Tinariwen - Amatssou (LP) - White Vinyl

Tinariwen’s latest set, Amatssou, lands like a desert wind that knows every dune by name. Released on 19 May 2023, it adds a new contour to the group’s long map of songs about home, exile, and endurance. The core pulse remains unmistakable, that hypnotic lattice of interlocking guitars, handclaps, and voices rising and circling each other in Tamasheq. What feels fresh is the way the record welcomes accents from another wide open landscape. The band recorded in Djanet, in Algeria’s Tassili n’Ajjer, then folded in parts from Nashville multi-instrumentalist Fats Kaplin, whose pedal steel and fiddle fit so naturally it is hard to imagine the album without them.

That cross-continental friendship is more than a novelty. Kaplin doesn’t decorate, he converses. When a song leans into a steady, dust-kicked groove, the pedal steel glides in like heat haze on the horizon, coloring the edges rather than pushing to the front. On the slower passages, you hear the fiddle trace out a plaintive counter-melody, a cousin to the imzad’s wail though coming from a different tradition. The blend underlines a kinship musicians and fans have felt for years, the way Tuareg assouf and country music both carry stories of hard land, long roads, and stubborn love.

Of course, Tinariwen’s guitars are still the star. Those wiry, slightly overdriven lines, often in call-and-response, weave around voices that sound both communal and intimate. The percussion remains beautifully bone-dry, a tight, sandy shuffle that could carry you through the night. One of the opening cuts creeps in like a campfire song, only to lock into a trance that blossoms when a steel phrase arcs overhead. Midway through, a slower tune lets the spaces bloom. You can hear the air in the room in Djanet, and you get a sense of people listening to each other, trusting the take. Toward the end, a track kicks up the tempo again, the chanting vocals nudging the beat forward until it breaks into a loose, smiling sprint. The sequencing is thoughtful, almost cinematic, and it makes the record feel shorter than it is, in the best way.

Lyrically, Tinariwen keep their gaze steady. Even if you do not speak Tamasheq, you feel the weight of absence and the pride of place. The political backdrop never needs to be spelled out for the emotions to land. That has always been part of their power. This is the same band that won a Grammy for Tassili, and you can hear the continuity in the way the voices carry history without turning the music into a museum piece. Amatssou hums with life. It is not nostalgia, it is testimony.

Critics heard it too. Major outlets picked up on the record’s quiet boldness, praising the way it deepens the group’s palette while sticking to the core of what makes them special. Fans have zeroed in on a few standouts already, the ones where the steel’s sigh meets a refrain that feels like it has been sung for a century. Those moments tell you why this combination works. It is less fusion than conversation, and it never trips into gimmickry.

If you are a turntable person, Amatssou vinyl is a treat. The low-end thump of the hand percussion and the burnished midrange of those guitars press up beautifully against the grain. Pedal steel loves wax, and you can hear the harmonics bloom on a decent system. Tinariwen vinyl has a way of drawing the room in, making your space feel a little more like an evening courtyard and a little less like a lounge. If you wander into a Melbourne record store and pull this from the new-release bin, you’ll know what I mean. And if you need to buy Tinariwen records online, there are solid pressings out there, with most shops keeping Tinariwen albums on vinyl in steady rotation. It is the kind of record that turns a casual listen into a long sit, then another flip.

Longtime followers will hear echoes of Aman Iman and Elwan, though this one stands on its own. New listeners will find a door that opens easily. Put it on late, when the day has lost its edge, and let those guitars find a path across the room. The band has carried this sound a long way, from camps to clubs to festivals, and on Amatssou you can feel the miles in every note. It is a keeper, the sort of album that slips quietly into your year, then refuses to leave.