Tinariwen, Imidiwan: Companions

The best rock music on the planet isn't coming from Britain or America. It doesn't shred or headbang. Instead, it strides out of the dust of Sahara, the crucible of the blues, with a gun in one hand and a guitar in the other. It's made by Tinariwen, one-time nomadic Touareg rebels who, these days, fight with six-string axes rather than AK-47s, and from the start of their fourth outing it's obvious the fire still burns hard in them. The sound might be a little fuller, there's a touch more emphasis on communal backing vocals, and a greater feeling of space for the instruments, but at heart, the sonics remain largely unchanged from their previous work. The music still builds on irresistible, slow-burn desert grooves that twist and turn, sometimes atavistically funky ("Tenhert"), other times delightfully playful ("Initlayaghen"). Guitars and voices wind and snake around each other, ratcheting up the tension inch by inch, so that when they do finally unleash the full power, as on "Imazaghen N Adagh," it's like standing in a raging whirlwind — scary and exhilarating at the same time. This is rock at its most primal and basic: raw, passionate, and brutal, the music of hardship and survival. The late Ali Farka Touré might have been the first to really explore the desert blues, but it's Tinariwen who keep mining the deepest seams and they're still bringing up the motherlode.