And the story on how Machuca, a Dirección de Impuestos y Aduanas Nacionales (DIAN) tax lawyer, came to own and operate Colombia’s most eccentric record label is almost as odd as the sounds found in this collection. The tale goes something like this: Machuca was in charge of finding live music for a DIAN directors’ party, and, having no clue how to search for traditional sounds, contacted his brother-in-law, Humberto Castillo, a record dealer in Medellin. Castillo traveled up country and helped Machuca find a variety of Barranquilla nightspots full of local talent that no one had thought to record. The long and short of all this is that Machuca, a man who previously had no interest in music, much less the music business, became infatuated with what he heard, joined one band on tour and ultimately used his tax knowledge to form a label with contacts and suggestions for musicians by Castillo. Out of this came a half decade of coastal Colombia’s most outrageous psychedelic rhythms. Machuca encouraged single-takes, and at times, put together bands out of whoever was around, meaning some of these “groups” he recorded never existed outside of the one or two sides they waxed for the label.

The music here is well-grounded in Cumbia and Vallenato, so its roots aren’t obscured so much as decked out in glow-in-the-dark feathers and high-heels. The album kicks off with the staccato pulse of Samba Negra’s “Eberebijara,” a track that lays a declarative repetition of the song’s title over jagged guitar chinks and relentless percussion polyrhythms. There’s the breakneck stomp of accordion master Annibal Valasquez’s furious-yet-much-more-traditional “La Mazzamora del Diablo;” however, even this track has a breakdown featuring the echoed laughter of what one can only assume to be the devil himself. El Grupo Folclorico’s “Jupiti” trips along a seemingly-looped guitar line while whistling, treated whooping sounds and the occasional reference to the song’s title appear and disappear.

Later, Samba Negra returns for “Long Live Africa,” a track nearly disemboweled early on by an overbearing organ drone that seems unconcerned by key. So intense is the rhythmic flurry whipped up underneath it, that over time, everything settles into place. You could be forgiven for assuming the vocalist on “Caracol” is Miriam Makeba, so close is the resemblance. Apparently, when Makeba’s “Pata Pata” blew up across the globe, Machuca needed a piece, so he recorded an entire LP of Colombian Makeba covers, using Amina Jimenez’s soaring voice to excellent effect (no matter that Makeba’s song had hit nearly a decade earlier).

Perhaps this compilation’s freshest sounding tracks are the two recorded by the mysterious King Somalie. His “La Mongui” floats along on a bouncing guitar skitter and drum machine; while the vocals conjure Fela, the music nods to William Oyeabor and Francis Bebey. This track, as well as the goofily bizarre “Monkey’s Dance” are by themselves reason enough to own this record.

By the early 1980s, styles in Colombia shifted, as they did all across the globe, and the music of the previous decade found itself out of fashion seemingly overnight. As a result, Machuca closed shop and went back to dealing with Colombia’s complex tax laws. Another attempt at re-entering the music business in the late 1990s was sadly sidelined by a brain tumor, which killed him in 2001. While some of what’s here verges on novelty hokiness upon first listen, repeated spins reveal deep, radical grooves and avant garde hints. Arguably, the foundations for Champeta can be found here too. For those of us getting a crash course in vintage coastal Colombian popular music via compilations aimed at the West, Rafael Machuca and the label he named after himself are crucial additions to this knowledge. - Bruce Miller