Banning Eyre

Veloso is a bossa nova man who went psychedelic in the ’60s and then came back. There were strings and horns on one side of the stage, drums on the other. Bossas morphed into batucada (Brazilian percussion) in the manner of Veloso’s sensational new album, “Livro.” Sometimes a lilting bossa, like “Os Passistas,” would gradually bloom into rich percussion. Other times the drums would trample in, rearranging the rhythm from the root, making the gentle, romantic plucking and bowing from stage-left have to work to reassert itself. Veloso’s velvety voice mediated all the tensions with breathtaking ease. For him, there was no contradiction at all.

Veloso oldies and even a Jobim classic got similar treatment during the night of intriguing transformations. In summary, his work is an ongoing love song to the people and cultures of Brazil. Everyone connected with that vast, culturally and ethnically diverse land seems to get it. Songs from “Livro” made up less than half of the show, and often the mostly Brazilian crowd sang and danced along, especially on “Tieta do Agreste,” Veloso’s romping, lyrical theme for a popular TV series and film. On a percussion-fired song written by Veloso’s eldest son, Caetano and each of the drummers took a turn dancing in the circle, samba de roda style.

Veloso’s English stage patter was as idiosyncratic as his music, full of references to poetry and history, and leading in multiple directions at once. While not always easy to follow, Veloso was tremendously charismatic on stage. He would finish a verse, lay down his guitar and stroll to the edge of the stage to shake hands, then casually arrive back at his guitar just in time to play and sing the next verse. Although the Beacon, with a sold-out room of 1,800, is a large room, Veloso, in his best moments, made it seem like a small cafe.

This group, based around Daulne and four other female singers, now melds ancient roots with high-tech modernity. For example, the new album’s best track, “Rafiki,” sets Pygmy chants firmly into a club-ready hip-hop mix. And why not? Daulne has been spellbound by American pop ever since she moved to Brussels as a young girl; she’d learned Pygmy
singing before that in Zaire. In the new Zap Mama, nothing is too far out, and the openness pays off. “Rafiki” is as catchy a number as the group has ever recorded.

Other tracks on “A Ma Zone” offer dreamy soul balladry (“Ya Solo”) and slinky, sensual funk (“My Own Zero”). A few rev up with hyperkinetic drum ‘n’ bass grooves (“Songe,” “Call Waiting”). Daulne even samples the saxophone of Cameroon’s Manu Dibango on “Allo Allo.” The singer likes spare, muscular backing for her layered vocal arrangements, and she’s assembled a superb band, including Congolese guitar veteran Dizzy Mandjeku, and a powerful, young, female bass player from Ivory Coast, Manou N’Guessan-Gallo.

Onstage at New York’s Irving Plaza earlier this month, the players lurked along the edges of the stage, leaving the center free for the five divas. They danced, donned costumes, wielded props, acted out little dramas and sang in a breathless succession of styles and inflections. The show bordered on shtick at times, but Daulne’s mimicry of soukous crooners, reggae raspers and even James Brown’s freedom cry was always dead on. And what other performer teaches her audience to sing Central African polyphony?

Some fans may long for Zap Mama’s quainter, quieter days, but all the prior work has really been a prelude to the material on “A Ma Zone.” Daulne has found her place in pop. The group’s lineup has changed considerably, but now it has stabilized, along with Daulne’s concept. Zap Mama is poised to enter the new millennium as an international hip-hop group, not a world music novelty.

Austin uses targeted radio and television partnerships to attract key ethnic constituencies. Once they arrive, Austin and his team make sure
that all the guests get to hear the kind of music they came to hear and eat the kind of food they like to eat. Along the way, they get the unexpected experience of Oumou Sangare’s sultry Malian roots blues or Samba Ngo’s Congolese funk music

Around the four-block area, music from seven main stages smolders together like the ingredients of an extra spicy barbecue sauce. Saturday, April 17, the first day of the two-weekend fest, climaxed with a soulful set from Thomas Mapfumo and the 12-strong Blacks Unlimited from Zimbabwe.
Mapfumo was voted “Artist of the Year” at the third annual American World Music Awards, a relatively new spin-off of
the festival, and the prize was announced mid-set. Facing the gleaming towers of downtown Houston, the dreadlocked
Mapfumo — who spoke out against Rhodesian oppression 20 years ago and has attempted to dignify the religion of his ancestors ever since —
held up his award, smiled at the applause and
then led his band back into a deep set of traditional Shona pop.

It’s too early to say how much clout the American World Music Awards will ultimately gain, but it is of note that the first serious awards program (the token recognition at the Grammys hardly counts) to critically evaluate this
amorphous area of music is not coming from New York or Los Angeles — where most of the recording industry is located, and
where there are more diverse international populations. It’s because of Austin’s vision — his faith in the music, his belief that recognizing great artists will help mainstream them — that that the awards program is located in Houston.

Other artists honored this year include King Sunny Ade (Lifetime Achievement), Ernest Ranglin (Best Instrumental Group), Cafi Tacuba (Best Vocal Group) and Waldemar Bastos (Best Emerging Artist). The Houston International Festival resumes next weekend with Jerry Jeff Walker, Hugh Masekela, Lucinda Williams, Big Sandy & His Fly-Rite Boys, Abdullah Ibrahim, the Blind Boys of Alabama and Boukman
Eksperyans.