Spearhead

Reinforcing my belief that Michael Franti's musical instincts signify more meaningfully than his knowledge of Frantz Fanon, the brother shrouds his funk in so much murk and smoke there are times you could mistake it for Maxinquaye or There's a Riot Goin' On. And after the impression passes, the depressive intractability of the sonics continues to add heft to the political cliches, most unforgettably on the tale of an ordinary day that begins bad and gradually goes all the way to hell. (Grade: A-)