Blogarhythms

A few days ago I was reminiscing with a friend about our misguided youths when the conversation turned to the music that served as the soundtracks to our lives over the years. For a short while the discussion hovered over the late early ’90s, and I got misty over the Reggae, particularly the computer-riddim-fueled, gun-talk and slackness-laden Dancehall, of the time.

While the time-frame and geography of our misadventures coincided, my friend somehow managed to limit their intake of Caribbean flavor during that period. I asked how this was possible and was surprised when they explained that at the time they thought Reggae as a genre consisted entirely of islanders recording cover-versions of other people’s songs, and to their young mind that always seemed counterintuitive.

True enough, the Caribbean music shows which populate the local radio dial have always featured a steady supply of Reggae re-imaginings of familiar classics and contemporary hits. But as a fan I’d long taken this penchant for covers-songs for granted, thinking of it as a quaint idiosyncrasy of the genre, not a point of contention that potential listeners might hold against it.

Over the years passed my friend let their misgivings go and eventually grew to love Reggae, from Roots to Dancehall. But when I put Better Days, the 1978 release from seminal Rocksteady trio The Heptones, on my turntable this morning I was immediately reminded of their beef, and suddenly understood their reasoning a little clearer.

This revelation was the product of the album’s opening tracks, back-to-back covers of the Elvis chestnut “Suspicious Minds” and Tommy James‘ soulful Psyche-Pop gem “Cyrstal Blue Persuasion.” I can’t front, I actually like the Tommy James cover, since the hippie-flower-child lyricism meshes with a Rasta-influenced consciousness focused on unity and change, and the organ-fueled sound is easily transposed to the Reggae milieu. But the Elvis joint is a bit much. And I can totally understand why either tune might be a turnoff.

Luckily the remainder of the LP is peppered with better and more original material. I’m particularly fond of “No Bread on My Table.” It’s a moody sufferers tune with soulfully smoky vocals worthy of Donny Hathaway, Bobby Womack and Eddie Kendricks, eerie liturgical-influenced chants, and the tastiest track — comprised largely of layers of otherworldly keyboard licks and twangy guitars — cooked up by producer Winston “Niney the Observer” Holness on the entire record.

I’m reminded of Bobby Womack again by the bluesy guitar on the title track, another anthem of the downpressed, which sounds like something he might have busted some notes to. The slow-strolling courtship jam “Ready Ready Baby” tops a psuedo-Swamp-Funk groove with a lilting falsetto that calls to mind the late-great Desmond Dekker. While “Every Day Life” laments modern man’s loss of spiritual health over an insistently thumping rhythm accented by plaintive pianos and machine-gun-fire snare rolls.

Ironically, the album also features a selection called “Mr. Do Over Man Song” which calls out artists who jack others peoples tunes, preferring to imitate what others have already made rather than originating on their own. Admittedly, I don’t know the story behind the song but, had they heard it way back when, I’m sure my homie would’ve agreed with it’s sentiment.

- El Keter