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Pastiche: Dub, Art Baker, Reagan High School and Other Things
Editor's note: Pastiche is an occasional column exploring the diversity within the Austin music community. The views expressed in Pastiche are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the outlook or beliefs of anyone else in the IST network.
To paraphrase something I read once, in print, there exists two factions of Beach Boys fans: Dad-types in striped suits dreaming about fun in the sun, and pale, obsessive sorts pining over “lost tapes.” Given that you are neither the owner of every Beach Boys bootleg in existence nor the sort of person who still uses the word “Woody” in casual conversation, you, dear reader, most likely exist somewhere along this spectrum of the painfully freewheeling to the painfully dedicated.
This same polarized brotherhood exists amongst fans of reggae music as well. Because it doesn’t currently have much of a hold on popular music here in the States, it seems as though local fans of reggae and its spawned genres behave as though they’ve gained admission to some privileged class, one in which the restrictions of American-bred music are happily flouted.
And now for some back-story - almost ten years ago I graduated from Reagan High School in San Antonio with just a small class of seniors. The neighborhood Alamo Heights in my hometown will always be synonymous with white privilege, but the spoiled, over-comfortable denizens of most of my senior class gave them a run for their money - you’d think the eighties had literally been resurrected when the school was christened with Ronnie’s name. So what unlikely tune was our Class Song was in this year of 2000? How about the Vitamin C cash-grab “Graduation (Friends Forever)” or even Green Day’s tiresome “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)?” No, it was none other than “Redemption Song” from Bob Marley and Wailers’ album Uprising (released in 1980!).
What the Polo-sportin’ bros and gals in my senior class could possibly equate in their life with the musings of a Jamaican artist channeling Marcus Garvey is positively beyond me - maybe it was the redemption of not having to worry about their meal ticket? - but them’s the brakes. I have no doubt that more than a few of these folks edged toward the Ras Trent contingency in college, sporting obnoxious t-shirts imploring us to “LISTEN TO BOB MARLEY,” flirting with dreads and otherwise getting high to said artist’s Legend album while staring at a poster of Bob Marley smoking a spliff. Meta.
The absorption of an outside culture is an important part of the melange and diversity we enjoy in this country. How poor would our lives be if we were so stunted as to not be able to enjoy the music, customs and passions of Jamaica? On the other hand, is it worth hearing guys with trust funds from Sugarland dropping “mon” into their parlance? How many bands like the Insane Clown Posse have to exist before we wish we never heard Straight Outta Compton to begin with? Just one?
As obnoxious as this shit is, people usually grow out of it (save for I.C.P.). At some point fans either find another genre to causally befriend or they manage to learn something about the music that initially entranced them. If you're interested in the latter, host Art Baker at KOOP radio here in town is a godsend. For two hours on Sunday, he plays “vintage ska and reggae,” rocksteady, dub, and more. He’s a serious connoisseur of the stuff but hardly a snob. Beginners can feel free to jump into a show midstream, taking in a heady dose of Jamaican music that goes down easy thanks to Baker’s relaxed attitude and absurd wellspring of knowledge. Just as sure as he’s going to talk about the hangover plaguing him during that show, every edition of “Jamaican Gold” contains thoughtful dalliances with everything from the bare-boned kings of ska to the space age wanderings of dub.
A recent acolyte of dub myself, it’s unfortunate that I let a personal bias against people who I deemed as being culturally handicapped prevent me from dipping into the varied and discographies of folks like King Tubby, Vivian Jackson and The Upsetters, compiled to great effect by Trojan Records and many more. I wanted to talk with Art about his show, but every attempt at communication has resulted in silence on his end - Art, tell me you’re not anti-Austinist!
Anyway, all this brings me to the Austin Reggae Festival, which is to take place on Friday the 16th and which concludes on Sunday the 18th. What will this festival entail? Will it: confirm dearly-held stereotypes? Or: playfully dash suspicions, broaden minds, and engender love between people even more effectively than a guy with a "Free Hugs" sign? Is it time to finally let teenage-style presumptions against lifestyle-plundering deadbeats finally wash away like so much Fierce, Abercrombie and Fitch’s signature cologne launched in 2002?
Let’s take a look at the lineup. Alongside honest-to-goodness reggae bands who trace their origins to the heydays of of their genre (The Mighty Diamonds) or just plain amazing groups like the Sierra Leon Refugee All Stars Band, the fest also showcases some, uh, less realized projects.
Here’s an example - the Roots Revealers (playing at 6:30 on Saturday). Watching the sexed-up video for their cover of John Holt’s “Sweetie Come Brush Me” is about six degrees of uncomfortable, something just barely offset by Holt’s apparent ease with it all.
Surely people from Texas can genuinely love and be a part of a musical movement that was borne years and years ago in a foreign country, but the buck has to stop somewhere, and with me it’s when an Arlington guy sings a cover of a Police song with an affected accent on America’s Got Talent.
If mass appreciation for reggae skewed closer to Art Baker's smooth devotion or the carefully assembled collections of Jonny Greenwood or Guto Pryce, maybe I could un-grit my teeth a little...or not. Can't wait 'till that class reunion, either way.
