It's hard to know where to start when discussing the famed steel drum player Fimbre Bravo. The Trinidad-born, London-based musician first learned to coax and persuade a melody out of the deceptively nuanced percussive implement in his native country, where it became instrumental (no pun intended) in the black power movement of the '60s following the former colony's declaration of independence from Great Britain. Through the early part of the twentieth century, the steel drum, or pan as it is better known, was banned by the colonial authorities, with players often facing jail time for performing in public. Even after such prohibitions were lifted, scrutiny of the instrument's public profile was intense, with many players, including Bravo, learning to play classic European standards on the pan to help dissuade further reprisal by the occupying colonists.
While performing a recognizable rendition of Tchaikovsky on a percussive instrument, even one as melodious as the pan, might sound impressive, Bravo felt himself chuffed by the restriction on his repertoire. He longed to perform original songs from his heart, like the compositionally complex jazz performers and the militantly humanistic reggae artists he admired. Artists he saw as heroes. Not only for their music but also for the role they played in seeking to alleviate oppression in their own countries. Once Bravo began writing for himself though, his influence became inescapable.
Bravo would make his Western debut on a British TV talent series called New Faces in 1975. While the band he played with, 20th Century Steel Band, would disband shortly after their final televised performance, their song "Heaven and Hell Is on Earth" would famously give life to Grandmaster Flash's "Fastest Man Alive," as well as somewhat more recent mega-hits such as Gwen Stafani's "Hollaback Girl." While inspiration and imitation are flattering, nothing quite compares to Bravo's originals, of which his most recent LP, Lunar Tredd, is chock full.
Lunar Tredd is the follow up to Bravo's 2013 album Con-Fusion (also released on Moshi Moshi Records) and begins with two declarative tracks that fit hand in glove, "Can't Control We" and "Can't Control Me." Like each finger forms a member of your hand, each individual is always a member of a community, and their identity and expression flow through each, and augments the spirit and the form of the other. These songs are an explicit reference to the history of Bravo's pan; how it was once repressed, along with his people, but then returned, much like his people, with its cupping tones and ricocheting melodies leading them on their march towards freedom. These introductory tracks are relatively simple in their make-up, allowing Bravo's pan to do most of the talking when he isn't. This serves to not only introduce the uniquely sonorous and articular qualities of his instrument but also to drain it of its exoticism. It is not an object of alien allure or a novelty to amuse tourists, but a powerful tool of expression; much like the paintbrush is to the painter or the pen to the poet. While much of Lunar Tredd's excellent, future-forward dance and distinctly tropical disco music serves to disentangle the pan from its problematic associations in the Western imagination, the album is not without its points of familiar charm and enticing enchantment.
As previously mentioned, Lunar Tredd is a dance album at heart, and a modern one too, with the pan pulling double duty as both harmonizing element and percussion. This is especially evident on the sultry, Caribian rinse "Santana's Daughter" which feels thoughtful in all the ways that it suggests that you move your body like a drapery, softly rolling on a breeze as it courses through an open window overlooking a length of beach. "F Pan Landing" has a grainy quality to its production, sounding like it was discovered half-buried on the shore during low-tide, its sandy textures tossing a much-needed handful of terra ferma into the nebulous chambers and cosmic channels of this minor, motorik masterpiece. "Coming Home" follows with a galloping rhythm that kicks like the spring of a pogo-stick, directing you towards the cushioned embrace of loving abode, bobbing the whole way like a jubilant kangaroo. Closer "Woonya Waa" begins with a rhythmic chant that later coasts on a whirl-pool-like exchange of afrobeat drums and twittering Eastern chords. More subdued pieces include, the sequenced drizzle and sonic cleansing shower of the title track, and the relaxed reggae-inflected ramble of "Caribbean Bluez (In The Shadow Of Windrush)." It's hard to find albums that are this rhythmically innovative while remaining both carefree and irrepressibly exciting. Lunar Tredd accomplishes this feat in a way that I think sets it outside any other dance record I've heard this year, and for that alone, it earns my recommendation as well as my praise.
