It almost seems too obvious to work: reggae aesthetics spliced onto Ethiopian music. Ethiopia is, of course, the promised land of the Rastafarian beliefs at the core of the Jamaican reggae roots; the late Emperor Haile Selassie is worshiped as a supreme prophet, if not more. Musically, though, it seems an unworkable combination: the regular, loping reggae beat imposed upon the skittering melodies and highly irregular rhythms of the African nation, made familiar to many through the landmark and comprehensive 'Ethiopiques' albums series released by Buda Musique in recent years.

"It shouldn't work," agrees Nick Page. "But it does."

Forgive him if he sounds immodest, for it's his vision and talents under his alias Dub Colossus that made it work on the album 'A Town Called Addis,' new from Real World Records. The set is revelatory in how effectively it blends two cultures that are linked in mythology but by most accounts are at odds otherwise.

No one would mistake a recent in-store performance at Amoeba Records in Hollywood for the time Paul McCartney played there last year. For that visit, the sprawling music retailer was jam-packed, every inch between the CD bins taken up by worshipful fans. This night business was moderate at best, shoppers casually browsing the vast expanses as Etran Finatawa took the stage. A couple dozen people gathered in front of the stage, apparently there specifically for this. But quickly others started to take notice, even before the music started -- understandably, as it was a visually colorful ensemble strolling out: five West Africans, two of them wearing long, blue-tinted robes and turbans, the other three in brown tunics and bright yellow stripes painted from the tops of their foreheads to the tips of their noses, each with a single feather sticking straight up from his head.

Then they started playing, one of the two robed men playing a Stratocaster, the other four providing percussion, all five singing and/or chanting. The guitar lines had a bluesy insinuation, the chanting too, together forming circular lines over the burbling rhythms. It was simple but mesmerizing. And surely throughout the store among those who had apparently not come to see the group, heads came up, shopping ceased and people were one-by-one drawn toward the stage. By the time the group finished its 40-minute set, most other activity in the store had come to a standstill and all eyes and ears were trained on the stage.

"One day I will sing the songs with no lyrics and everyone can imagine for themselves if it's abut love, disappointment, banalities or about Plato," sings Juana Molina in the opening title song of her new album, 'Un Día,' due for release Oct. 7.

A recent evening on the Santa Monica Pier in California was, in fact, that one day. As the innovative Argentine electro-folk singer-composer previewed some material from that album, she indeed mostly sang just sounds and not words at all. For that matter, when she did sing actual words, they were in Spanish and therefore not understood by many in the audience. And the words to the song quoted above are also in Spanish, as were the words on her four previous albums. But that's not enough for her these days.

There has been discussion of late, including from this writer, concerning what is perceived as a distinct lack of protest or even topical music during these troubled times. Perhaps overlooked in the current debates is that some of the most profound political actions involving music have not come in the form of songs but in the very act of playing music.

A sharp reminder has come to the U.S. in the form of the Plastic People of the Universe, making a brief tour 40 years after events that would link the group with the dramatic events of the "Prague Spring" in its home in the capital of what was then Czechoslovakia. Founded by electric bassist Milan Hlavsa after Soviet forces brought an end to that 1968 flash of freedom, the band stood as symbols of the resistance, victims of the repression, associates and confidants of figures who would fight communist rule and later lead the Czech Republic into democracy -- notably playwright Vaclav Havel, who became the nation's first elected president. The band's iconic status was put into sharp focus recently when English playwright Tom Stoppard (who was born in Czechoslovakia) made its history and music a central feature of his acclaimed play 'Rock 'n' Roll,' examining rock's role in life and rebellion behind the Iron Curtain.

A blues musician from Chicago and one from the Delta would have no problem getting onstage and jamming on a riff. So why should it be a surprise when Greek singer Savina Yannatou and Persian-rooted Mamak Khadem teamed up the other day at a Los Angeles concert for an unaccompanied, totally unrehearsed, improvised vocal duet?

"I've improvised on record, so this shouldn't be very different," said Khadem before the show with a little nervous laugh."

"We felt each one of us know what she would do," said Yannatou after. "We thought it could not be a disaster."

Indeed. The duet was a rousing success, the sweet frosting on top of what was already a well-frosted cake of an evening. Khadem's opening hour showcased material from her fine 2007 album 'Jostojoo,' featuring music gleaned from studies she'd done in Greece, Turkey and Iran with lyrics derived from classical Persian poetry, played by a band that ranged into Armenian, Balkan and Kurdish traditional styles with a few modern touches, to boot.

Diversity? We love it. Most fans of international music dive headlong into the smorgasbord of offerings from all over the world, craving tastes of something from everywhere. But diversity in individual artists? That's another matter. Many said global music lovers want a wide-ranging collection, but they want each thing within it to have a specific identity. They want one thing to be, well, one thing. A Malian artist should sound Malian. A Tuvan artist should sound Tuvan. An Antarctican artist ... uh, we'll get back to you on that.

"I guess it's worked out for us," says Lila Downs, happy to be an exception to that rule as her career has involved making journeys far away from her native Oaxaca, musically speaking.

"It's a question I also have: How non-Mexican can I get away with?" she says. "And it always surprises me how much more people are willing to accept rather than being purist. That really surprises me."

"The time of happiness is more important than the time of sadness," sings Chiwoniso Maraire on her new album, 'Rebel Woman,' a timely statement to her fellow citizens of embattled Zimbabwe.

"You do what you do to keep yourself smiling," she elaborates about life in that nation, in a conversation about the album.

Yet she's been on the receiving end of some expressions of anything but happiness of late. It happened as word got around that she'd decided to move from her home in the capital Harare and relocate near San Diego in California.

"There was quite a lot of anger," she says. "I didn't expect that."

There are several intriguing angles one could take regarding 'Silent City,' a new album combining the talents of Iranian kamancheh (spike fiddle) virtuoso Kayhan Kalhor with the adventurous American string quartet Brooklyn Rider. An outgrowth of the musicians' experience as part of Yo-Yo Ma's Silk Road Ensemble recordings and tours, this album comes at a time of ever-increasing tensions and rhetoric between the two countries' governments, a time when suspicion seems to trump reason and a time when more and more artists are seen as ambassadors of their cultures. And the title piece is emotionally stunning, a 29-minute musical Guernica, a threnody for the Kurdish village Hallabja that suffered the 1988 chemical weapons attack by Iraq that left 5,000 dead.

But don't overlook one striking thing about the contents of this album, particularly that title composition: This is simply utterly remarkable music.

Off the top of her head, Carmen Consoli can come up with two examples of Italian music making an impact on the U.S. pop charts.

"'Volare' and Bocelli," she says, citing the half-century-old international hit by Domenico Modungno and the pop crossover tenor of more recent vintage.

She'd like to add one more to that list: Carmen Consoli.

In her recent West Coast debut concert on a full-moonlit Santa Monica Pier, topping an international bill with Argentine Juana Molina (the subject of an upcoming Around the World) and Oklahoma Native American singer-songwriter Samantha Crain as part of the weekly summer Twilight Dance Series, the Sicilian singer-songwriter showed that she has some qualities that could well make some inroads on that quest. Playing acoustic guitar and accompanied by just a violinist and a mandolinist, she offered a set of attractive Mediterranean pop, nicely balancing artistry with instant appeal, sung almost entirely in Italian. There were moments of drama and poetry (spoken-word readings, in English, from an Emily Dickinson piece) and yearningly romantic ballads. It seemed very natural, very her -- and very Italian, from her engaging, intelligent manner to her ruby-red stiletto heels, one of which was employed in working a foot pedal with which she provided tambourine percussion.

We've all watched the conflicts in the Caucasus nation of Georgia in recent days with great sadness, and perhaps with some perplexity. Listening to music from the region may not help alleviate the sense of sorrow. Like the perhaps better-known music of neighboring (and culturally related) Armenia, the sounds of Georgia seem stitched with sadness. But, again as with its neighbor's music, it bears an equal measure of beauty. And similarly, there is both a sense of fierce pride in national identity and the weathered melancholy of centuries of oppressive domination and displacement.

The strategic location of Georgia -- stretching from the Black Sea nearly to the Caspian, a threshold between Central Asia and Eastern Europe -- is not just behind the current strife but many other tragic episodes of the past, the mix of Turkish Ottoman, Russian, Armenian and other peoples often simmering in tensions. But those same things, the geography and the mix of peoples, have also brought a vibrant richness to Georgian art, culture and, most certainly, music.