On the cover of Rachid Taha's 1998 album Diwan, the singer's caught in the throes of ecstasy, his head tossed back and his shaggy hair arching through the air. His eyes are closed and he's smiling. He's wearing a shimmering red shirt. He could be dancing on stage, or maybe even at a party.
The cover of Taha's belated sequel Diwan 2 features the singer somber and unsmiling. He's wearing a rumpled suit. He's bearded, and a carefully wrapped turban covers his hair. His eyes are cold, hard, tired. He could be at a funeral.
To say Taha straddles two different cultures would be an understatement. In Algeria or even France (his home in exile) he's a Molotov cocktail firebrand, a populist punk with his ear to the streets. In the Western realm, he's relegated to the nebulous "world music" gulag. On one hand, he's as cosmopolitan a pop star as they come, an international figure on the Rai scene of nearly unrivaled popularity. On the other, to much of the world, he's an Arab first and foremost-- a "person of interest," as it were-- whose appearance supplants his considerable talents as a singer, writer, and performer.
Taha's always been a little pissed off and politically outspoken, but the timing of Diwan 2 clearly relates to current events. Just as 2004's Tékitoi reclaimed the Arabic melodic underpinnings of the Clash's "Rock the Casbah" (notoriously blasted by U.S. troops during raids in Baghdad), Diwan 2 proudly embraces traditional North African music when said music arguably signifies more than ever before, albeit often cast through Taha's distinctly modernist, polyglot spectrum.
And yet, at a time that calls for anger and outrage, the subjects of the songs on Diwan 2-- mostly covers from the likes of formative Taha influences Blaoui Houari and Dahmane El Harrachi, sung primarily in Arabic and French-- tackle the more universal themes of love and loneliness. It's the timeless soundtrack of exile, given Taha's and longtime co-conspirator Steve Hillage's distinctly modern interpretations, rife with traditional instrumentation and ancient melodies but never shirking its commitment to contemporary pop.
That means the programmed dance beats pulsing beneath songs such as "Rani" and "Mataouel Dellil" are less contrivances than an emphasis of implied or subtle rhythmic elements already inherent to the songs. Even as recorded here, "Kifache Rah" could be 50 years old, but it's hard to imagine anyone sitting completely still through the song, either then or now.
For that matter, two Taha originals, "Josephine" and "Ah Mon Amour" (prominently featuring Kadi Bouguenaya's wheezing, oddly funky reed flute), fit seamlessly among the other tracks on the album, both musically and thematically, with the former a character piece whose minimally sketched-out protagonist confesses, "my native country is missing me." Thanks to the included translations, the sadness and resignation of many of the other songs comes through loud and clear as well.
Taha obviously feels close to the sentiments of such songs as the equally lost and hopeful "Maydoum", written by El Harrachi (whose Algerian anthem "Ya Rayah" led off the first Diwan). "Only truth, but also faithfulness and purity, stand time," sings Taha, underscoring the implied mission of both Diwan discs. Taha's music, for all its radical twists and turns, is part of a long musical journey, and Taha, rather than hide or flee his heritage and whatever mislaid stigma comes attached to it, is compelled to make obvious and apparent the debt he owes the Rai and Chaâbi pioneers who came before him. Don't be surprised if, in 50 years, people start doing the same for Taha.
