It’s hard enough to find water in a desert—let alone a place to “plug in.”  But when you’re a nomadic guitar-army that wonders the sands of the Sahara, electricity is just as absolutely vital as drink.  How else could Tinariwen’s trademark spidery guitars muster all of that crunch and thunder behind their arid North African blues?  And blues they indeed are: Touareg singers stew over strife, longing, loss and death, as frontman Ibrahim Ag Alhabib’s dusty Danelectro joins more guitars spinning one-chord tendrils that burrow into, slither through, and chant along.  Their sound cohesively crests and falls and cyclically repeats, coming through in waves, generating a mesmeric undertow.  Grooves became addictive, not freely letting go once they latch on, working like an Afrodesiac, seeping into your head, playing with brain chemistry, and trancing you out.  In other words:  you’re hopelessly, helplessly hooked.  And once the handclaps, drumslaps, female choral incantations, and sinister bassline slam in behind, everything rocks—ferociously.  So the hard driving “Matadjem Yimican” and “Toumast” work their juju just as handily as does the stripped-bare “Soixante Trois” rumination or the slow juggernaut of “Assouf” onto which thick wah-wah gets slapped for extra nasty measure.  This time, however, battery-run generators chugging underneath sun-baked tents or encircling campfires below night skies weren’t the norm, as their raw power was pristinely captured in a Malian studio for their third album.  It’s a masterpiece, matched by striking color photos, informative notes, and lyrics to complete the package.  Water may be life, as Aman Iman translates from native Tamashek tongue.  But the self-made style of music housed within reiterates that amperage is life for a sonic experience that’s like no other.