Ceylon coconut milk curry goes down easy, but it leaps like a fiery tiger at the back of your throat. I met a Sri Lankan family, likely applying for political asylum, as I was working the projects in rural West Germany. Dinner with them was surprisingly perilous; I was attacked by a sleeper cell of capsaicin. In recent history, Sri Lanka was like a Northern Ireland to the mainland of India, with the defiant Tamil Tigers behaving badly. The artist known as MIA is not shy about her Tamil heritage. “I got the bombs to make you blow.” Part of the 2009 Coachella broadcast was MIA’s trashy but mesmerizing rhythm with droning vuvuzelas, but when I read up on her background I worried just for hitting Wikipedia I was flagged on a terrorist watchlist.

Neither MIA nor I are wearing orange jumpsuits on the back side of Cuba today, so there was nothing to worry about. The CIA got enough sense to appreciate that MIA has just smartly tapped into the bargain bin, but infectious, exotic rhythms from the rest of the world. Bleating goats, rattling gourds, and African disco. Not the nexus of a terrorist network. She champions the third world from India to Africa to the Middle East and says posh things like, “I put people on the map that never seen a map.”

It’s rich and brash to insinuate herself into such a global paradigm, but there’s something about her style that is unexpected and engaging. I want to be annoyed by her image, but the beats take me on a far flung trip. Her latest, Matangi, has a special soul, with themes that develop over several tracks, intriguing tribal diversions, and an emotional payout as you travel along. It’s a rewarding record on headphones and vivid like photos out of National Geographic.