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September 14, 2020

Jeffrey Lee Puckett Why You Should Listen to D’Angelo’s Voodoo Through Your Headphones

There are several ways to define the headphone experience. Our first installment in this Discogs series of albums that sound great on headphones, Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon, is the pinnacle of a classic approach — let’s call it “stoner whoa” — where the studio is used to achieve an altered state of mind.

Our second album offers an equally fine, but much different, inner fidelity. The end result is the same: bliss.

D’Angelo’s Voodoo, released in 2000, is hot-buttered soul for the mind. It’s a heady mix of old and new ideas, seamlessly integrating soul, funk, jazz, hip-hop, and rock to create something fresh yet instantly and warmly familiar. It’s also a master class in how the human voice is the most expressive instrument of all, and how much can be accomplished with one voice and 64 tracks.

Voodoo is almost a concept album in that D’Angelo, also the songwriter and primary producer, creates a very specific sonic world centered around his compelling voice. It’s complete with recurring snippets of conversation that make you feel as if you’re wandering through the dopest house party ever, resulting in an intimacy that on headphones becomes even more profound.

D’Angelo came alive on a set of House of Marley Exodus headphones, which offer a lot of bang for a modest amount of bucks, especially considering that the bamboo ear cups make them way more attractive than a typical headphone. Plugged into an iFi ZEN DAC, the Exodus expertly delineated the inner universe of Voodoo.

The album’s opening track, “Playa Playa,” is an ideal introduction to D’Angelo’s tactile world of sound, which he crafted with engineer/mixer Russell Elevado.

A brief field recording of a Cuban voodoo ritual swirls vividly around your head before the casual pop of a snare drum, muttered voices, and a finger snap welcomes us to “Playa Playa.” The track slowly builds in intensity until the dirty funk of its groove, anchored by drummer Questlove and bassist Pino Palladino, fills your skull like dank syrup.

Meanwhile, D’Angelo’s multitracked vocals also build in urgency and numbers. They occupy various parts of the soundstage, sometimes seeming to peek from around corners, layers upon layers that wrap you in a tight D’Angelo hug and never let go.

D’Angelo, who arranged and performed every vocal on the album, uses his voice as the album’s primary instrument and that enhances the intimacy; we’re living inside his head. His voice acts as a horn section, lead instrument, choir, string section — it’s the heart of the album’s overall texture, the key to its humanity, and his stunning vocal arrangements are the heart of the songs.

Elevado and D’Angelo, who assisted on the mix, make brilliant use of the artist’s arrangements on songs such as “The Line,” which is almost entirely comprised of vocals. Questlove and Palladino, whose work on the Fender Precision bass is heroic, maintain an unchanging groove while D’Angelo plasters himself everywhere. But this time he’s working in more of a classic Motown style, serving as his own Temptations (and Supremes, when he rises into a falsetto).

The sweet melancholy and sexual tension of “One Mo’ Gin” sounds like the slow jam Sly Stone wishes was on side two of There’s A Riot Goin’ On. It’s a song that appears simple enough when heard casually but put on a nice pair of headphones and it becomes a maze of layered sound.

What could be a vibraphone mingles with a dirty electric piano while clusters of angelic D’Angelos operate on multiple levels simultaneously — a small group testifying in the right channel, a more contemplative group in the left, a huge choir that spreads everywhere on the chorus, and the deeply dead sexy man himself at center stage.

Out of nowhere the largely traditional song suddenly begins to swerve right to left in your headphones as D’Angelo mumbles, “Yeah, that’s cool,” before turning into a free jazz jam. Why? Why not? But it does act as a nice segue into “The Root,” the album’s most psychedelic headphone experience.

Elevado told NPR Music earlier this year that the song’s genesis was a studio jam session with D’Angelo, jazz guitarist Charlie Hunter, and Questlove. Classic rock fan Elevado had been schooling D’Angelo on Jimi Hendrix and he was an eager student, which led to a long jam on several songs from Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland and Axis: Bold As Love.

D’Angelo kept that vibe when recording “The Root,” which features Hunter on guitar and bass. It’s filled with subtle head trips, including some of D’Angelo’s more complex vocal arrangements. He wraps himself around himself multiple times, like ivy growing wild, while Hunter’s guitar dances from right to left chasing the vocals.

Elevado said he was channeling his favorite studio magicians — George Martin, Jimmy Page, Eddie Kramer, Stevie Wonder — while doing the mix, and at one point applied a different processing effect to each word of a lyric. Long story short, the song sounds fucked up in all of the right ways.

Interestingly, the album ends with two fairly straightforward songs. Until they’re not.

The album’s most famous song was the hit that turned D’Angelo into a superstar. “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” is an almost unbearably pretty ballad in the Al Green tradition — long, slow, sensual. “Africa” is a riff on Wonder’s 1970s albums, a love letter to ancestry.

But in the final minute of each song, neither of which has played any headphone games to that point, they both go insane. “Untitled” takes a wild side trip to the land of phasing, D’Angelo’s vocals whooshing in tight circles. “Africa” fades to silence and then it — or something — starts playing backward like it’s suddenly 1967.

But even the most overtly gimmicky moments on “Voodoo” don’t dilute its essential impact. It’s a record made with the overriding idea that it should sound human, that D’Angelo’s voice should be the thing that lifts and carries us. And id t does, gloriously. “Voodoo” sounds real, especially when listened to deep inside your head. It sounds like soul music.

This is the second article in our series exploring the headphone experience. Published in partnership with House of Marley.

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Jeffrey Lee Puckett Why You Should Listen to D’Angelo’s Voodoo Through Your Headphones

There are several ways to define the headphone experience. Our first installment in this Discogs series of albums that sound great on headphones, Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon, is the pinnacle of a classic approach — let’s call it “stoner whoa” — where the studio is used to achieve an altered state of mind.

Our second album offers an equally fine, but much different, inner fidelity. The end result is the same: bliss.

D’Angelo’s Voodoo, released in 2000, is hot-buttered soul for the mind. It’s a heady mix of old and new ideas, seamlessly integrating soul, funk, jazz, hip-hop, and rock to create something fresh yet instantly and warmly familiar. It’s also a master class in how the human voice is the most expressive instrument of all, and how much can be accomplished with one voice and 64 tracks.

Voodoo is almost a concept album in that D’Angelo, also the songwriter and primary producer, creates a very specific sonic world centered around his compelling voice. It’s complete with recurring snippets of conversation that make you feel as if you’re wandering through the dopest house party ever, resulting in an intimacy that on headphones becomes even more profound.

D’Angelo came alive on a set of House of Marley Exodus headphones, which offer a lot of bang for a modest amount of bucks, especially considering that the bamboo ear cups make them way more attractive than a typical headphone. Plugged into an iFi ZEN DAC, the Exodus expertly delineated the inner universe of Voodoo.

The album’s opening track, “Playa Playa,” is an ideal introduction to D’Angelo’s tactile world of sound, which he crafted with engineer/mixer Russell Elevado.

A brief field recording of a Cuban voodoo ritual swirls vividly around your head before the casual pop of a snare drum, muttered voices, and a finger snap welcomes us to “Playa Playa.” The track slowly builds in intensity until the dirty funk of its groove, anchored by drummer Questlove and bassist Pino Palladino, fills your skull like dank syrup.

Meanwhile, D’Angelo’s multitracked vocals also build in urgency and numbers. They occupy various parts of the soundstage, sometimes seeming to peek from around corners, layers upon layers that wrap you in a tight D’Angelo hug and never let go.

D’Angelo, who arranged and performed every vocal on the album, uses his voice as the album’s primary instrument and that enhances the intimacy; we’re living inside his head. His voice acts as a horn section, lead instrument, choir, string section — it’s the heart of the album’s overall texture, the key to its humanity, and his stunning vocal arrangements are the heart of the songs.

Elevado and D’Angelo, who assisted on the mix, make brilliant use of the artist’s arrangements on songs such as “The Line,” which is almost entirely comprised of vocals. Questlove and Palladino, whose work on the Fender Precision bass is heroic, maintain an unchanging groove while D’Angelo plasters himself everywhere. But this time he’s working in more of a classic Motown style, serving as his own Temptations (and Supremes, when he rises into a falsetto).

The sweet melancholy and sexual tension of “One Mo’ Gin” sounds like the slow jam Sly Stone wishes was on side two of There’s A Riot Goin’ On. It’s a song that appears simple enough when heard casually but put on a nice pair of headphones and it becomes a maze of layered sound.

What could be a vibraphone mingles with a dirty electric piano while clusters of angelic D’Angelos operate on multiple levels simultaneously — a small group testifying in the right channel, a more contemplative group in the left, a huge choir that spreads everywhere on the chorus, and the deeply dead sexy man himself at center stage.

Out of nowhere the largely traditional song suddenly begins to swerve right to left in your headphones as D’Angelo mumbles, “Yeah, that’s cool,” before turning into a free jazz jam. Why? Why not? But it does act as a nice segue into “The Root,” the album’s most psychedelic headphone experience.

Elevado told NPR Music earlier this year that the song’s genesis was a studio jam session with D’Angelo, jazz guitarist Charlie Hunter, and Questlove. Classic rock fan Elevado had been schooling D’Angelo on Jimi Hendrix and he was an eager student, which led to a long jam on several songs from Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland and Axis: Bold As Love.

D’Angelo kept that vibe when recording “The Root,” which features Hunter on guitar and bass. It’s filled with subtle head trips, including some of D’Angelo’s more complex vocal arrangements. He wraps himself around himself multiple times, like ivy growing wild, while Hunter’s guitar dances from right to left chasing the vocals.

Elevado said he was channeling his favorite studio magicians — George Martin, Jimmy Page, Eddie Kramer, Stevie Wonder — while doing the mix, and at one point applied a different processing effect to each word of a lyric. Long story short, the song sounds fucked up in all of the right ways.

Interestingly, the album ends with two fairly straightforward songs. Until they’re not.

The album’s most famous song was the hit that turned D’Angelo into a superstar. “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” is an almost unbearably pretty ballad in the Al Green tradition — long, slow, sensual. “Africa” is a riff on Wonder’s 1970s albums, a love letter to ancestry.

But in the final minute of each song, neither of which has played any headphone games to that point, they both go insane. “Untitled” takes a wild side trip to the land of phasing, D’Angelo’s vocals whooshing in tight circles. “Africa” fades to silence and then it — or something — starts playing backward like it’s suddenly 1967.

But even the most overtly gimmicky moments on “Voodoo” don’t dilute its essential impact. It’s a record made with the overriding idea that it should sound human, that D’Angelo’s voice should be the thing that lifts and carries us. And id t does, gloriously. “Voodoo” sounds real, especially when listened to deep inside your head. It sounds like soul music.

This is the second article in our series exploring the headphone experience. Published in partnership with House of Marley.

Interested in seeing more articles like this one?
Don’t miss a beat!
Subscribe to Discogs Newsletters for music news, contests, exclusive vinyl & more.
Want to join the Discogs community of music lovers?
Sign up for an account.
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Bill Wynne Your Introduction to Hawaiian Music

I was born into a home filled with the scent of hibiscus and plumeria blossoms, the strains of the steel guitar and the ʻukulele, and songs sung in a language I couldn’t even speak. Sofas and chairs were upholstered with Hawaiian-print fabrics, and those prints were not much different than the ones we wore. Our rec room boasted a six-foot coconut palm.

By now you might have assumed that I was born in Honolulu, Hilo, or Hanalei. Nope, nope, and nope. The tropical paradise of which I speak is Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Yep. Born in Philly and raised in the even more far-flung state of New Jersey – dipping my kiddie toes in precisely the wrong ocean.

Given the circumstances, you can’t blame a kid for believing that he is Hawaiian. (In fact, the saddest day of my life was the day I discovered I am not Hawaiian because there was no longer an explanation for all the things I loved.) We ate, slept, and breathed all things Hawaiian – especially the music. For nearly 50 years I have been trying to figure out where this love of Hawaiian music originated. Over a century ago,  my grandfather emigrated from the Philippines and joined the U.S. Navy. His first assignment was on a steamship route between San Francisco and Manila with frequent stops in Honolulu before he made his way east, so I had always simply assumed he introduce the music and culture to his family. But my father is quick to correct this tale, saying simply that he heard the music around the house as a kid on such radio programs as the once extremely popular Hawaii Calls.

And call it did! A gifted musician and a saxophonist of some repute, my father instead took up the steel guitar and became proficient rather quickly. My mother, who previously led her own rock combos in Atlantic City (opening for such legends as The Three Stooges), played the bass and so was soon co-opted into my father’s schemes. Perhaps “schemes” is too harsh a word since the intention was not insincere: finding a way to earn a living doing what you love to do. Hawaiʻi had recently become the 50th state in the union (a source of contention for many Hawaiians to this day, but that must remain a story for another time).

(In that vein, note that when written properly, the name of the state using their alphabetical system includes the ʻokina which indicates a glottal stop between the “i’s.” “Hawaiian,” on the other hand, is an English word and does not warrant the inclusion of the ʻokina.)

Jet air travel was still a rare and costly proposition for many, so hordes of mainlanders aimed to recreate a taste of paradise close to home. (Today they call this craze – still alive for many – “tiki culture.”) A veteran of Vegas showrooms, my father put together an authentic (albeit flashy) floor show featuring the music of Hawaiʻi, Tahiti, Samoa, and New Zealand. Every Friday and Saturday night (and occasional Sundays for the buffet seating), my mother and father would lead a caravan of station wagons filled with family and friends bedecked in matching floral-print Hawaiian aloha shirts and muʻumuʻu – a veritable Polynesian Partridge Family – rolling merrily along hundreds of miles north or south along I-95 to perform everywhere from backyard parties to the Elks Club to the Knights of Columbus to the VFW hall to the Masonic lodge for such lavish events as a Hawaiian-Polish wedding (pierogis and poi, anyone?) to a Hawaiian-themed bar mitzvah (think “Bashana Haba’ah” on the steel guitar, because why not?) – only a few in this troupe possessing the tiniest blood quantum of Hawaiian descent. And I was not one of them.

When it comes to Hawaiian music, many books refer to the Hawaiian people as “inventors.” But more accurately, the Hawaiians are innovators – taking things that were already great and somehow still making them a whole hell of a lot better.

Perhaps the most amazing quality of music is its ability to stimulate visceral reactions in the listener. You have no doubt put on a recording by one of your favorite artists and suddenly experienced again the sights and smells of a concert you attended more than 25 years ago. This has always been true for me and Hawaiian music – even decades before I had visited my musical mecca for the first time. Even as a kid I could throw an old Hawaiian LP on the turntable and smell a flower that only grows on the Big Island, feel the spray off of Hanauma Bay on my cheeks, or taste the rainbow shave ice from Matsumoto’s in Haleʻiwa on the North Shore. And I understood that when the singer sang of Kaʻena, a geological wonder only reachable after a difficult hike, this was not merely about a mountain peak, but about a love that was nearly unattainable but that could be so worthwhile if one were only willing to put in the effort. When the connection between the artist and the listener is really powerful, you begin to feel as if you really know them. Little could I ever have imagined that the artists whose LP covers graced my walls (in the way that Farrah Fawcett and Grease posters lined the walls of my contemporaries) would become my mentors and even my friends.

Today you can learn anything by simply dialing up a five-minute video on YouTube. But 40 years ago, it was amazing what you could learn by reading books and listening to records. Despite not knowing how Hawaiian music wound its way into our home so many thousands of miles from the islands, I fully understood why my father could not simply put on a Hawaiian LP and remain in his easy chair an armchair quarterback. I, too, felt the need to get into the game! But while most Hawaiian children would learn their ways by sitting for hours at the feet of their grandmother or grandfather, I spent my hours worshipping at the alter of a pair of Klipsch H-700s and a Technics turntable with a stack of records by Hawaiian music legends.

I learned in the same traditional manner that Hawaiians did – hoʻolohe (listen) and hana hou a paʻa (repeat until mastered). Hoʻomaʻamaʻa (practice).

I learned to play the ʻukulele by wearing out records by Eddie Kamae, Kahauanu Lake, and Jesse Kalima. I then moved on to slack key guitar, emulating the sounds I heard by masters such as Ledward Kaapana, Sonny Chillingworth, and Gabby Pahinui, playing into the wee small hours, often until my fingers bled. I did not learn to play steel guitar from my father but, again, relied upon my growing collection of records, copying my heroes Billy Hew Len, Barney Isaacs, and Joe Custino. In between, I managed to learn about a thousand Hawaiian songs – most in ʻolelo makuahine (the mother tongue), a language I did not and still do not speak. The more I learned and the more I exhibited my love for all things Hawaiian, the more records our Hawaiian friends would gift to me upon their return from their trips home every winter. I collected Hawaiian records like other kids collected baseball cards. I knew all the players and all their stats, but for some reason nobody ever wanted to trade with me.

When it comes to Hawaiian music, many books refer to the Hawaiian people as “inventors.” But more accurately, the Hawaiians are innovators – taking things that were already great and somehow still making them a whole hell of a lot better. Although typically thought of as a Hawaiian invention, the ʻukulele was actually a modification of the Portuguese braguinha. The guitar was an invention of Spain, but these made their way to Hawaiʻi with the first vaqueros (cowboys) imported from Mexico to teach their Hawaiian counterparts to rope and ride. Slack key guitar was the first real innovation in Hawaiian music. Although there are many legends surrounding the discovery of this style, the most probable is that when the vaqueros eventually sailed away, they left their guitars behind as tokens of friendship but failed to teach the Hawaiians how to tune those guitars. Necessity being the mother of invention, each Hawaiian who picked up one of these guitars figured out his or her own way of tuning it – usually to the register of their voice and in a tuning that would allow them to play huge beautiful chords with as few as two fingers. They learned to pick the guitars like stride piano players – first the bass note, and then the melody notes, and frequently ornamentations in between like trills and hammer-ons. Slack key would ultimately develop into a fascinating solo art form. But perhaps the most distinctive and uniquely Hawaiian instrument is the steel guitar. According to legend, around 1885, a young man named Joseph Kekuku from Laiʻe on the north shore of the island of Oʻahu was walking along the railroad tracks when he picked up a bolt and slid it upon the strings of his guitar and made that now characteristic sound that over a century later is recognizable around the world as the steel guitar (even if it is not widely known as a Hawaiian innovation and more often attributed to Nashville). The young players of this new instrument experimented with everything from a penknife and a straight razor to a glass bottle until the world settled on the perfectly fashioned metal bar that would become known as the “steel” that gives the instrument its name.

By now you are probably beginning to realize that there is more to Hawaiian music than Don Ho crooning “Tiny Bubbles” or Israel Kamakawiwoʻole strumming his medley of “Over The Rainbow” and “What A Wonderful World.” (In fact, if we were to use a purely ethnomusicological definition of “Hawaiian music,” neither of these would even qualify – no more than Barbra Streisand singing “Happy Days Are Here Again” would qualify as Jewish folksong.)

Hawaiian music is more than music made by Hawaiians. (Although one of the on-going debates among ethnomusicologists is whether Hawaiian music performed by non-Hawaiians carries with it any authenticity.)

Hawaiian music must first and foremost express some uniquely Hawaiian sentiment or refer directly or indirectly to Hawaiʻi or its people. (“Blue Hawaii” sung by Elvis might be Hawaiian music, but the “Hawaiian Wedding Song” – despite its title – might not be since it is a song about love and not really in any way about uniquely Hawaiian love. The latter was also written in New York City by the same composer who gave us “Mairzy Doats” – also not Hawaiian.)

The definition is more about the lyric content than about a sound. In Hawai’i, instrumental music is largely eschewed since music did not originally exist but solely as an accompaniment to the hula, and the hula is an interpretation of the mele (lyric or poem), the words to each of which are believed to possess mana (spiritual power). The sound of Hawaiian music has evolved – almost in lockstep (or, perhaps, ever a close step behind) – with the musical styles popular on the mainland U.S. In the last century, there have been such diverse styles as Hawaiian big band jazz, Hawaiian lounge combo jazz, Hawaiian pop, Hawaiian rock, Hawaiian folk-rock, Hawaiian disco, Hawaiian techno, and Hawaiian hip-hop. Most people outside Hawai’i would not recognize real Hawaiian music if it beat them over the head with a puʻili (bamboo stick). Many outsiders to the culture assume they know what Hawaiian music is, but most would be wrong. Most Hawaiians would say, “I know Hawaiian music when I hear it.” But even they tend to disagree. For each individual Hawaiian, the Hawaiian music tradition seems to begin with the style popular when they are born and ends as soon as an artist has pushed the boundaries of innovation a step too far.

Hawaiian music is more than music made by Hawaiians … Hawaiian music must first and foremost express some uniquely Hawaiian sentiment or refer directly or indirectly to Hawaiʻi or its people.

Although boundaries would be tested throughout the history of Hawaiian music, constructive conversation about those boundaries would not occur until the 1970s – the period when I discovered Hawaiian music. A new generation of Hawaiian musicians began infusing the sounds of everyone from the Stones and the Beatles to Orleans, America, and Seals and Crofts into their music. (Ironically, it was around this same time that such mainland string wizards as Chet Atkins, Keith Richards, and Carlos Santana made their mecca to Hawai’i to study at the feet of the masters.) This period was called the Hawaiian music Renaissance, and it captured the hearts and minds of Hawai’i’s youth all over again, as well as the heart and mind of one youngster from New Jersey.
Although I am not an academic, most academics would refer to my life in Hawaiian music as a practitioner inquiry: learning by doing. But in the Hawaiian frame of mind, there are no experts, just lifelong haumana (students), some at it longer than others, some who know more (or, at least, differently) than others for there are ever disagreements over what is pono (correct, especially when pushing those boundaries). Secrets once carefully guarded are now more often shared freely with those who show the sincere desire to learn. But it must be a sincere desire. For this is also the era of cultural appropriation, and with the advent of YouTube, the student assumes to become the teacher after one 15-minute lesson.

I did not reach Hawai’i’s shores until my 30th birthday by which time I had amassed nearly 25,000 Hawaiian music recordings and logged thousands of hours perfecting my craft. For these efforts, I was rewarded by being almost immediately accepted into that sacred inner circle of Hawaiian musicians, finding myself sharing the stage with the names and faces that had graced my walls as a child, and ultimately being granted a recording contract. If I had chosen a life in rock or jazz, such a dream would likely never have come true. As a mahalo (thank you) for my acceptance into this beautiful community of Hawaiian music and hula, I decided to give my vast music collection back to the world – some of which cannot even be found in Hawaiʻi’s university libraries or museums – through a monthly radio broadcast called Hoʻolohe Hou (which means “to listen again” and which is a nod to Frank Sinatra’s Reprise Records). It did not take long for the monthly program to become a 24-hour-a-day radio station (Hoʻolohe Hou Radio) and now a record company (Hoʻolohe Hou Records) aimed at remastering and distributing long out-of-print gems of Hawaiian music of the last 100 years.

The above recent episode of Hoʻolohe Hou The Show (as the monthly program is now called) is a special edition created especially for Discogs. “Hawaiian Music 101” is aimed at dispelling the myths and misconceptions about Hawaiian music by tracing the evolution of Hawaiian music from the 18th century to the present in only two hours. It is a joyous romp through all of the musical styles described above (with a touch of education thrown in for good measure). Typically, this program would be a premium made available exclusively for subscribers to listener-supported Hoʻolohe Hou Radio. But in these difficult times, the world needs a little more music and a whole lot more aloha. Tune in here, and if you like what you hear, check out Hoʻolohe Hou Radio every day or subscribe to Hoʻolohe Hou The Show on Mixcloud. (Consider a “Select” subscription in order to receive more premium content.) As collectors yourselves, as you might expect some of the best in Hawaiian music is long out-of-print and only available to seekers (and spenders) at a place as unique as Discogs. But for the sake of reference, check out the list below of what I consider to be the 75 most important Hawaiian recordings. A few are available at online streaming services. And as for the rest … Happy hunting!

Here’s hoping you take this exciting journey into the diverse world of Hawaiian music with me and that Discogs permits me to share more with you in the near future. Until then, a hui hou (bye for now) and malama pono (take care of yourself).

Me ka haʻahaʻa a me ka mahalo (humbly and gratefully),

Bill Wynne
Hoʻolohe Hou Radio

Hoʻolohe Hou Radio’s 75 Most Important Hawaiian Recordings

In honor of nearly 75 years since the unveiling of the long-playing record, here are 75 of the most important Hawaiian recordings from the LP and CD era. These recordings are included either because they are firmly rooted in tradition or because they gently nudged (or not so gently tugged) the boundaries of tradition. All are extremely enjoyable listens, and at least half of these should be easy finds in the digital era because of their historical and cultural importance. (Other lists, such as Honolulu Magazine’s 50 Greatest Hawaiʻi Albums, are worthy of examination. Any overlap between this and other lists are largely the result of using the same cultural and historical criteria to make such selections.)

Feature image by Brandon Bynum.

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