer Tony Allen reminiscing over Fela Kuti (“Fela sang all, he sang everything, he sang past, present and future all at the same time…”) before heading down a road of lively polyrhythms and wind section playing call-and-response in anticipation of a wild saxophone solo.
Yet, more so on this album and in keeping with the title, the band invites its listeners to contend with an unconfined style of afrobeat formed of a mix of genres and sub-genres. With their second track “Mundo Sem Memoria”, the band successfully blend afrobeat with the hallmarks of progressive rock. A thumping bassline and striking electric guitar chords layered with short, sharp bursts on the horns form an intro that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Deep Purple album.
“Sensitiva” arrives in the middle of the release as an interlude to the energy of the other tracks. Ethereal vocals float above a samba-reggae-tinged instrumental. The tempo is reduced, the rhythms are toned down and the wind section, joined by a flute, is now purring.
Whilst “Oya Oya!” arguably has the most traditionally Latin feel to it with its salsa-fuelled rhythm sequences and periodic stabs on the horns, “Com Quem” draws on another strand of the African diaspora in Brazil; funk carioca, characterized by the archetypal percussive loop that kick starts the song and runs through out.
The band has come a long way since starting out playing Fela Kuti covers in the early days of their formation. They can now boast collaborations with several of afrobeat’s big players including Kuti’s guitarist Oghene Kogboele, Kuti’s artwork designer, Lemi Ghariokwu, as well as Tony Allen. Allen’s second inclusion on the album for the track aptly named “Tony Relax”, in which he drives the song with his seamless drumming, serves as another reminder of Abayomy’s status as a respected forerunner of Brazilian afrobeat.
Rafael Cortijo Verdejo es una de las figuras más innovadoras e importantes para la historiografía musical puertorriquena. Su ingenio marcó un hito en pleno desarrollo de la bomba y la plena, sirviendo de punta de lanza para el posterior surgimiento del sonido de la salsa. Cortijo nació el 11 de diciembre de 1928, en la calle Colón de la parada 21 de Santurce. Aprendió a dar toques de tambor en rumbas callejeras, sin realizar estudios en música. Aun así, fue un sabio de la tumbadora y desarrolló un estilo único con destrezas nunca antes escuchadas entre los músicos de la época. Innovó en la creación de su combo, introduciendo dos trompetas, dos saxofones, piano y timbales en la ejecución de bombas y plenas, pero reteniendo su sabor tradicional y su base rítmica. "Fue un científico del ritmo y un hombre lleno de ideas. Sus iniciativas (musicales) lo hicieron grande", opina Sammy Ayala, su compadre y uno de sus primeros cantantes. La proyección de su trabajo transportó nuestros ritmos nacionales fuera de los arrabales para situarlos en los mejores escenarios dentro y fuera de Puerto Rico. Sus arreglos musicales -en gran parte trabajados por Quito Vélez- no eran muy elaborados, en cambio su sonoridad devolvió a la percusión el predominio que había perdido por la fuerza que habían adquirido agrupaciones estilizadas, como la Orquesta Siboney y la de Rafael Munoz.
Rafael Cortijo constituyó la primera banda integrada por negros -rompiendo la barrera del racismo- y logró trabajar en los más prestigiosos hoteles de San Juan. Como líder de grupo, Cortijo marcó una nueva etapa de progreso para sus músicos -hasta entonces tratados con indiferencia por su extracción social y racial- e insistió en subirles el salario. Antes, cuenta Sammy Ayala, sólo se pagaba $25 por seis noches por considerarse "músicos de la calle y sin escuela". Con Cortijo llegaron a cobrar hasta $12 por baile. Su propuesta artística fue revolucionaria. Su conjunto fue toda una atracción porque sus integrantes tocaban de pie y los cantantes no paraban de bailar. En los momentos de auge del salón neoyorquino El Palladium -donde se lucía Tito Puente, Machito y sus Afro Cubans y Tito Rodríguez- Cortijo hizo vibrar la sala en cada una de sus actuaciones. A los 14 anos de edad, Rafael Cortijo tocaba congas y bongó en las orquestas de Frank Madera, Miguelito Miranda y Agustín Cohen. También transitó por el Conjunto de las Hermanas Sustache, el Grupo de Monchito Muley, la Orquesta de Parques y Recreos, la Sonora Boricua, Miguelito Miranda, Frank Madera y el Grupo de Mario Román. En 1942 se inició como músico profesional en el Conjunto Monterrey de Juan Palm ("Mentokín") y en 1954 figuró como conguero en el combo del pianista Mario Román. Ese mismo ano, Román se fue de la Isla cediéndole al músico de Santurce los derechos del grupo y su contrato en el sector la Marina de San Juan, surgiendo así Cortijo y su Combo. En 1955 integró al cantante de la Orquesta Panamericana, Ismael Rivera, para que lo acompanara en una grabación con el sello Seeco. El primer álbum fue "Cortijo y su combo: Invites you to dance", en el que aparece como vocalista Nelson Pineda cantando el tema "Zumbador". En esa producción también figura Roy Rosario, el sonero original del grupo, quien interpretó "Conocí a tu papá" y "Amárrala con cadena". Junto a ellos, Sammy Ayala e Ismael Rivera.
Freddie Gray, the twenty-five-year-old black man whose death at the hands of Baltimore police touched off last spring’s urban rebellions, was arrested and beaten simply for making eye contact and running. It was a case not so much of “wrong place, wrong time” as “wrong person, wrong world.” So many neighborhoods like Gray’s resemble the creeping dystopia of Delany’s Bellona or Prince’s Minneapolis. Even more strongly than they did thirty years ago. Their residents are treated as if their skin color makes them unworthy to move and relate to the world as they please.
At the heart of uprisings like Baltimore aren’t just the indignities committed against those like Gray but the idea that people’s environments should belong to them, and that they deserve better than blight and brutality from the state.
Reenter the Purple One. In the days since his death it has come out that he secretly gave large sums of money to the family of Trayvon Martin after he was murdered by George Zimmerman. At the Grammys two months prior to Gray’s death, he had dropped a subtle hint: “Like books and black lives, albums still matter.” A radical Prince may never have been, but he was still a black man in America.
He also, by the time of Baltimore, had come to be regarded as a progenitor of Afrofuturism in music: Sun Ra, P-Funk, Alice Coltrane, Prince. The role his songs played in reimagining the black experience had already inspired the standard-bearer of Afrofuturism, Janelle Monae, to have him guest on her landmark album The Electric Lady.
When he released “Baltimore” — a song dedicated to Gray, Michael Brown, and the protesters — it was something of a convergence. Black rebellion had infused the soul and funk of two generations before. Prince was now reviving these sounds by once again paring them down. The song uses minimal instrumentation, and listeners find themselves weaving through subtle cracks of empty space, asking where they might fit. A crying guitar line, clockwork drums, and nouveau-gospel backup vocals subtly help them find their place.
The song dropped alongside an announcement that Prince would hold a “Rally 4 Peace” concert on May 10, 2015. The concert, powerful as it may have been for those in attendance, also bore the mark of another celebrity benefit, easily integrated back into mealy-mouthed notions of “tolerance” and “can’t we all get along?” Even the notion of a concert for “peace” while young people were doing battle with police in the city itself rang of equating the violence of oppressor and oppressed.
Prince himself was far less equivocal. “The system is broken,” he said in a press release. The lyrics in “Baltimore” strike a less confrontational tone, but one that leaves very little question of sides:
Nobody got in nobody’s way So I guess you could say it was a good day Least a little better than the day in Baltimore
Does anybody hear us pray For Michael Brown or Freddie Gray? Peace is more than the absence of war
The spiritual and religious overtones are unmistakable here. So is the invitation to not just imagine something different, but to place yourself within that imagined world. It’s not the most remarkable of Prince’s songs, but it certainly holds enough in common with his signature methodology that it deserves to be remembered. It’s not something that can be reduced to funk or rock or R&B or neo-soul or any of its components. It’s various straws spun into something simply golden, ultimately human beyond restrictions.
Genres, like all boundaries, are fictions. They deserve to be erased.
You can’t deny a certain movement in electronic dance music that likes to include more soul, feeling and musicality into its recipe. Less BPM and more substance. A strange but effective counter movement to the ever euphoric American EDM-movement. Spanish producer Aitor Etxebarria and his alter ego EL_TXEF_A are experts on this territory. In the past years his acclaimed tracks and reworks gained him more and more attention. And 2012′s debut album Slow Dancing In A Burning Room was an acclaimed way of combining grooving beats with a gentle musical environment. The follow-up We Walked Home Together takes the idea one step further.
One thing becomes clear on the record: Etxebarria is not standing still and he’s certainly not interested in sticking to just one genre. We Walked Home Together takes the idea of EL_TXEF_A even further away from the dancefloor. It’s a brave and ambitious combination of slow grooving beats, down tempo, ambient-like electronic landscapes and other experiments. But just like on Slow Dancing In A Burning Room, Etxebarria managed to create a homogeneous record that is more driven by its coherent feeling than specific hits. It’s an atmosphere of melancholia and longing, that goes hand in hand with certain introspection.
One of the key factors of this construct remains the gentle piano play of the producer. Opener A Heart For Two is relaxing entrance into the world of EL_TXEF_A. The following title-track puts the piano on top of a smooth beat and combines everything with tender and almost Thom Yorke-like vocals. There’s a lot to discover on We Walked Home Together. BOARDS OF CANADA-like ambient structures (0730), bubbling electronica with cryptic spoken word messages (Every Day Is Blue Monday, a collaboration with MEGGY from Berlin-based label SUOL) and tender guitar play (You Left Us In The Physical World). A dancefloor-focussed groove comes into play from time to time but mostly remains subtle. The hypnotic Chaim Of Planet Earth marks a well-placed exception here, reminding a bit of THE FIELD.
Your first interactions with music, rifling through your stepdad’s record collection at a young age, has been spoken of a lot, but was there a point at which you decided you definitely wanted to have a career in music, and who were the biggest inspirations for you at the time?
Yes, my love for music started very early on when I was just choosing records based on interesting artwork but I didn’t actually start picking up instruments until I was 10. At first I had weird fantasies of playing at City Hall and by the time I finished school I definitely knew there was nothing else I wanted to do. When I was in my early teens, I think I was just taking the turn from ACDC to The Police and maybe Grandmaster Flash – but that’s just a quick sum up. The big moment for me in my relationship with music was really when I was younger, as you said, and discovering The Beatles. They are still a huge reference and inspiration for me.
And how did your relationship with the techno side of things come about?
It wasn’t until the late 80s, early 90s that a friend of mine started putting on acid house parties and I got sucked into the scene. It was huge. One of the really appealing things about techno was that it was so underground. People would just do records, press them up and sell them as white labels with no extra help - that was really intriguing.
From this early involvement and fascination for the techno scene, how has it changed from your perspective and how have you navigated these changes within the industry?
Well it always keeps changing. In the beginning it was an underground thing; big clubs hadn’t heard about it and it mainly happened in warehouses. It wasn’t a money thing - more of a do it yourself thing, all about the decoration and the people. But then it got super commercialized with all the sponsorship of huge events with expensive tickets. Because of this it was easy for me to drift away from the mainstream scene. From ‘93 on, every year in the German press they kept announcing the death of techno and I was pretty disillusioned with it all.
But then new trends kicked in all over again - it always goes in a cycle. England especially was a big inspiration; going out in London where the DJs were playing breakbeat, which you normally wouldn’t hear in Germany. After another dip when the UK was listening to the same boring shit as everyone else, now 10 years later there is so much happening there again. I really think it’s where all the interesting imports come from. In fact it’s always been about London and the UK.
You said earlier you were intrigued about the underground aspect of techno, but now there is so much hype around it, even the mainstream media is fascinated with ‘deep house’. How has this affected the scene?
I think when techno's popularity dipped dramatically it actually made the scene healthy again. Parties started getting smaller and it didn’t have to be DJs like Ricardo or Sven Vath for a party to take off. Now, I think it’s grown in a healthier way and all the attention it's receiving in the press is well deserved. It’s still the type of music that evolves most quickly and has the most impact, not in comparison to the superstardom of Madonna maybe, but it is cutting edge and avant-garde.
Hypnotic and delightful, good till the last drop, Souleyman's foundational music depends on repetition and primitive electronics that remind you that rhythm is really the mother of all inventions. Perhaps this release will convince the wider public that there is more in the Middle East than war.
On Wenu, Wenu, Souleyman and Sa'id take traditional Syrian folk music and run 1000 volts through it, creating an infectious style that has affectionately (and accurately) called 'Syrian Techno'. Listening to title track 'Wenu Wenu', you could almost imagine a joyous street party erupting as the pair perform - the handclap-driven percussion being evocative of a vibrant, dancing crowd, and the squiggly synth lines re-purposed from more traditional instrumentation. Indeed, Hebden's main duty as producer seems to have been to make sure the duo's live energy is preserved in these recordings, and he's succeeded admirably.
There's barely time to pause for breath after the mammoth seven minutes of the title track before 'Ya Yumma' kicks in, ramping up the album's already relentless pace even further as Sa'id outdoes himself with an outlandish synth solo. It's not until the record's mid-point that the pace drops a little, with 'Khattaba' featuring a smoother, more sultry feel and some dramatic string flourishes, as well as the record's only snatches of English - listen carefully and you can hear Souleyman namedrop Paris and London (perhaps as exotic destinations to transport his beloved to?).
Fortunately, language doesn't really seem to be a barrier here - given Souleyman's background, it'd would be safe to assume that these are all songs about love, passion and dedication, even if you don't have any sort of translation available. Indeed, Souleyman's positivity is granted additional poignancy given recent events in Syria - his music reminding us of the human side to these distant conflicts. Actually understanding the words isn't really necessary as long as you appreciate the intent behind them - for example, reading the translated lyrics in the video for 'Wenu Wenu' is useful to provide context, but trying to apply them directly to the song would simply diminish the effect. Similarly, the press release accompanying the album states that 'Mawal Jamar' is about being willing to walk over hot coals for the one you love, which provides more than enough meaning to the song's aching, impassioned vocals.
However, in Wenu Wenu the results are both surprising and enormously respectful. While its association to Four Tet is obviously going to be pushed rabidly by Western press, PR and sales, this record is entirely about the original artists. Four Tet’s production role seems to mean exactly that – studio production – and Sa’id is happily in full force alongside Souleyman, their sound now efficiently cleaned up and boosted. Four Tet carefully mixes and maximises their raucous output to levels of finesse that can easily match the polished pop from Syria’s more expensive studios, while remaining very genuine to the original music.
It’s huge fun and sounds just as big. Souleyman’s voice is as rough, earnest and wonderfully relatable as ever, a normal yet extraordinary man belting it out for all his worth. Sa’id’s instrumentals are the familiar mix of inspiring drum machine and doumbek flurries, beloved Middle Eastern keyboard staples – Muzak piano, Mediterranean parallel strings, synth brass stabs – and writhing streams of nasal, portamento leads, all effortlessly ranging from 89 to 140 bpm. Excellent business as usual then.
If Four Tet has had any input – and he may well have done – it is so fully integrated into Sa’id’s dabke style as to be unrecognisable. You could maybe point to some details: the flute samples in ‘Nahy’ may be Four Tet’s; ‘Warni Warni’’s small, acerbic zaps give an extra acid tinge; the loping cycles during the finale of ‘Yagbuni’ and the pumped up last third of ‘Wenu Wenu’ could both point towards house influence. But ultimately it’s a pointless exercise, as listening to any past Souleyman material, especially that of higher quality, will showcase all kinds of moments such as these.
It’s kind of nice to think that we’re past the point where something needs to be patronisingly sold as exotic “world music” and is instead picked up because people are blown away with the sounds – as has happened with the insanely funky keyboard-playing and hectic electronic folk grooves of Omar Souleyman’s Syrian wedding music. Given extra boost and crispness by the supportive production of Kieran ‘Four Tet’ Hebden, those grooves sound better than ever here. Mind you, it’s hard not to think of context too, and the horrors of Souleyman’s home country throw extra layers of sadness and hope into the mix. But whatever you read into it, this is powerful, living dance music, above all else.