Since the dawn of recording technology at the end of the 19th-century, there has been a conscious attempt by anthropologists and the like to capture what urban folk would deem “primitive.” Be they cylinders, wire recorders, or Ediphones, these cumbersome devices were lugged out to Indian reservations, to the isles of Java, and onto the plains of the sub-Sahara to capture vanishing musical legacies of cultures far from industrial epicenters.

But it’s not as if every strain of music has been captured in amber. Sometimes it’s accidents and sheer coincidence that introduce musicians to public consciousness. Take the example of the late Malian guitarist Ali Farka Touré, who would likely have receded into oblivion had his debut album — recorded when the guitarist was 50 years old — not been dug out of a bargain bin in a Parisian record shop by BBC3’s Andy Kershaw and introduced to the world. Alongside fellow Malians such as singer Salif Keita and kora player Toumani Diabaté (who will play at the Brooklyn Metrotech campus on July 19), the nation of Mali has held a certain weight and resonance among fans of world music, a phenomenon made explicit when Damon Albarn, lead singer of British pop idols Blur, recorded an album there.

In the 21st century, a curious new strain of field recordings has appeared, pioneered by the eclectic Sublime Frequencies world music imprint, which was launched by Alan Bishop of the weirdo-rock band Sun City Girls. The label calls itself a “collective of explorers dedicated to acquiring and exposing obscure sights and sounds from modern and traditional urban and rural frontiers via film and video, field recordings, radio and short wave transmissions, international folk and pop music, sound anomalies, and other forms of human and natural expression not documented sufficiently.”

The label, however, has largely eschewed the anthropological notes and song transcriptions that often help paint a portrait of the music’s origins. But whereas a Sublime Frequencies disc might at least have notes, color photos, and impressions from the recordist, three recent releases by Yaala Yaala Records, launched by Jack Carneal and distributed through indie-rock label Drag City, are curiously mute. Stark, black-and-white photos accompany a small slip of paper thanking Alan Bishop and bearing the greeting: “Bougouni kaw, an b’aw fo kosebe. Ala k’an to nyogon ye.” Other than that, there is scarcely a clue about this music. (In an interview, Mr. Carneal translated the greeting as: “Bougouni people, we greet/ praise you very much. May god keep us together.”)

Mr. Carneal lived in Mali with his wife for a year, and the music issued by Yaala Yaala arises from his time spent there, hearing these phenomenal sounds, yet having little grasp of it. Rather than unpack and analyze it, Mr. Carneal passes that bewilderment onto the listener. “I didn’t have an … idea about what any of these people were singing about!” he said. “Why on earth would I front like I knew something more?”

On the first disc of the Yaala Yaala series, “Pekos/Yoro Diallo,” the thought of eavesdropping on quaint and simple folk music is quickly erased. Instead, we are thrust into a furious exchange by two renowned players of the ngoni (a one- to three-stringed lute), Pekos and Yoro Diallo. Barbed and distorted, it’s a performance Mr. Carneal heard bleeding out of a small stand hawking cassettes.

“[It’s] a few young guys sitting around a double-deck boom box trying to stay in the shade,” he says, setting the scene. “A box of random cassettes sits at their feet: Malian and other West African pop, commercial griots, even Bob Dylan. You want to buy a brand new cassette? Fork over your $2. You want a dubbed copy? Fork over 75 cents and a blank tape.”

This is how Mr. Carneal came to procure both “Pekos/ Yoro Diallo” and “Bougouni Yaalali,” and while he readily admits taking a guerrilla tact to putting this music back out, he is quick to add: “These monies will go back to Mali. I have zero interest in making a penny off this stuff and I do it because it’s great music.”

That it is. The third disc, “Daouda Dembele,” captures a nuanced and entrancing 42-minute griot performed by a musician unwilling to supply his name. The scant notes explain that the story being told is “one you could’ve heard … if you happened to be alive in 1300.” We may not understand what is happening and may not be able to discover the facts, but Mr. Carneal finds that in an age of information overload, that’s precisely the point.”We in the West seek to confirm through a blind search for facts, mistaking facts for truth,” he said. “I thought it would be great to present these CDs as pretty blank documents into which a listener could disappear visually and aurally.”

By delving into these documents, so does the world seem undiscovered once again, and ripe for exploration.