In the United States, we're taught to think of slavery as an obsolete practice jettisoned in 1864 at the end of the Civil War by a victorious President Lincoln. It stands as one of the darkest chapters of our past, the shameful carrier of an enormous human price tag. In school, my teachers never flinched in their descriptions of slavery, always making sure to cast it in the worst light possible, and depict it as an abhorrent mistake that never should have happened. And rightly so.

However, my Northeastern, suburban public school education also approached the issue from a one-dimensional standpoint, failing to examine the modern-day social repercussions of the not-so-long-dead institution, and also failing to discuss slavery's worldwide past. To us, it was a white-and-black thing, and a point of conflict between the North and South. But in reality, it always went way beyond that. Slavery is as old as civilization, and human degradation has persisted in many forms around the globe. Even today, in a world where we think so much has changed, there are individuals who trade in human beings, kidnapping children from developing nations and selling them covertly on a despairingly extensive international market.

In the US, we're barely three generations removed from our "peculiar institution" (as 19th Century Southern politicians were fond of calling it), and its legacy still echoes in the halls of government, schools and even day-to-day life. Taking this into account, I can imagine that the issue is even more prescient in Brazil, where slavery was not abolished until May 13, 1888. In fact, there are many in Brazil's elderly population whose now-deceased parents once lived in forced servitude.

His country's past with slavery is close to Caetano Veloso's mind on his most recent offering. The title Noites do Norte (Northern Nights) is actually extracted from a passage by noted Brazilian abolitionist Joaquim Nabuco. Nearly the entire first half of the album deals with the subject, before branching out into the general poetic musings on life in Brazil (and life in general) that have defined Veloso's past efforts. The extremely helpful liner notes offer facts and history, as well as English translations of the Portuguese lyrics.

Foreign language recordings automatically lose some appeal to a lot of English speakers, but the vibrant music that Veloso and his large cast of collaborators create ought to put to rest any concerns we might have diving into it. David Byrne's recent work owes a huge debt to guys like Veloso and any Byrne fan would do well to give this a good shot. It's Veloso's most rock-oriented record yet, as well, which makes it a decent starting point for folks who are looking to grab a seat on the recent Tropicalia bandwagon.

Veloso sometimes backs off a bit from the traditional polyrhythms of his old work here, imbuing the opening "Zera a Reza," and the cheeky tribute to Brazilian legend Raul Seixa, "Rock 'n' Raul," with fairly straight rock beats. The music layered on top, however, is full of traditional harmony, Portuguese guitars, and echoes of the traditional fado song style, imported from Portugal in the colonial era. The lyrics are also peppered with Afro-Brazilian deities, Brazilian drinks and musical styles, and holdover terminology from the Yoruba that most of the country's slaves spoke.

"Michelangelo Antonioni" is a gorgeous tribute to the Italian director of such classic films as Blow Up and Red Desert (not to mention the bloated Zabriskie Point), with a short, meditative lyric surrounded by Veloso's beautiful, wordless tenor and a plaintive string arrangement. The music is strikingly lonely, even absent the realization that the first three lines translate to "Vision of silence/ Empty street corner/ Page with no sentence."

The arrangements are universally effective vehicles for Veloso's songs; some are stripped but warm, while others are covered in a rich orchestral tapestry. His prodigiously talented son Moreno contributes an arrangement for "13 de Maio," a song about the celebrations held to commemorate the abolition of slavery in Brazil by Princess Isabel during her brief regency. The ebullient percussion and guitar parts convey a profound joy, leading nicely to the laid-back groove and choral vocals of the Jorge Ben-penned "Zumbi," a tribute to a rebel slave leader who established an autonomous state of freed slaves in central Brazil in the 17th Century. The song's haunting images of princesses shackled to ox carts in African port cities and "bosses in between/ Watching the harvest of white cotton/ Gathered by black hands" ring just as loudly in the U.S. as they do in Brazil.

It's a shame that American record stores are so obsessed with categories and separation, because there are a lot of people who will never hear this simply by virtue of its placement in the international section. Though past efforts like 1997's Livro are slightly stronger, this is still a record that absolutely deserves to be heard by all, from an artist whose long career has proven him neither a slave to expectations nor his humble background.

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