JAMAICAN WARRIORS pt. 1

I know I promised a review of Beth Lesser’s two incredible reads on Dance Hall but I haven’t found any words fitting yet, so while Stephen Foehr’s Jamaican Warriors is fresh in the frontal lobes….

Lifted directly form his book...
...“However, expecting DJ fans to give equal loyalty to burning spear, for example, is akin to believing that hardcore Metallica fans will spend equal money buying Johnny Mathis CDs.” (page 231)

It is not what he wrote that made me angry; he's right!

This post is going to be demographically and politically incorrect. I have been educated to fact that the youth that drops his cash on the latest Vybz Kartel smash could give a Red Rat’s ass about the latest Augustus Pablo reissue. Boring old man music he is supposed to say. Grandma used to hum those Riddims. Polar opposites claim those scholars in the know. Today’s music comes from a completely different world. Huh? I am confused. A Google map shows the same Kingston Parishes, right? Some of the same yards even. Why the split then. Is it that old secular verses sacred argument? No.

Stranger still…most of the world thinks Reggae comes from only one man. This one man is universally accepted as the human embodiment of Reggae Music itself…His name ladies and gentleman-Robert Nesta Marley.
More adventurous souls will find Peter Tosh along their way. Those individuals that completely abandon common sense may even come across Bunny Wailer’s solo work. I absolutely love Bob. Been listening to him for over 25 years but he is only one of million. Come on people take chances. This rant only applies to the age impaired. Or those individuals with challenged common sense.


(my personal trainer!)

I hit the treadmill with Elephant Man threatening to blow up my speakers. I go about daily chores to Tenor Saw. He informs me to ring the alarm cause another sound is dying. Actually many sounds have died only to be resurrected again. So many of today’s Riddims started life during the late 60's Rocksteady daze. When I need to make sense of this mad world that surrounds me, I reason Rastafarian teachings through Burning Spear. Yes.


(my spiritual advisor!)

I fall deep into dreamland to King Tubby exploring sonic possibilities.


(my sleep agent to the dream world!)

Why can I not enjoy all of ‘em. There is Dancehall music to motivate. There is Reggae music to contemplate. There is Dub music to meditate. Life cannot be Fyah and Brimstone all the time. I consider myself to be serious minded so I should snub my nose at Alaine and her silly little love songs? Hell no, there is music to hold your lady tight. (Or ladies to hold your mister tight.)


(my dream girl!)

Therefore I am theoretically wrong for enjoying all variations. I must narrow my mind. Reach for a one-dimensional approach. My TASTE should reflect my AGE. My mid-forty something experience tells me to choose safe and be afraid of the young Black man holding the microphone. Not because he is Black dummy but because his generation is gonna push me out and put me in an old age home!