Pitchfork

Cuba's cultural relationship to Congo was borne of the slave trade, but its bond to Guinea was a touch more metaphysical-- the socialist dream. Dreamers-- especially those dreaming after a contradictory and untenable political system-- know the necessity of sticking together: Part of Guinea President Ahmed Sékou Touré's guard was made up of Havana's troops, and in 1965, Bembeya Jazz, Guinea's national orchestra, toured Cuba, where vocalist Aboubacar Camara supposedly brought tears to the eyes of the respected Orquesta Sensación singer Abelardo Barroso.

The Syliphone Years reissues a 2004 compilation of the same name, gathering the band's singles from the 1960s and 70s recorded for the state-run Syliphone label. Bembeya's music has plenty in common with the Congolese rumba popularized by artists like Tabu Ley Rochereau and Franco in the 50s and 60s-- Sékou Touré wanted the national orchestras in Guinea to infuse a modern, popular African sound with Guinean folk music-- but the rhythms feel more skittery, the tone more nocturnal and meandering. There's plenty of hustle, but you get the sense that the wallflower beauty of Bembeya's quieter moments would leave more dance-imperative Congolese with raised eyebrows.

Bembeya is at least partially distinguished by the electric guitar work of Sekou Diabaté, who did as much to make one rethink the possibilities of the instrument as D. Boon from the Minutemen or, well, the aforementioned Franco. All of these guitarists made a style out of musical diplomacy by tying together rhythmic elements within their band. When Diabaté peeks out, it's in predictable ways-- like Boon, who always played the same guitar solo-- but he doesn't often do so; it's as a liaison, not a soloist, that he's most effective. He's a rhythm guitarist, but-- and I said the same about the his playing on the African Virtuoses compilation-- the rhythm is all ornament and arpeggio rather than strum and jangle, here featuring trails of rudimentary echo and reverb.

The impression is like a sky littered with stars. Bembeya never let a drone loose, but the constant interweaving and syncopation of staccato horn, guitar, percussion, and the dub-like bass voids of Mamadou Camara (which warrant special mention), make a continuum of sound. And while Bembeya's music was calculated to rally the greatest number at the lowest common denominator for the socialist cup, it's still great music to dance to (especially when one's other options, save Cuba, are the near-absolute groovelessness of North Korean pop or barrel-chested Soviet choirs).

Identifying a sound or band with their place of origin-- calling them the "sound of" their home-- often serves as a fanfare for a lot of tenuous metaphors. And tenuous metaphors have their place, absolutely. But it's a stranger thing still to consider that Bembeya was the sound of Guinea because the government made them so. It's not often people pipe up on behalf of for Naval brass bands, though maybe they would if Naval brass bands weren't so darn square.