Magic Kingston

Burning Spear captures reggae's golden era

by Mark Edmonds

In 1998 reggae unofficially celebrates its 30th birthday (the clock started ticking when Jamaicans adopted the term in 1968). But two and a half decades after Bob Marley first brought the mystical, quasi-religious, politically volatile synthesis of American R&B and Afro-Caribbean styles stateside, reggae remains a cult phenomenon. The music, with its fiery political sermons and its neck-snapping rhythms, has never managed to rally a large-scale audience in America.

It's hard to explain (because other Afro-Caribbean-based forms such as blues and jazz hold sway over large constituencies), unless, of course, you're coming from the outside. Winston Rodney, who's better-known to reggae fans as Burning Spear (he borrowed the name of a Kenyan political reformist), has a theory as to why reggae's never made it here.

"Part of the trouble for reggae in America," he explains by phone, "is that people program themselves here. They make their selections, fill their minds with them, and then don't give anyone anymore space. Here too only one type of music gets played in one place. Rap goes on rap stations, rock goes on rock stations, and so on. So many people don't get the chance to hear different things."

Spear should know. He's spent two decades bringing Americans his own style of positive vibrations, logging countless miles on the road and waxing more than 16 releases. At 52, he's not giving up on us Yanks yet. He's released a new CD, Appointment with His Majesty (Boston's Heartbeat label), and is barnstorming the tour circuit to support it.

Spear and his 10-piece Burning Band pull into Northampton's Pearl Street on September 16 and Lupo's, in Providence, on September 21. Expect a long, perhaps as much as two-and-a-half-hour nonstop Jamaican culture tour, all of it set to breezy grooves that typify the sound of reggae's golden era -- the years before Jamaicans began cross-pollinating reggae with American rap and hip-hop.

Following in the steps of his last outing, 1995's Rasta Business, Appointment finds Spear exploring the cultural and spiritual issues near to his heart since 1969, when he cut his first Studio One singles. He wonders about the future of mankind, which to him "doesn't seem to have a plan," on tracks such as "Clean It Up" and the disc's title cut, while on others ("Don't Sell Out" and "Commercial Development") he worries about the exploitation of his homeland's resources.

A variety of grooves carries each song through a soundscape punctuated by his sizable horn and percussion sections, making listening effortless. With such an easy-going pace, Spear is the polar opposite of reggae's current state of the art -- artists such as Shabba Ranks, whose fast-talking patter and lyrical preoccupation with getting laid make him a fave among rap and hip-hop's younger, urbanized audience.

Spear (among others) fears that Ranks and the inexhaustible supply of heirs apparent are having a negative effect on reggae with their "slackness vibe." He predicts, however, they won't be around long.

"They're the `in' thing today," he notes. "But, you know, sometimes the `in' thing doesn't work for long. Today, those who came to this music in past years as that are nowhere around. They've faded out, while I'm still doing what I do. I never approached this business to be rich in 10 years or something. I came in looking at the long-term. I've been up and down, and along the way, some have wondered `Did Spear fail out?' or `Does Spear need to get involved with the in thing?' But I've never wanted that. I've always wanted to sing about things that would make people think and want to check out things they never would usually."

By the the '80s, Spear, Jimmy Cliff, and Gregory Issacs were sharing stages nationwide with younger groups such as the reggae-rocking outfit Black Uhuru. But by the end of the decade, reggae's momentum was lost, something Spear attributes to the music industry's inability to market it.

"Even though Bob [Marley] was the first of us to get space here," he says, "I think they thought it got out of hand. They weren't planning for him to become as big as he did, and when it happened, it surprised a lot of [music-industry] people. Maybe it frightened them. I don't know. But ever since, it looks as if they have made it their duty to see that it never happens again."

Reggae's roots stretch back to World War II when mento -- made up of popular Jamaican folkloric songs flavored with elements of calypso, rhumba, and merengue -- first began to mix with outside influences that were beaming into Jamaica from radio stations in Nashville, Miami, and New Orleans. Blues, R&B, and country came to the island on weak signals. Country seemed to be particularly endearing; its downbeats were adapted and molded into ska, which by 1960 all but ruled Jamaica's musical roost.

Meanwhile, a number of fairly intense political and social changes were developing. Rastafarianism, a quasi-religious movement based in part on adaptations of Hebrew teachings and Pan-African philosophies, had come to the island in the '50s, carrying messages of liberation through self-determination. Activists began to attack Jamaica's British-backed government, delivering their message over sound systems at ska shows. They created a swirling storm of unrest that gripped the country for the better part of the decade. Musicians, while trying to cope with a sweltering 1966 summer, had taken to slowing ska down to half its normal speed, using their guitars to chord on offbeats. Within this bubbling cauldron, reggae -- as we know it today -- was born.

Spear, who grew up in the same St. Ann's hill country as Marley, paired with bassist Rupert Willington and the two were later joined by another vocalist, Delroy Hines.

The three would spend the next several years carving a niche in Jamaica's highly competitive local scene. Unsuccessful, they all but gave up by 1974, when Jah finally smiled and delivered them a break.

A single they'd recorded -- a paean to black nationalist Marcus Garvey b/w the chanting "Slavery Days" -- became a runaway hit and soon after they were re-releasing several of group's older sides in the UK.

Hines and Willington eventually broke off from Spear in 1977; afterward, Spear continued solo, recording a series of discs for several labels, including Island, Mango, and in 1981 he landed at Heartbeat. On all of the projects he's released since, he has focused on giving his fans "something of substance.

"When we present music, we have to present something that the people can benefit from listening to," he says. "Reggae music should always be something people gain something from. It's not like you listen to it, dance, and walk away. You should be touched for days, even years. Maybe America will someday realize that."

Burning Spear plays Pearl Street, in Northampton, on September 16 (call 800-843-8425) and Lupo's, in Providence, on September 21 (call 401-242-5876).