Posts Tagged ‘Daptone’


In a year that forces the question of the right to exist within borders to the forefront, Cochemea Gastelum’s debut LP for Daptone seems almost as presciently political as it is a tour of cultural force. Bestowed by his parents with a name that means “they were all killed in their sleep,” Cochemea comes with a born-in reminder of disparity. Drawing as often on the rhythms of his Yaqui and Mescalero Apache ancestry as he does on ‘70s jazz-funk fusion and Mexican huapango traditions, Cochemea brews a potent picture of the bedrock diversity that drives the true heartbeat of America. Gastelum has described the record as a call for unity – a reminder of what melodies and rhythms bind us rather than what differences divide us. There’s no denying that he’s woven a tapestry that so finely crosses cultures its difficult to see the stitches, but getting the masses huddled under it for comfort is another challenge entirely.

The reliance on indigenous rhythm, chants that feel like prayers, and playing that not only invokes movement but meditation are all pushing the record past any standard fare jazz or funk records bubbling up in 2019. Like Sons of Kemet’s acclaimed LP from last year, this is an album constantly in conversation with culture. Its attempting to bridge genre, genealogy, heritage within the boundaries of a country that’s constantly at odds with its own revisionist history of who’s land stretches between those shining seas.

More than anything, though, this feels like a record that’s a reflection of self, rather than an amalgam of taste, time, and tenure. Gastelum’s worked with everyone from the Dap-Kings and Antibalias to Beck and Amy Winehouse, but this is a deeper dive into what makes a person whole, rather than what makes a person move. While not a tangible word is said over the album’s course, the subtext hums loudly. The chants draw out the salt from the wounds. At its core, All My Relations strikes a balance between melting pot mentality and patchwork precisions – as Gastelum and his cohorts erase the divisions between genre they’re careful not to completely wear away the imprint each culture leaves on the music. They’re reminding listeners that we’re only the latest to dance across this particular dirt, and lines or no lines, we won’t be the last.

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Michael Rault

Landing on Daptone’s rock imprint, Wick, begs more than a few comparisons to power pop’s favorite sons, Big Star. For his sake, let’s hope finding love in the arms of soul proprietors ends better for Rault than it did for the long-term prospects of his predecessors. However, in the short term its working out just fine. Produced by Wayne Gordon, chief engineer at Daptone, the album is lush and luxuriant – curling its toes into carpets of strings, pillowing in pink clouds of reverb and generally hunkering down into a Vaseline-lensed soft-focus that’s far removed from the pop of 2018.

If the record is displaced in time, that seems largely by design, though. Rault is pulling decidedly from the “pop” half of his genre’s namesake, favoring the radio-friendly forms of Badfinger, The Raspberries, Emitt Rhodes and Chris Bell’s solo work. Rault has slipped on the ‘70s like a butterfly collar and it looks good on him. Of course, he’s spent time in the decade before, fiddling with T. Rex boogie and glam crunch on his previous album for Burger. However, while that territory has been raided plentifully over the last few years with an easy entry through garage rock’s back door, the AOR sincerity of the time period is harder to emulate without sounding cheesy, a feat that Rault pulls off with seeming ease. He’s cherry picking through solo McCartney, Harrison and the aforementioned Apple acolytes while skirting the pitfalls of Frampton and Speedwagon for an album that’s all pleasure, no guilt.

Lyrically the album is preoccupied with sleeping and dreaming, subject matter that lends itself well to Rault’s sparkling pop diorama. Songs like “Sitting Still” and “Dream Song” (naturally) feel like they’re pumped in on ripples of dry ice and pastel light. The listening field is tipped back and staring at clouds pass by while Rault’s pop vision is projected above. At a scant 35 minutes, the dream is over almost too soon. Best to leave them wanting more I suppose and It’s A New Day Tonight certainly begs for a sequel and soon. Rault’s found his niche in this corner of the ‘70s. I’d say he should get comfortable their but he seems right at home.

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