Tinariwen sound-checks like any other band: Musicians filter onstage one at a time, adjust knobs, tune up, play little melodies. It's a scene of subdued chaos, like the pleasant cacophony that precedes a classical orchestra performance. But the last musician to step into the soft blue stage lights of Bimbo's 365 Club in San Francisco isn't noodling. A faded old Fender Telecaster hangs from frontman Ibrahim Ag Alhabib's shoulder, but for now it's silent. His dark eyes stare absently out at the empty hall from under a shaggy Jimi Hendrix mane. The look says, "I'm here, but I'm a million miles away."

Really, it's more like 6,000 miles: Tinariwen hails from the harsh, windswept deserts of northern Mali, and despite a decade touring the world the band is still fixed—musically, spiritually, politically—to that spot. Watching the group perform early this month was like experiencing a hallucinatory mirage; intellectually I knew I was in San Francisco, but all my senses told me I had landed somewhere deep in the Sahara. This is the central irony of Tinariwen: that a band that so keenly communicates a sense of place could be formed by members of the nomadic Tuareg people, who have for centuries (and still today) wandered restlessly through the desert with nothing but a few belongings and a fierce disdain for anything remotely static—including the Malian government.

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Rambunctious Garden
Emma Marris
Bloomsbury

Imagine an untouched stream. If you're picturing a tortuous channel with high banks, environmental journalist Emma Marris will tell you how wrong you are. Almost everything we think of as natural has been altered by humans, she argues. In the case of the winding stream, the high banks are probably a relic from seventeenth century mill dams, and we have only come to think of them as natural over centuries of environmental amnesia. Marris insists that if nature is impure, this calls for a new approach to conservation.

For her manifesto out this week from Bloomsbury, Rambunctious Garden, Marris trots from Hawaii to Yellowstone National Park to Poland in search of fresh conservation styles. Each spot illustrates a different set of environmental priorities, and Marris uses them to prove one of her central points: that wildly different ecosystem management styles can exist on the same planet. In fact, we need to try strategy we can think of in order to find out what works.

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This picture of a children's folder set comes courtesy of my friend who is currently browsing Walmart's back-to-school section while waiting for her tire to get patched:

Holy school supplies, Batman!A little Googling reveals that this slogan is not just limited to folders: You can also get t-shirts and bumper stickers. There's also this Facebook page.

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Witnessing Imelda May's live performance felt like attending a séance for the early blues label Chess Records and legendary rock label Sun Records—and it was one hell of a party. Beginning by cooing the last syllable of Howlin' Wolf's "Poor Boy" with the same legendary ache as the man himself, the singer didn't take a second's pause before diving straight into her signature rockabilly romp, "Psycho." Then, with a quick snap of a cymbal, May mellowed the mood with "Kentish Town Waltz," relishing every note as the audience sashayed to her husband Darrel Higham's guitar riffs and multi-instrumentalist Dave Priseman's trumpeting.

It's May's ability to revamp standards from the classic big bands and meld them with country rock, surfer punk, and blues that makes her an emerging force. With her two-toned coif and Betty Paige pinup looks, an infectious Irish brogue, three rock-solid albums, and a rippin' backup band (check out double-bass player Al Gare's blog for live updates on the band's shenanigans), she's much more than just a new twist on an old theme.

Mother Jones sat down with May before her August show at The Independent in San Francisco to dish on performing at burlesque clubs, producing albums, and her early beginnings with Ronnie Wood. 

Mother Jones: You've surrounded yourself with the absolute best in the business, performing with Jeff Beck for a Les Paul tribute, hanging with Dr. John in New Orleans. What's it like to rotate in the legend's circle? 

Imelda May: It's terrific, absolutely terrific. I'm glad my music has gone the direction I hoped it would. I know it's a specialist kind of music, and I didn't want it to be a novelty act, which can happen to bands. This is what I've done all my life and I would have been disappointed if that was the take away. There's an awful lot of women in the music business—it can be all about style and fashion, and I didn't want that to be the focal point. 

MJ: Like a gimmick, so to speak.

IM: Yes, I didn't want it to be gimmicky. I don't care about gossipy stuff. It's absolutely brilliant to be surrounded by people I've admired for years. Funny enough, I started performing when I was 16, 21 years ago. I was in this little underground blues and rockabilly club in London, way too young to be there, but my brother would sneak me in and take care of me while I performed. One night, the lovely Ronnie Wood came in, jumped on stage and started jamming as I was singing. I spoke to Wood recently when I was with Jeff Beck for one of his shows, and when I was telling him the story, he was like "No way! You're not that same girl! I remember that night and couldn't believe there was this young child singing the blues!" So I started off on a good note.

MJ: Are you and Jeff Beck working on an album? 

IM: We're not working on anything at the moment. He asked me to sing on his album, Emotion & Commotion. We've jammed and recorded stuff, but I don't know what he's going to do with it. 

MJ: Any other artists you'd kill to collaborate with? 

IM: I would love to work with Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, B.B. King. I'd love to do something with Arctic Monkeys, Miles Kane, and The Last Shadow Puppets. If I got a call from Juliette Lewis or PJ Harvey, or Chrissie Hynde, that'd be a thrill. 

MJ: Who's poster did you have on your wall growing up? 

IM: My foremost heartthrob was River Phoenix. It was the movie Stand by Me, and I really loved the soundtrack and Ben E. King; it got me into that kind of music. 

MJ: Your music pulls from multiple influences: country rock, rockabilly, jazz. Did you have a punk phase? Or were you into '80s hair metal? What was your thing? 

IM: I had a big time punk-rock phase and psychobilly phase. I used to go mad for the Guana Batz. I love loads of music: Blondie, The Clash, The Cramps. I tried to be a goth for a while. I'd pour baby powder on my face and paint my lips black, but that didn't last long. I thought I looked cool at the time. But then you look back and wonder, "Why did anyone let me out of the house looking like that?" 

MJ: What's it like to be from the Liberties? If I were to visit, where would you take me? 

IM: It's a great place, really strong community: proper working-class, hard-working people who haven't had the easiest of times. But it's rich in character and rich in people. My family has been there for generations. And where I'd take you, definitely to Brazen Head. It's the oldest pub in Ireland, right in Liberty Village. That's where my brother plays traditional Irish folk music, and I'd go and join him when I'm in town. 

MJ: Are your parents musicians? 

IM: My dad was a dancer and instructor. He didn't make any money off it when the '60s arrived, because everyone started dancing on their own, so he became a painter and a decorator. And my mom was a dressmaker and seamstress. They're both retired now. Back then, they weren't allowed to speak during work time, so they would sing with their friends constantly. My mom sang to me all the time. Even now, she'll go to bed and lie there for two hours in bed, every night, singing along to the radio. You can hear her singing in the dark. 

MJ: How do your parents feel about you reviving the classics they grew up with? 

IM: They love it. They gave me Glenn Miller, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, all the big bands, so I got that love from them. The record collection in my house was huge. One of my brothers was into David Bowie, Meat Loaf, the other was into Elvis. I have two brothers and two sisters, it was the seven of us in a two-bedroom house, and it was a great upbringing for music and good songs. We partied a lot, and even now when we get together, we sing together; just about everyone in the family has a song that they sing. 

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