DON'T HAFFI DREAD

A few semesters back while I was sitting face to face with an administrator type hoping to figure out my educational path, she pointed to the nest I called a hairstyle. She politely mentioned that my tangled snarls would have to go bye-bye. Entrance to the X-ray program is based on scoring the highest grades. That and medical professionals look presentable. I know the deal.
I froze in front of the mirror and reluctantly started to buzz my brain basket down to peach fuzz. Flashes of Army daze came rushing up in my face. I watched as years and years of spiritual growth dropped to the floor.

A fucking normal Joe was staring back at me! I’m a crazy baldhead!

I felt naked and weak. Like when a beguiling Delilah sheared off Samson’s seven locks. But damn-I betrayed myself! That’s the price one pays for a brighter future. Well that and state tuition. Besides hair has this habit of growing back so no big end of the world. In an effort to cheer me up…my wife claimed it made me look a lot younger. All the gray was chopped off and swept into the dustbin. My friends that are challenged by disappearing hair follicles were horrified that I hadn’t waited till I was sure I passed all those prerequisite classes.
This buzz cut became a test of faith. It also re-enforced my ambition to push myself. No slacking…no easy ways. I sat in the front row under the professor’s nose because I’m almost blind and completely deaf. Plus sitting there under the professor’s nose there would be no added girlie distractions to tempt my attention. Otherwise, the loss of righteous hair and expensive for me anyway, state tuition, would be in vain.
So Don’t Haffi Dread by Morgan Heritage became my personal anthem. Pencil pushing in class dressed in plainclothes. Not dressed as a Soldier of JAH.
Dreads do give you instant Rasta cred, but ultimately it is what in your heart that matters, and how you treat your fellow man while you go about your daily doings. Yep...don't haffi dread to be RASTA!


The high camp Hollywood version of 1949 that I grew up with. Where's Samson's seven locks?

For years record companies and critics looked for the next Bob Marley. Every rising star might be the next international breakout and the majors were in frenzy to sign ‘em. They weren’t done squeezing enough money out of the music. Black Uhuru came closest and was the first Reggae entity to win a Grammy. Not impressed, lead voice Michael Rose left the group, leaving a young Jr. Reid to fill the void. Bob’s kids Ziggy and the Melody Makers weren’t taken as serious artists yet. The rest of the obvious heir apparent children weren’t of age. (Now that they are, lets just say that their sound is too URBAN. Think of Damain Marley’s rap cross over. Scares ‘em.) That was years ago-maybe now the record companies are searching for the next Buju or Sizzla.
Denroy Morgan’s heirs could have been the answer to that dumb question. Who else has that complex layer after layer of textured sound? Fat bass accompanied by pounding drums sweetened by harmony as thick as cane sugar syrup. Add epic guitar leads when necessary but not enough to dilute the Reggae vibe. Filter in washes of keyboard fills and percussion swells. Morgan Heritage sings songs with universal lyrics that speak to the cart pusher (always going uphill) in Kingston or to the suburban skate rat from an upper-middleclass neighborhood.
Morgan Heritage speaks to me. This whole album tells me a story that I want to hear. Start to finish I’m all ears.

While visiting my wife’s baby brother in the burn ward at Bridgewater Hospital in Connecticut a DREAD passed me dressed in scrubs. He was a working MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL! Granted his dreads were well manicured and tied back neatly. They were real dreads and not some hair extensions. So there is hope that I’ll be able to LOCKS -UP one more time before old age buries me. And no I wasn't alive in 1949!