By Todd Lavoie
A couple of weeks back on Noise, I was carping and crowing away about all those amazing import-only discs that demand a small fortune out of us till a domestic release finally sees the light of day - assuming that moment ever comes, that is. In some cases, it looks likely that American labels will continue passing up wonderful talents such as Candie Payne and Husky Rescue out of curious misperceptions about “the American market” - whatever that means - and we’ll be left with no choice but $20-and-then-some price tags. Yeah, I know - quite the tale of woe and all, this record-shopping dilemma of mine, but sometimes a dork’s just gotta shake his skinny little fists in protest at this great big spinning orb of injustice and say, “Enough is enough!” Feel me?
But fair is fair, they say, and so I should try to balance out that bitch fest with a bit of the ole happy. How about a small victory? And for Detroit, no less! I’ve heard they could use a few victories, so let’s trumpet this one up. See, up till very recently, one of the 313’s finest, cosmic-soul pioneer Amp Fiddler, was without an American record deal for a spell, thus making his latest release a challenge to track down in all but the most obsessively thorough of record stores.
In fact, Afro Strut has been available in Britain on the Genuine label for practically a year, while in his home country it was nearly absent from the racks! Talk about a cryin’ shame. Mercifully, this sad state of affairs has changed, now that Play It Again Sam US/Wall of Sound has issued a domestic version of Mister Fiddler’s sophomore release. Better still: they went and improved upon the original! Rather than simply re-issuing it as is, Amp - or, Joseph at the supper table - took the British edition of Afro Strut and did some, er, fiddling with it. (Yeah, a pun. Shoot me.)
Tracks were shuffled around, added, subtracted. The damn thing’s got flow - a trait I find sorely lacking from some of his neo-soul peers, who often seem to settle upon a singular repetitive groove for far too long - and beyond that, it’s got itself a rather grand scope. It’s ambitious and inspiring and doesn’t stumble for a moment. And yes, parts of it will make you feel like one sexy beast.
Fiddler - yes, his proper last name - has been around forever, playing piano and keyboards with everybody from Prince to George Clinton to the Brand New Heavies to, um, Was (Not Was). (Word’s out on whether Amp ever walked the dinosaur - me, I reckon he would’ve slinked it or strutted it, most likely. But walk the dinosaur? Oh, how terribly pedestrian!) I’d be lying if I said those prior tours of duty didn’t leave some sort of imprint on Fiddler’s style - certainly elements of those artists show up from time to time on the new album, with the possible and, frankly, hopeful exception of Don Was & Co - but by no means is Afro Strut a mere collection of influences committed to plastic. I’ll even be so bold as to brandish a little music-snob lingo and call the man an auteur.
Hey, wait! Come back! I mean auteur in the same sense as Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, or hell, Bettye LaVette as of late (who cares if the songs ain’t hers - she’s a flawless interpreter). Fiddler - first with 2004’s Waltz of a Ghetto Fly (Genuine) and now with Afro Strut - not only steps to the mic with a clear artistic vision, but he knows how to convey it in a wildly exciting range of ways. OK, I suppose I could hold off on the bandying-about of the big A-word till the guy’s further along in his career, so maybe for now I should just pipe it up like this: he certainly seems to know what the hell he’s doing.
So, what the hell is he doing? Fair enough. How about a humble list, submitted in no particular order:
1. Simultaneously updating the spiritual-soul of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On and exploring the sweatier, more carnal side of Gaye displayed on the silky-smooth I Want You and Let’s Get It On (all Motown).
2. Ushering in a new wave of lushly orchestrated wah-wah cinematic funk, reminiscent of '70s soundtrack work by Curtis Mayfield on Superfly and Short Eyes (both Curtom) and Marvin Gaye on the vastly-underrated Trouble Man (Motown).
3. Delivering delirious blip-and-bleep-happy keyboard-centric grooves worthy of the mighty canon of P-Funk’s Bernie Worrell, rather than relying too heavily upon sampling technology.
…and this one’s a much-welcome anomaly in the current neo-soul climate:
4. Rocking out, in a full-throttle, flame-throwing Bobby Womack/early Funkadelic kinda way. Witness his electrifying, breath-of-fresh-air take on the forever-Jimi Hendrix-associated “Hey Joe.”
Descriptions such can be lovely, but maybe I should just let the man speak for himself. What are those heavenly sparklin’s raining down from up on high? Amp’s on the keyboards, you say? Someone fetch me my rollerskates. “Ridin’” has the words summer jam written all over it. And the video - ooh, I love a good montage:
Another highlight is the absolutely greasy six-minute workout “Scared/Afro Butt (Interlude)." The first 5:11 is a vicious skeletal groove straight outta D’Angelo’s Voodoo (Virgin), propelled by a rhythm DJ Premier would flat-out die for. The remaining minute - oh, to hear the entire recording sessions - is a horn-blasting Afrobeat finale, featuring a rollicking polyrhythm that could only come from Fela Kuti’s legendary drummer, Tony Allen, himself.
Equally thrilling is the urban melodrama epic “Hustle." Everything about this gorgeous glitter-in-the-gutter slow-burner - from Amp’s “Inner City Blues” Marvin Gaye-isms to the sweeping strings to the bird-cry guitar effects, which swoop in now and again - is perfectly arranged to spotlight the city for all of its cruel beauty. Imagine if Gaye or Mayfield had collaborated with Massive Attack for their landmark Blue Lines (Virgin) - you know, the one with that magnificent cover of William DeVaughn’s “Be Thankful for What You Got," another masterwork of aching late-night atmosphere - and that’ll get you on your way.
Need a good pop song to seal the deal? I’ll leave you with the new video to “If I Don’t," a duet with the how-can-anyone-hate-her Corinne Bailey Rae. Peep that Woody Herman swing action:
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