I guess right now I’m thinking about singers. On Sunday night, I heard Buika. Concha Buika, who goes by only her surname, was born in the Mediterranean island of Majorca, where her parents settled after fleeing the repressive government of Equatorial Guinea. She sings with an emotional style drawn from Gypsy and flamenco music, and a rasp in her voice and a feel for the blues that can make you think of Nina Simone. Occasionally, she flashes an endearing gap-toothed grin or grimace. She’s stunning to watch, sensual to the point of fierceness, then seeming innocent the next moment. A decade ago, she was doing Tina Turner imitations in Las Vegas. This year, she was nominated for two Latin Grammy awards and featured in a film by celebrated director Pedro Almodóvar, who has also written glowingly about her on his blog. “I’m from everywhere and nowhere,” she told me in January, after nearly stealing the show at Carnegie Hall from pianist Chucho Valdés (though no one steals anything from Chucho and his band). “What I have is a mix of a lot of traditions. When you don’t know where you are from you have the choice to be whatever you want.” Which is what she appears to be. If you get the chance, go hear her perform.
And I’m looking forward to catching Cassandra Wilson, who’ll be at the Blue Note in NY later this week and whose new CD, “Another Country,” came out yesterday. (Her last one, “Silver Pony,” was a killer, and I was honored to tell its story in liner notes.)
But the singer I’m thinking most about today is John Boutté. If you’re in New Orleans on a Saturday night, what could possibly be better than his set at the DBA club? His musicality makes me glad to be writing about music. His spiritual presence makes me believe every word he sings. His personality makes me glad to be alive. Here’s my piece on him in The Wall Street Journal.