An opening run of The Hot 8 Brass Band (from New Orleans), The Occidental Brothers Dance Band International (poppish US-Ghanaian fusion), The Shanbehzadeh Ensemble (actually a father-and-son duo, from Iran) and La Troba Kung-Fú (the latest Manu Chao derivatives, from Spain) all succeed in being moderately enjoyable, though none of them exactly ignite.

Just when your scribe might be pondering a jaded palette, down he descends into the basement bar inhabited by Tanya Tagaq, a singer from the Inuit regions of Canada. She's a personable, even innocent-looking soul, garbed in what looks like (from a distance) a party frock, opening her set with a chatty explanation of just what extremes her manifestation of throat singing might entail. Her gift is to invest vocal mannerisms that might border on the comedic with a confrontational manner that also makes them quite frightening, like an exorcism of the pipes, a cleaning of the troubled mind. Tagaq invokes the deep, guttural sound of a well-hairy man, then squeaks like a pipsqueak doll, then patches both sounds together in the same gullet. She sings melodies, dissects phrases, gibbers, whispers and froths, her hair gradually set loose from its party coif. A closer move to the side of the stage reveals a barefoot imp, getting more shamanistic by the second, working herself up into a ritual release. Tagaq is partnered by a cellist (also shoeless, and presumably the album's Cris Dirksen), who again superficially looks academically inclined until subjected to closer inspection. She's fraying with effects pedals, looping phrases and scuffing up her percussive patterns. Yes, it's refreshing to have a touch of extreme experimentalism enter the often too sensibly poised portals of 'ethnic' music.

On a roll, this penpusher bounces upstairs to catch singer Márcio Local's first gig outside of his native Brazil. This Rio denizen (from up in the Santa Teresa locale) also plays guitar, but more in the Elvis Presley fashion. After Tagaq, this is music of certifiable party intent, and Local easily seduces the close-packed crowd into gyrating mobility, delivering a punchy samba rock. No one element stands out: the material isn't massively unusual, Local's voice is neither sweet nor ruggedly individual and the band features no remarkable soloists. It's the complete combination that ensnares: the generally uplifting confidence, and the sheer exuberance of the tunes and rhythms. Local succeeds in captivating the Marlin Room audience, transplanting a beach party as if he'd imported his own truckful of sweaty sand.

The evening's complete climax arrives soon after with the second New York performance by Watcha Clan, those heady Jewish/Arabic/French singalong electronicists. For them, jungle never died, nor trance, and their North Africanisation of these beats (dub'n'dancehall too) certainly doesn't sound dated. This is much better than their NYC debut at Drom: now they're reverberating with full bassquake power, expanded by singer/guitarist Nassir and all four jumping up to the dripping ceiling in front of a jammed crowd of visibly ecstatic global adventurers. Singer and general motivator Sista Karine carries all with her exuberance, whilst cowled sonic-shaper Suprem Clem hunches over his equipment, at his most extrovert when soloing on an actual keyboard, emulating wild reed-flute cacophonies. Right in the middle of the chaos, we notice Nassim unpacking his guitar lead and plugging in at just the right instant to cue his eviscerating heavenwards solo. Such are the great moments in rock'n'roll...

17 Hippies: Highline Ballroom

Berlin's 17 Hippies are the ostensible headliners here, but it's just about the last breath of the extended weekend's APAP showcasing, so the set-up's akin to a mini GlobalFest with San Francisco's Eye For Talent agency displaying its wares. Once again, this is of benefit to the general public, who can witness a fast-moving variety show where each of the seven acts play for as little as fifteen minutes apiece. The changeovers are swift, and the technical flaws are few, lending the night a vigorous feeling of global jetting, alighting on traditions (or modern interpretations thereof) from many lands. It's GlobalFest for even shorter attention spans...

Accordionist Rob Curto is actually of Italian descent, but he specialises in the forró and frevo music of north-eastern Brazil, his band incorporating members of Nation Beat, one of New York's other major interpreters of these sounds. Curto makes a lively start to the proceedings, but is the first act to create a feeling of frustration over a very fleeting set. Vagabond Opera are a very curious hybrid, melding the music of their name with a seedier circus-cabaret trim. Maria De Barros in the flesh isn't as bland as her recordings would suggest, sounding more folkloric in her Cape Verdean morna stylings. The French L&O feint towards the gypsy cabaret underbelly, but their singer Laure can't hide her formal training, looking distinctly wooden when faced with her bassman's sub-rockabilly thrustings. The Argentinian bandoneon player Hector Del Curto is a revelation, leading a large-ish combo in lusty tango chamber entwinings. But, it's 17 Hippies who get away with a slightly longer set, egged on by audience enthusiasm. In their semi-shambolic onstage booting, they recall the apparent anarchy of The Pogues, though playing songs that are mainly rooted in Eastern Europe, with odd smatterings of other ethnic forms, all jogged out with punk attitude. There might be around thirteen of them (the band's in constant motion), and they don't appear to be hippy-esque in character. This is the band that should make promoters whip out their chequebooks, although both Curtos come in as close runners-up.

Roby Lakatos: Carnegie Hall

As part of a short Hungarian season, Carnegie Hall are presenting the fiddler Roby Lakatos and his band. He's the complete maestro, and even looks the part too, with his eccentric shock of locks and grandly theatrical gestures. The main body of his wide-ranging band-set would be sufficient, as it pounces on every possible manifestation of the gypsy folk form, adding jazz and popular classical flourishes. But Lakatos has also invited a trio of equally diverse guests to stir up the evening even further. If Lakatos is in need of a motherly figure, Israeli singer Myriam Fuks could fill any requirement, even going so far as to joke about his pipsqueak size. She's a stage-dominating Yiddish song specialist, sounding faintly old-fashioned in her larger-than-life delivery. The second singing guest is Czech New Yorker Iva Bittová, who would ordinarily double on the violin. She's extroverted in a completely different way, adding a touch of avant gypsy weirdness to the proceedings. Her voice is a passionately acrobatic tool, and her dancing manner is almost shockingly uninhibited, at least in the Carnegie's formal surround. The Dominican-born pianist Michel Camilo seems to hang around for longer, or maybe this noodling sequence just ends up creating that impression. Now's the time for the players to stretch out in a Hungaro-jazz fusion, but though this section has its moments of ignition, much of it feels like musicianly chops-displaying, in a slightly too-long meander. Lakatos maybe felt that his virtuosity, and his careening folk variations weren't sufficient to captivate, but if so, he's mistaken. It's the core themes and tight violin soloing that provide some of the night's hottest points.

The Del McCoury Band: The Allen Room

This is a family bunch from Nashville, presenting songs and tunes that resonate down the generations. The singing and guitaring bandleader has two offspring helping out, in the form of Ronnie (mandolin) and Rob (banjo), with the line-up completed by Jason Carter (fiddle) and Alan Bartram (bull fiddle). All of them sing, juggling around the lead duties. Father McCoury has now been performing for over fifty years, his original instrument being the banjo, although in 1963 he was invited to play guitar in Bill Monroe's Blue Grass Boys. McCoury's current quintet has a classic bluegrass formation, playing classic oldies mixed with newer originals. Note must be taken of this gig's ultra-impressive setting. The Allen Room is part of Jazz At Lincoln Center's fifth-floor spread, within the Time-Warner shopping mall, along with the Rose Theater and Dizzy's Club. It's the medium-sizer of the three, with steeply-tiered seating that flows down to a small stage that has a huge window-panorama as its backdrop, looking out straight down Central Park South. Kinda distracting, when you're trying to watch a band. In the old-fashioned bluegrass way, the fivesome are gathered around a single microphone, and the near-acoustic nature of the music is truly captivating. Even though the songs are rousing, there's even more dazzling virtuosity on the instrumental features that pepper the set, where Ronnie and Rob's finger-picking flashes past at a mercurial rate. The arrangements are naturally ingrained, as a solo will zoom by just as it registers, replaced by another bandmember's inspirational spurt. They only play a short set, barely over an hour, but it's crammed with a continual parade of gleaming moments, and most of the songs are so brief that they still manage to whip through a substantial repertoire, McCoury increasingly in dialogue with the audience, courting requests which he sometimes delivers.

The NY Gypsy All-Stars: Joe's Pub

Gypsies characteristically romp around many lands, and now they've found themselves romping in NYC, gathered from a wild array of backgrounds to form this dynamic collective. They're dedicated to the uncaged sounds and styles of the nomadic transcontinental trail, though sieving them through a rock and jazz mentality (pumping and swirling qualities respectively). The band is fronted by Macedonian clarinettist Ismail Lumanovski, although the Greek electric bassist Panagiotis Andreou looks to have a hand in the spontaneous onstage arranging of each dramatic theme-shunt. Also, there's the Turkish (zithery) kanun player Tamer Pinarbasi, Macedonian percussionist Seido Salifoski and drummer Engin Gunaydin, who was born in Australia, but is of Turkish stock. Understandably, their music ends up being steeped in many cultures, though all channelled through their punchily Westernised house style. Can we deem them prog-Balkan? The tunes still sound like hardcore wedding-band apeshitters, but they're propelled by sleek fusion contortions that make it dawn on the mind that there can be a remarkable sympathy betwixt the complex-time signatures that are found in both village knees-up and ridiculously complex rock prancing. A guest goblet-drummer from Israel makes the line-up even more international, and the two rattlers (Salifoski sometimes on a strikingly loud bass-skin boom-drum) are free to express themselves atop the agile posturings of Andreou and Gunaydin, their rhythm section stop-starts displaying the ultimate in un-danceable precision. Not that folks in the audience aren't attempting complex gyration/clapping moves anyway.

By: Martin Longley