Love, laughter and music #1
March 15th, 2002 by freddie96
Love, laughter and music: An introduction to the Jamaican way of life
Intro
Nothing can quite prepare the first-time traveller for a trip to Jamaica. It is not the really kind of place where a guidebook is much use. Tings a gwan in their own sweet way there, and in their own sweet time; you just have to surrender yourself to the experience, and trust it will be a good one. Keep in tune with your heart, and it undoubtedly will be… indeed, you may well find yourself experiencing the very essence of chill. Serious.
To travel from winter-bound UK to sun-drenched Jamaica is naturally a rather staggering experience, and one which is hard to describe without hyperbole. The sun, the colour, the smells, the sounds…as the great man Marley say, ‘so much tings to say’. There is a wealth of vitality in Jamaica culture that alone is intoxicating; combine it with the awesome properties of the sacred erb or the island’s infamous rum punches and it can, quite literally, knock you out.
There are many other intoxicating aspects to Jamaica – its extraordinary landscape, people, language, and, of course, music – so what I have attempted to do here is to give you but a taste of a few of these things in the hope that you might be inspired to go for yourself. For make no mistake about it: Jamaica is not just an absolute paradise for chilling out in the sun with a few beers and a likkle spliff. It is also a culture with a deep wisdom about life that is relevant to all, no matter their race or colour.
1. The sound of sunshine
Paramount amongst Jamaica’s riches is its music. Everyting in Jamaica is a musical experience – a walk down the street, a ride inna bus or taxi, a day on the beach, a drink or a meal, you name it, it will involve music. It is the island’s heartbeat and you cyaant escape it. Even up in the mountains far from any visible human habitation the reggae beat will waft your way on the wind, where from you will never know.
So there’s no need to look for music in Jamaica – it will find you. Everywhere you go, you hear Irie FM, the national radio station devoted entirely to Jamaican music that could certainly teach Radio 1 a thing or two about the social role of radio. Underlying the consistent quality of Irie FM is a deep understanding of music’s ability to act as a cultural cohesive. History, politics, religion, matters of the heart – all can be approached and, crucially, made accessible, by way of music.
Jamaican people of all ages have a passionate relationship with music, therefore, whether it’s fuelled by religious, political or sexual feelings – or, best of all, a combination of all three. Toppling roadside stacks of speakers – sometimes known as ‘houses of love’ – broadcast these individual and community preferences. It was Bob Marley’s birthday the week I arrived, so his tunes were audible all over the island; there is a determination in the Jamaican air that his timeless message of love and political suffrage should not be forgotten.
And then of course there is dancehall. You can’t visit Jamaica and not go to dancehall. It is the focal point of the week, when everyone catch up, have a few cold Stripes, smoke some collie weed, eat a likkle goat soup and drum chicken, and, if lucky, do some wining and grinding. As Lloyd Bradley puts it in ‘Bass Culture’ (unquestionably the most impressively informed book on reggae ever written), the dance has always operated in Jamaican culture as ‘a lively dating agency, a fashion show, an information exchange, a street status parade ground, a political forum, a centre for commerce, and…the ghetto’s newspaper.’
These days dancehall is driven by the slick ragga beat that colours so much of contemporary reggae, R&B, garage and hip hop. With the bass turned up unfeasibly high, these genres all blend together into a celebration of the pelvis – a part of the body which Jamaican women are more than in touch with. Whatever else you do at dancehall, watching the ladies dem dance can be entertainment enough. They occupy the centre of any such event and deservedly so. As Beenie Man say, gals dem sugar.
But you don’t need to wait till the weekend to get bellyful music. One Tuesday night in Port Antonio, sitting and watching the town from the vantage point of Jamaica Heights, a stunning hotel perched atop one of the many impossibly steep hills that encircle the port, my attention was drawn to the sound of reggae pulsing out of the darkness at me. It was of such classic vintage that I felt compelled to go hear di tunes at the volume they were intended to be heard at.
Needless to say I never found the sound system which lured me off my hilltop. I had only wandered five minutes down the track when I found a tiny shack chunking out some serious lover’s rock. Squeezing myself inside for a beer between two huge speakers, I was immediately made to feel at home. Atop one of the speakers sat a grinning but toothless 50-year-old called Yout, sharing a spliff with an equally smiley dread called Dennis. Yout had just flown in from Kensal Rise – but five minutes from my own flat in London. Having established this fact, we shared a good hour’s worth of tunes in a silence only broken by their announcement of the vocalists’ names. ‘Jamaican have sooo many singers,’ said Dennis. Nuff trut.
This kind of experience is probably available every single night the length and breadth of the island. Another night in Port Antonio, I developed a terrible attack of the munchies. Trouble was, I was atop my hill again, with no food in sight… and a deep craving for goat soup gripping my very being. So off I wandered back down the track in the vain hope of finding some. Dennis’ shack was once again vibrating to the sweet sound of lover’s rock, but from somewhere in the bush beyond I could hear something even better – ‘oldits’ (old hits) from the 70s. Me had to seek dem out. The soup could wait.
At the top of a small hill nearby, I found a small dwelling with an even larger sound system overshadowing it. Around thirty people sat around drinking, playing dominoes or just listening. They impassively noted my arrival and went back to their business. So I just stood, taking in the extraordinary openness of the dub reggae as it boomed off the trees surrounding the entire area in one large natural amphitheatre. Dub sounds like god’s own music when heard out in the warm night air with stars over your head and nothing else competing for your attention but the tree frogs and cicadas.
Suddenly I became conscious of an old dread standing next to me. ‘How yuh doing, man?’ I ventured. ‘Mi farder die,’ he returned. ‘Ninety-six year old.’ Offering my condolences, I explained that I wanted to hear the music. ‘Nuh problem,’ he replied. And then, miraculously, a gangly yout put a polysterene cup of something hot into my hand. It was homemade, wonderfully spicy goat soup. Could this be love? With the Mighty Diamonds singing ‘Right time’, it sure felt like it.
Freddie B, April 2001
