"Boomerang"

At the Brand Nubian reunion tour at BB King's in August (2004), I struck up a conversation with a woman in the front. She professed to being a hip-hop junkie, saying the music form devoured all her listening time. Live shows were her specialty and she attended at least two a week. When she asked what I like, I told her I'd grown tired of much American hip-hop and was turning mostly to African and Latin rap releases. The productions are top-notch, and there's a greater urgency in the voices, clearly communicated even without lyric translations. When I reeled off a list of countries in my play list - Spain, Cuba, Senegal, South Africa - she replied, "So it's like hip-hop, but they rap in different languages and everything?" Well, more or less…

The stage lights dimmed and Brand Nubian tried, unsuccessfully, to relive their glory days. More than any music I heard that evening, what lingered was this question: when will a wider audience embrace global music, especially worldly cousins of America's major export? Since borrowing Jamaican toasting styles and contriving ingenious methods of mixing on turntables, rap has dominated the international marketplace. From barrio to favela to ghetto, rhyming poetry in slick cadence has empowered the struggler with a kind of liberation, if only on record. While American hip-hop is nearly anything but that these days - hope for redemption transforming into illusion of luxury - the importers have borrowed the best elements in service of their own cultural expressions. The reason I bring up this story now is because, if ever a rap band existed that could bring widespread attention to rap-outside-America, it has arrived, and its name is Daara J.

Daara J has risen up in a competitive local hip-hop scene in their Senegalese homeland. Perhaps taking a cue from socially conscious acts like Public Enemy and BDP, adding touches of Mos Def and A Tribe Called Quest, crew member Faada Freddy would refute my initial claim of America being originator. He points to the tasso tradition of Senegal, a form of rhythmic storytelling passed down through the generations, griot style. This much is true. "Struggle music," originating in America as spirituals of slaves, evolved into gospel, blues, jazz, soul, rock and eventually, by way of funk and reggae clashing on the dance floor, hip-hop. The rhythmic roots are African, as is the allegorical and metaphorical storytelling. The Bronx may be the physical museum, but the source is a continent removed.

Still, Daara J has been influenced by New York. Take, for example, the hook in "Hip Hop Civilization" - "If I ruled the world, I'd free all my sons." Beautiful sentiment, and the smooth, slow melody line crooned by China would make you think it original, unless you recall Nas's 1996 hit with Lauryn Hill singing the same line. Of course, the originator was Kurtis Blow, although his ruling the world meant he would "love all the girls." The point is: we see the evolution of rap in its cross-continental transit.

Meaning "school of life," Daara J markedly earns the moniker. Boomerang is an ambassadorial journey, fluent in four languages (French, Wolof, Spanish, English), jumping from one to another with Manu Chao ease. In 2000 the trio was hired to edit speeches for political campaigns, and remain devoted to social reform issues. While this won't be readily evident to American ears, incredibly produced music will. They focus where it matters most, with bass, something often lacking in African productions. The beats are vicious, and flow, in whatever dialect, tight--not only tight, but diverse. This crew has range and flexibility and takes the best of many sub-genres to create fresh tracks. Two versions of "Esperanza" - the latter featuring Caribbean/Latin badboy Sergent Garcia - offer positive reinforcement for the free thinkers of their generation, as well as a sweet tune and rich musical backing. Throughout this album, we get pleasing and varied instrumental work, far more than the predictable beat box. The bounce of "Exodus" has a smooth R&B swagger while keeping the kick drum right in front of the beat.

Every album has "that track," and here it is "Le Cycle," with Mali's Rokia Traore offering a dream-filled hook to balance off masculine rhythmic strength. To cut a 13-song record and include no filler is a hefty order. But Daara J does it seemingly without a thought, so much so that when it ends, you just want to keep going. Fortunately, CD players have repeat buttons, and even more fortunately, this release is a sure signal that African hip-hop is coming of age.

Contributed by: Derek Beres for www.afropop.org