Conscious Sounds: Encountering Jah Shaka
Lancaster University (UK)
<http://dx.doi.org/10.12801/1947-5403.2015.07.02.13>
In 2012 I was invited by David Katz to be a member of a panel at the Rototom Sunsplash International Reggae Festival in Benicàssim, Spain. The purpose of the panel, which also included Jah Shaka and Neil Perch of Zion Train, was to discuss dub reggae and sound system culture in Britain. While David obviously thought that I might have something vaguely interesting to contribute to the discussion, as it turned out, my relationship with Rototom was an uneven one. That is to say, while I can’t help feeling that I contributed little that was illuminating, I left Benicàssim with more than my fair share of inspiration and good memories.
Firstly, what’s not to like about a reggae festival? If you enjoy reggae, as I do, Rototom is the place to be. Secondly, I learned a lot from my conversations with people at the event and particularly enjoyed my journey back to Manchester with the warm-hearted singer, Dub Dadda. Thirdly, it was wonderful to discover that, as some measure of the seriousness with which the organizers at Rototom are keen to engage with social issues, they had also invited the sociologists Zygmunt Bauman and Aleksandra Jasinska-Kania. While I criticize nobody for their obsessive devotion to reggae, it was uplifting to witness the crowd of young festival goers who had chosen to forgo the music in order to spend time listening to Bauman, Jasinska-Kania and Ignacio Ramonet discuss “crisis and democracy”. Finally, while I tend not to be distracted by celebrity (although, at some level, who isn’t?), I was particularly pleased to learn, not only that Shaka was playing at the festival, but (as noted above) that he would also be on the panel. Spending a little time with an artist I had never met before, but whose music I had been listening to for over three decades, was clearly going to be an affecting moment. As it turned out, the impact of Shaka was greater than I had anticipated.
For those few readers who haven’t heard of Jah Shaka, he was born in Clarendon, Jamaica, moved to London in the early 1960s, and became a seminal figure within British sound system culture. Everyone I knew who was interested in dub during the 1970s and 1980s had Jah Shaka on their radar. His name seemed to signify everything that was serious and sacred about UK sound system culture. Shaka played down to earth, heavyweight, “warrior style” dub that conveyed a certain charismatic integrity. Although I have no doubt that there are a number of sociological and musicological reasons for this perception of integrity, it seems to me that it has always had something to do with his approach to dub. Shaman-like, he seemed to operate at the nexus of this world and some other elusive, Rastafarian reality. Like a worshipper before an icon, his focus was not on the art as such, but on that which lay beyond it. Dub was a gateway to the sacred; a window on Zion; a channel of the divine. Consistently articulating his vocation in terms of consciousness raising, he has always been clear about his desire to increase the general level of “overstanding” about Rastafari, social justice, education, the promotion of peace and the celebration of unity. The fact that listening to his music happens to be a pleasurable experience is important, not only because he genuinely wants people to enjoy themselves, but, more significantly, because this makes it an effective medium for the message of Jah. His music is, therefore, integral to his mission. Having borrowed the name Shaka from a revolutionary, early nineteenth century Zulu warrior, he developed an understanding of dub as a weapon in the service of Rastafari, of Africans (particularly the African diaspora), and, finally, of all humanity. Whereas other media can be suppressed and controlled by Babylon, Shaka’s sound system is direct action against oppression, misinformation and ignorance. Powerful stepper’s riddims and sonorous floor-shaking bass call for revolution—peaceful revolution.
At Rototom, prior to the panel, I was taken to a small enclosure where artists were relaxing in the hot Spanish sun and a cordial atmosphere. Although Shaka clearly preferred to spend time alone or with Nicky Ezer, his manager, David interrupted his solitude to introduce me. A quiet, softly spoken man emerged from a small tented area and greeted me. I immediately warmed to his unassuming and kindly manner. We chatted briefly, before being directed to a waiting minibus to be driven through the festival to the rather grand “Reggae University” marquee. It was almost full by the time we arrived and, as we made our way to the front, the eyes of the crowd turned to Shaka. The high priest of dub had arrived.
We took our places and David began the conversation with a general question about the roots of British sound system culture. While I gave a general overview of the culture of colonialism and oppression out of which roots reggae emerged, from the outset, Shaka’s personal engagement with the issues was conspicuously evident. I don’t think I have ever been as conscious of the gulf between “head knowledge” and “heart knowledge” as I was then, sitting next to Shaka and listening to him share his deeply held convictions. A question about sound systems received an answer about how to live a more loving and responsible life or how to change an unjust society. It wasn’t that he refused to talk about his music detached from theology and social issues, but more that he could not. For Shaka, dub and ideology are inseparable. Although he has been central to British sound system culture since the early 1970s, owns a record label (Jah Shaka Music), and has produced numerous important dub albums, he spoke far less about his music than he did about the importance of being a good member of the human race. Three years later, I still remember Shaka’s passionate encouragement to his audience—his congregation—to build their lives around faith, truth, love, honesty and kindness. As he spoke, people smiled, nodded and visibly absorbed his gentle wisdom. I left that session moved and inspired by Shaka.
The ground was prepared for a powerful experience of the sacred art of dub later in the day. As evening fell, I made my way over to Dub Station, an area of the festival devoted to sound systems. Shaka was already there, studiously flicking through his vinyls and checking his solitary deck, which was, as always, placed at head height on top of his small tower of sound equipment. There is an admirable simplicity to Shaka’s sound system. Shunning ostentatious displays of technology, he brings exactly what he needs to practice the sacred art of dub—no more, no less. Behind him, reminding us all of the principal focus of what was about to take place, hung a picture of H.I.M.—His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie, the Conquering Lion of Judah. As always, for Shaka, this was not going to be just another gig, but something more profound and devotional. As the needle dropped into the first groove, everything changed. The loud, sonorous bass pushed back the warm evening air, creating a space in which the trance-inducing dub could begin its journey within: “Rastafari... Rastafari... Rastafari... Let Jah rise ...”, declared Shaka. “Jah... the power of the Trinity ... The gates of Zion are open wide...” The deep warrior dub seemed to pulse through my personal universe. This was an experience Shaka clearly shared. Although he is by no means a young man, he nimbly danced, enchanted by the spell his music was weaving. There is, again, something particularly appealing about an encounter with Shaka’s sound system. He seems to be just as susceptible to the power of his music as those who go to listen to him. It was as if he had summoned up the spirit of Rastafari, which now flowed through the bass, animated the riddims, inhabited the echoes and effects, filled the air, and possessed the high priest, moving him to dance and urging him to prophesy. Even though, initially, there were only a few people gathered at Dub Station, it mattered little to Shaka. Worship had begun. That said, by the end of the evening, it felt as though the spirit of Rastafari had drawn half of the festival to Shaka’s sonic temple of dub.
Shaka had managed to create an affective space for which the term “sacred” seemed peculiarly appropriate. That evening, dub mattered. As the heavy bass, the echo and reverb, the idiosyncratic sounds he sporadically introduced, and the pounding stepper’s riddims altered whatever state I had been in before, it felt as though that small piece of Benicàssim had been lifted out of the world. Of course, in my academic work, I have made much of the fact that the affective spaces evoked by music often create a perception of detachment from everyday life and encourage reflection on a range of existentially important issues, but, without wanting to claim more for the experience than can be accounted for by emotion, the music communicated something I hadn’t quite felt before, something more important and life affirming.