SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES!

The DUB POETS! I see ya making faces.
First books and now poetry? What's next... Ital cooking recipes?


Mutabaruka's first recorded masterpiece.

Crazy hype surrounded this man and his Check It record before it dropped. Ridiculous rumors spread like germs on a dirty toilet seat. Dangerous, some critics accused this man of being to their caucasian cause. Excuse me, why are KKK wannabes penning pop music articles anyway? (Gary Bushnell, that putz from Sounds) Enough nonsense.

One thing for certain, Mutabaruka chooses the right words. He carefully weighs their impact. And those words will stick to the insides of your subconscious forever. There are only a handful of riffs, rhymes and beats that are always stuck on repeat in my head. Jimmy Garrison's lonely bass walk thru the break in Coltrane's A love Supreme. Those notes will pop up outta nowhere from deep within my psyche. The first 12 bars of Miles Davis's “So What” will work its way through my mind like an automatic reflex. Say if I go out food shopping and I'll be checking the freshness of the produce and with no self-control I will start mouthing the words to Mutaburka's “Angola Invasion.” People shopping around me get a little spooked. I will be deciding whether or not I want raisins in my bran and the tune, “De System,” will come outta my mouth like bad Karaoke because only I can hear the music. It is fun to watch the old ladies scatter. In fact by the time I finish shopping almost every song will run through my mind and mouth. This CD is forever etched into the walls of my Cerebellum. You know, that part of the brain that deals with primal instincts and performs basic functions. That explains my reaction to it. My copy of Check It is pressed by Alligator Records, a Chi-town blues label. That actually makes sense. Strange though, as much as love this album, I have never heard the follow ups to it. Maybe I don’t want to damage my original impression.


Linton Kwesi Johnson

This gent was born and raised on the island but was shipped off by a business decision to Merry Ole England to work the hallowed lecture halls of London's Acadamia. I guess the big bosses figured he was too pen and paper for the rudies crowd. Then again, he has become a distinguished eminence of British Society, so maybe that decision was his. Either way, this gent drops his words and beats as a cultural weapon.

BUJU- A FREE MAN!

Alright, it is no great mystery that this old fool loves sweet Reggae music. And I love writing, so it would seem natural that the two would twist around each other nicely. They don't. Every time I itch to get some posting done it's like I have to low crawl thru barbed wire spirals while shots ring out over my head. I get distracted so easily. I end up reading the latest news/gossip of what is happening in this damn crazy world. I've become desensitised to the bombs blowing up the Middle East; apathetic to the news that even more evidence of genocide was unearthed in the sacred soils of Mother Africa and hell, I am downright bored with the endless articles about how one human being can be so rotten to another.

Ahhh...but today hidden in the BBC's entertainment section was news of Buju's trial. A jury of his peers could not reach the same verdict so the judge declared a mistrial. Everybody go home! By the way was it really a jury of his peers? I mean how many Jamaican Nationals sat in the box? I didn't see the Marley Brothers or Sizzla sitting in the jury box. All good in the end though.

Oh yeah, I lied about Satan's influence on humanity. The daily news reports filled with unspeakable horrors will always continue to infuriate me. Peace. A one syllable word that is so hard for most of the world to pronounce.

THE PRINTED WORD part 1.

Books! Don't burn 'em...read 'em or at least check out the pictures!


The original British edition. Snagged me a copy cheap from Amazon.


The version sold to Americans. I guess the publishers figured we would confuse the title, Bass Culture, with Hillbilly fishing.


and finally... inna Latin (Italian) tongue. I believe all three to be the same book. Different covers and titles for different demographics.

LLoyd gives us the tricks in politics that shaped the sufferah's music. He gives us the number crunches in economics that kept the ghettos dry. Unless you were a street corner salesman, money was not flowing. Sports or big upping the dancehall was your only exit out. Lloyd is obvious. He starts the story at the beginning. Lloyd reaches even further back into history than 1962's Independence Day. Remember mento? He chronologically reveals the truths without playing favorites. Lloyd tells of the music's pioneers. The Skatalites and Prince Busters. He writes about stateside Detroit and Memphis Soul influences. Lloyd writes inna wordy way but not enough to clog up your eyes. Paragraphs read easily. He doesn't waste words or fluff facts. At times he gets a bit British centric, the place of his coming of age; but it is true... London youths bought Reggae records, not Jamaica's poor. So yeah, back then, the reggae market/music bizz was tailor fitted for the English wallet. Trojan, Greensleeves or Island Records anyone? Attack or Jetstar Records? Yep, point proven.

This book only glances at the newer sounds. up till this point, this is some strong story telling. He fan favors the classic 70's roots and 80's dancehall era. Luciano does factor in plot wise during the last chapter but Lloyd by this time is only reporting the news of a younger generation. This one is for reading. Only a few photos decorate the pages. Although a little weak at the finish, this book contains massive substance. Mandatory for Reggae knowledge. Possibly tie with Reggae Bloodlines for the second best book on all things Reggae. Oh... his next book in conjunction with the BBC steals the top honor.



This book is sun ripened fruit. This book is why our brains perform sensory comprehension. This book is the reason carpenters craft coffee tables. I don't care how you furnish your home, if this book is not in your possesion, your living space is empty! A well worn copy of the Old Testament should also be bedside. More on this later....

Blazing the Palace with the Chalice

Has the STATE pulled your drivers license, put a warrant out on your head, froze all your assets and seized your bank accounts? Yeah, long story and even longer battle that has been raging for three years. Yeah, the STATE owes me an “oops we’re sorry; we misfiled all your life’s records, our mistake.” Instead I got, “You’ll have to hire an expensive mouth piece to play the legal game.”
When money is a little tight and the need to bun fyah is most immediate, JAH gave each and every person the ability to feel Irie from inside. That is the magic of body chemistry. Neurotransmitters known as endorphins. The more ya push yourself the more your body insulates from pain! Babylon in blue on your heels? Bang out a hundred yard dash and feel the rush!


The poor bastard pictured is not me!


I clipped this pic from the Smithsonian education website!

The weird thing is, around mile eleven or twelve my feet fall asleep. By thirteen point two (a half marathon) my mind is brittle. Completely deplete of any logic. My feet are marshmallows and my mind is mush. Yep…it is a beautiful feeling. My wife thinks I suffered a stroke…

The SOUND of the DRUMS still has its POWER!

Some time back 1996; I frustratingly peeled off the security seal protecting the newness of my CD purchase. I put my feet up and pressed play. Angelique Kidjo's Fifa CD was cued. The first words, “ have been away for so long that I wonder, does the sound of the drum still have its power?” Angelique was born in Benin, West Africa, but she reached stardom during the mid 1990’s Parisian music scene along side Les Nubians, Zap Mama and Princess Erika. These ladies are all worth your attention.



To answer the question at hand…the sound of the drum for Angelique has not lost its power. This is some crazed Afropean FUNK! I read about her in the Jazz rag, Downbeat Magazine, in a review written by Nawlin's legend Branford Marsalis. As a bass guitarist holding together the bottom of a tune, I damn sure better be listening to the drums, but the question goes deeper. Way past skin deep - as a somewhat fairer complexioned crazy baldhead who is perhaps a several hundred-life times and one continent removed from Mother Africa, I hear it. Loud in my ear! As a small youth I heard it. I pictured myself growing up to be the King of the Bongo! I pictured myself running the Serengeti barefoot. Adults ruined my adolescent reality. Absolutely ruined it with racial prejudice and senseless hatred. I have met parents that teach their kids to hate other kids over skin pigment. They themselves do not even know why. Humanity is not civilized yet. One big JAH test. Sadly, many people will fail.


The first Nyabinghi Warrior to be pressed in vinyl.

So whether you call the science of Biology your faith or chapters of the Old Testament your truth either way it all began in Africa. We are all bothers and sisters fathered by Jah in Zion. And this birth took place in the belly of Mother Earth. Our Mother Africa. (More on that with another post. Big subject, little time.)


I believe these Nyabinghi Drums are hand made by Ras Daniel now out of Kali

Personally, I have been away for a really time, I mean many generations away. To many to count. Generations of man that traveled out of the African plains and across the deserts of the Middle East and who finally settled in the boot of Europe; Italy. In the scheme of things that boat ride over to Ellis Island, was like ten minutes ago. Oh? And that jewel case contained a diamond.

ARTIST I SHOULD LISTEN TOO MORE! Part 1.

My style of ART is considered Neo-Expressionism. Whatever. So that must mean my music critiquing is Impressionistic. Right? I give the impression that I am actually reviewing a CD but I am not. I am going to take this concept a bit further and write about records I have not even heard yet. Make sense? Yep. There are many music artists out there that I KNOW I should pay more attention too. Like this gentleman pictured below, Beres Hammond.



Jah knows I never turn the station when his songs come on. I never skip ‘em on stuff like VP’s, “Strictly The Best” series, so why no massive Beres Hammond selection in my collection? I shy away from love songs for the most part. I love ‘em a few songs at time but an albums worth at a single sitting is like watching a chick flick with your homeboys.
Okay that just shows how shallow my human nature can be, because Beres has all the intensity and the sincerity of genuine heart. He is a singer with huge emotional depth. Beres is happy go lucky with life’s pursuits. Me? My wife always reminds me that my heart is made of coal! Apparently I am not the romantic old fool I thought I was!



Got a cold heart? Warm it up with this!