I never really got to grips with genres. I'm occasionally puzzled when I feed a CD into the computer or copy some MP3s into the relevant music-playing software and the machine tells me that this tune I really like is some sub-variant of a type of music that I hadn't known existed. Occasionally I flirt with reclassifying them all into one genre. I would call that genre 'music', although I might still have to reserve a special category for The Fall, who are above any such relativism.
So I thought this stuff was called Baile Funk, until I went to that ultimate authority on which I base all my life decisions, Wikipedia, which told me that basically that's a misnomer which only the crassest white guy imperialist tourist and cultural appropriator could make. Regardless, this is clearly modern Brazilian music and I seem to have pretty much fallen for this stuff in a generic way, in the same way I love, say Soukous music, without particularly being able to tell one thing from another. The daft and life-affirming Bonde do Role acted as a gateway drug here, although presumably they irk the purists by not being prepared to stay in the 'world music' ghetto, and from that starting point I now thrash about hopelessly in a great pool of similar-sounding records.
Take this one. It's so spartan. It's raw and angry-sounding. It's defiantly unmelodic, and as such seems quite typical. Of course, I don't understand the words, but as a hardcore Mark E Smith devotee, that's never really been an issue. She could be singing/rapping about love and kittens for all I know, but if so, she still sounds mightily pissed off about it all. This is rock music, and yes it's punk music, and a little bit of incomprehension probably helps.
A lot of this stuff seems to be on Man Recordings of, erm, Germany, and having unearthed this and paid more money than was sensible for it in the West London branch of Rough Trade the other week, I immediately had to fork out for more from Man, from Boomkat for a change, very good for these kind of things, through which resulting pile I continue to work, without finding anything quite in the same class. But now there's this new record by Tetine on Soul Jazz, I Go To The Doctor, which is so short and slight it virtually isn't there, and so crude in its innuendo, but which has managed to creep into valuable headspace nevertheless, and looks like making itself at home there, at least until the next impossible to predict thing comes along.