Talent hails down on us in all forms from all places, but oftentimes it comes from close surroundings and strikes with such brilliance that you can’t help but feel pride for the said talent and his or her discovery. I‘ve listened to Toro Y Moi’s Causers Of This so many times, and have thrived off the album and the close proximity I share to the band — we both live in South Carolina. But the thing I love the most about it is the ability of Causers Of This to stop an insignificant conversation and create an auditorium.

Toro Y Moi’s Chaz Bundick is a native of Columbia, SC — not a place renowned for diversity or artistic enterprise. Instead, the state capital and home to University of South Carolina is a breeding ground for the fraternity stereotype and the theology of drunken debauchery leading into corporate America: law-school enterprise, possibly some real estate endeavors. I tried to interview Bundick before this review. I was going to ask him about his shelter from the norm, his target listener, and whether or not he hopes to change the face of our Southeastern musical mold. When I thought about it more and researched his approach, I realized he isn’t trying to change anything. Toro Y Moi is just another young artist enjoying his own music, which allowed me to breathe in the hard fact that pure, sincere art can come from a place as ignored as the state we share.

I love South Carolina for this. I love the underdog mentality that allows us to operate as a greater entity — the small number of darkhorse characters who inhabit this acreage of highly prized Southern geniality choosing to thrive off the wonderful elements of anti-current culture and sweet-tea-sipping Americana. Toro Y Moi is flipping a new root and taking it one step further by creating a fresh template for Southern gaze. Not working within the area’s usual confines, Chaz Bundick and Causers Of This may be just the ambient pair that can act as a new poster child for what our area’s specific subculture is capable of. By Will Tunstall

Fela Kuti is hands-down Africa’s most famous native musician. A Nigerian who seized on his country’s jubilation after the end of a brutal civil war in 1970, Fela owned nightclubs, recording studios, and cultural communes throughout the capital city of Lagos, and was partially responsible for the ascension of Afro-Beat, highlife, and hybridized jazz and funk that shimmied and shook the African populace in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Fela was also an avowed opponent of the Nigerian state; his 1977 song “Zombie,” which decried the country’s inexcusable military actions, sent government soldiers into a fury — over 1000 of them destroyed his Kalakuta Republic commune, throwing his elderly mother from a window, beating Fela nearly to death, and destroying his instruments, recording equipment, and master tapes.

But that didn’t hold Fela down. He formed a political party in 1979, unsuccessfully nominated himself for president several times, took on world leaders from Ronald Reagan to Margaret Thatcher to P.W. Botha, and received nearly one million mourners at his funeral in 1997. It’s safe to say that the breadth and reach of Fela’s musical inspiration is immeasurable, as native Africans, white Westerners, and everyone in between seized on his global influence. Lucky for us, Now-Again Records has compiled Black Man’s Cry: The Inspiration Of Fela Kuti, containing time-spanning tracks from artists inspired directly by the father of Afro-Beat.

It isn’t easy to create a cohesive album containing fellow Afro-Beat proponents, Columbian cumbia ensembles, Trinidadian steel bands, and German funk revivalists, but Now-Again has pulled off the unlikely feat by giving Black Man’s Cry a loose, shaggy aesthetic studded with psychedelia, brass bands, and frenzied world explorations. As the album’s press release says, “This is but a cursory investigation into those inspired by Fela Kuti’s genius, but in the case of many tracks, [this is] the first time they’re being issued full stop.” So step out of the indie rock box, turn off Vampire Weekend’s passable imitations of world music, and let the forgotten masters show you how Fela and company did it back when Afro-Beat was revolutionary, daring, and downright enthralling. By Nick McGregor

Wolf People hail from the United Kingdom, where a long history of blues-based classic rock has been seemingly disregarded in recent years for angular post-punk, snotty hip-hop, and icy electronica. But Wolf People are dead-set on reversing that trend; their debut album Tidings is drenched in snaking guitar solos, wailing Black Sabbath-like harmonicas, and even a few flute riffs that hearken back to Jethro Tull’s heyday. But this ain’t just hard rock for hard rock’s sake: Wolf People also inject interludes of tape noise, field recordings, studio outtakes, and vocal snippets of dead relatives to add an eerie, Frank Zappa-like eccentricity to Tidings.

“Season Pt. 1” is a fitting intro, all jangly guitars and wah-wah histrionics that give way to the tight groove, pounding drums, and understated group vocals of “Black Water.” Yet “Cotton Strands” has a decidedly 21st-century feel to it, stuttering beats and tweaked guitars offsetting the aforementioned flute lines. And “Storm Cloud” boasts a disorienting, spy-movie atmosphere that lends urgency to the track and keeps Tidings focused after what feels like one too many rambling interludes. But “October Fires” may be the strongest track on the album, featuring strutting, intoxicating guitar lines that interlock around lead vocals and a mean harmonica.

Several more song shards follow, including the complex “April” and the classic rock boogie “Empty Heart,” interspersed with still more tape-hiss feedback-squall interludes. Those are the only moments that drag Wolf People’s debut down, and they’re minute detours at best. The rest of Tidings positively rocks, reminding us that Illinois label Jagjaguwar are the people responsible for introducing Black Mountain’s stoner-rock excellence to the world. Wolf People are the first UK act to sign with the label, and clearly it’s a step in the right direction for all parties involved. –NM

Here’s a geographical conundrum: Detroit’s Deadstring Brothers play whiskey-fueled Southern rock, and their newest album Sao Paulo takes its name from a Brazilian megalopolis. Confused? Good — down-home slide guitars from Spencer Cullum, gravelly testimonials from lead singer Kurt Marschke, and a sound firmly rooted in the influence of The Allman Brothers, The Black Crowes, and The Rolling Stones will reacquaint you, and quick.

Deadstring Brothers toe the line between urban decay and rural bliss well. Just listen to the oil-slick six-string on the opening title track, or the upbeat Americana of “Smile,” which sounds similar to brothers from different mothers like Chuck Ragan and Drive-By Truckers. “Houston” and “Can’t Make It Through The Night” inject elements of bright ‘70s soul into their respective barroom swagger and introspection, before “Adalee” goes the touching gospel route with mixed results. Sometimes, when you can hear the sweat and blood dripping from a band’s guttural blues-rock, downshifting into ballad territory can throw an album like Sao Paulo off.

So “The River Song’s” boogie, along with Marschke’s stunning approximation of Mick Jagger’s voice, comes as a welcome return to true Deadstring Brothers form. It’s not gonna bowl you over like some of The Rolling Stones’ early country-rock gems, but it is a damn fine soundtrack to a back-roads, windows-down drive. And “Same Old Rule” has the trademark downcast melancholy that’s been informing rock ‘n’ roll for nearly 50 years, before “Yesterday’s Style” dredges up traditional folk formats. Deadstring Brothers aren’t reinventing the wheel with Sao Paulo, but they do remind us that a well-built wheel spun correctly can hum like no other. Maybe it’s their Motor City roots, or their close study of American legends before them, but Deadstring Brothers have classic-rock revivalism down pat. –NM