For nearly 50 years, the Rastafarians have been feared and persecuted in Jamaica. They have been accused of being rabble-rousers, layabouts or dealers in the lucrative ganja trade. But what began as a small, rural religious cult has now become a popular movement. By some estimates, there may be some 20,000 Rastas in Jamaica and nearly as many among the 400,000 Jamaicans in New York City.
The Rastafarian movement was started by Marcus Garvey, who founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association in Harlem during the ’20s. He preached “Africa for the Africans” and urged his countrymen “to look to the mother country, where a black King shall be crowned, for the Day of Deliverance is near.”
Garvey’s activities in Harlem led to his arrest and he was deported to Jamaica in 1927. Three years later, Lij Ras Tafari Makonnen ascended to the throne of Ethiopia as His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie I, Power of the Holy Trinity, 225th Emperor of the 3,000-year-old Ethiopian Empire, Elect of God, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, Heir to the Throne of Solomon, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. His coronation received front-page coverage in The Jamaica Daily Gleaner and Rastafarians hailed Selassie as Jah, the living God on earth.
Today, Rastafarians differ among themselves on specific dogma, but generally they believe they are black Hebrews exiled in Babylon, the true Israelites, that Haile Selassie is the direct descendant of Solomon and Sheba and that God is black. Most white men, they believe, have been worshiping a dead god and have attempted to teach the blacks to do likewise. They believe the Bible was distorted by King James I, that the black race sinned and was punished by God with slavery and conquest. They see Ethiopia as Zion, the Western world as Babylon. They believe that one day they will be repatriated to Zion and that Armaged- don is now. They preach peace, love and reconciliation among the races, but also warn of imminent dread judgment on the downpressors.
They don’t vote, tend to be vegetarians, abhor alcohol and wear their hair in long, tin-combed plaits called dreadlocks or natty dreads; the hair is never cut, since it Is part of the spirit and should neither be combed out or cut off. The Rastas say “I-and-I” for “we” and tend to shift “I” to the front of all important words, such as “I-tal” for “natural” and “I-nointed” for “anointed.” They never use the word “last,” since it expresses retrogression and a Rastaman can only go forward. Grass or ganja is the holy herb; it is regarded as a sacramental gift and the Bible is quoted as proof of this (“And thou shalt eat the barb of the field,” Genesis 3:18). In Jamaica, where it remains illegal, an estimated 65 percent of the population smokes ganja, the highest grade of which the Rastas call lamb’s bread.
Haile Selassie always denied his divinity, although he did give the Rastas encouragement. Land grants were given to Rastas who went to Ethiopia, and the brethren were always favorably received at his palace. In 1966, Selassie traveled to Jamaica. Seeco remembers thousands of Rastas, dressed in rags and carrying wooden sticks, lined along the airport road, praying, screaming and bowing down. It is said that many of them were amazed to see that God was 5 feet 4. Haile Selassie died in 1975 at the age of 83, but this did little to alter Rastafarian conviction that he was the living God. Some Rastas claim that he was reincarnated, while others claim he is not dead at all.
“Check me now,” Marley says, “many people, dey scoffers, many people say to me, ‘Backside, your God he dead.’ How can he be dead? How can God die, mon? Dese people dey don’t tink too clear, y’know, dey have de devil in ’em and dat devil he some trick devil. He smart de eyes and vex de brain. Dat’s why me wrote ‘Jah Lives.’”
In the Kingston ghettos of Marley’s youth, Rastafarianism must have been a powerful siren song. It was, as it remains, a way out, a deliver-ance, the high road to Avalon. But Marley sees it in another light: “You don’ suddenly become a Rasta, you mus’ be a Rastaman from creation. Me was always Rasta . . . On whole earth start in Africa, de whole creation. Goin’ back to Africa is not de ting. We don’ go back to Africa, we go forward. Me want to go to Africa but me don’ want to leave my brethren behind. Me no leader, jus’ an ordinary sheep in da pasture. All I know is dat Rastaman is of the Twelve Tribes of Israel and dat dere comin’ back together. And people no like dat. Dam vexed.”
Whether he chooses to think so or not, Marley is a powerful political voice in Jamaica and it is, perhaps, this along with his Rastafarian beliefs and his criticisms of his country that instigated “the incident” last December.
On the night of Dec. 3, Marley and the Wailers were rehearsing in his Hope Road home in Kingston for a free concert they were to give in the city’s National Arena two days later. At the time, Jamaica was in the throes of a violent election campaign between Michael Manley’s People’s National Party and Edward Seaga’s Jamaica Labor Party. Throughout 1970, Kingston seemed more and more like a black Belfast. Manley claimed repeatedly that the C.I.A. was engineering the violence. Bob Marley had supported Michael Manley during the 1972 election but had since become disenchanted. “When me decide to play da concert,” he said, “no politics were involved. Me jus’ want to play for de love of da people.” He had, however, received anonymous warnings not to play.
At about 9 o’clock, Don Taylor, Marley’s manager, drove through the gates of Hope Road and parked his car. He could hear the band playing “Jah Lives” inside. It was very dark. Taylor had come to see Chris Blackwell and, though he didn’t know it at the time, the fortunate Blackwell would arrive, as is his custom, several hours late. A few minutes later the band took a break. There were eight musicians in the front room, along with the three girl singers and the usual hang-ers-on. Marley told the group to work on some of the bridges, while he went to get something to eat.
When Don Taylor walked into the brightly lit kitchen at the rear of the house, the back door was open and Marley was standing in the corner eating grapefruit. He asked Marley for a piece. Marley smiled and held it out. Taylor walked toward him and heard what he took to be the sound of a fire cracker. Marley suddenly spun round, dropping the grapefruit to the floor. Taylor continued to walk toward Marley, passing in front of the open kitchen door, when he heard the sound of firecrackers again, many of them this time, and felt a terrible pain in his side. He stumbled in front of Marley, felt another stab of pain in his side and, dragging Marley with him, fell to the floor and blacked out. Don Taylor had been hit three times—once in each thigh and in the side. He was in hospital for six weeks. Marley was shot in the left elbow and another bullet grazed his chest below the heart. The bullets were homemade. There seemed little doubt that the shooting was the work of political hirelings, but many other extravagant rumors circulated and nothing was proved one way or the other. No one was ever apprehended.
Two days later, Marley showed up at the concert and was mobbed by 80,000 fans—including Michael Manley. Marley had intended to play one number and leave, but he played about an hour and shall and exhibited his wound to the crowd. He had a hit single, “Smile Jamaica,” at the time and he pledged its proceeds to the poor of Trenchtown.
Several months later, Marley sat on the floor in a small drawing room of his mother’s house in Delaware and smoked a spliff the size of a carrot. “Dem say de gunmen get clean away. So dem say. But me know dey couldn’t shoot de Prime Minister or de Chief of Police and jus’ disappear. Dat could never happen.” He shrugged. “But dat’s cool, mon. It’s in de past now.” He shook his head. “Don’t know, maybe it wasn’t politics.”
“It politricks,” said Seeco.
“Maybe jealousy,” said Marley. “Jealousy’s a disease inside plenty people’s brain. It stirs ’em up and twist ’em round toward wickedness. Dat’s do trot’. And when you know do trot’ you can’t get annoyed.” He lit up another spliff. “Herb is a natural t’ing,” he said, apropos of nothing. “It grow like de tree. It is de healin’ of de nation. I cannot use it jus’ to get high. Me no do dat. An herb inspires. It clears ya out.” Marley has been busted only once, in England last year, and he told the judge that he had
smoked grass “since a you” and saw nothing wrong with it. The judge fined him $75 and asked him to try to restrain himself while he remained in England.
Since the shooting, Marley has not returned to Jamaica; and in the near future, at least, he is not likely to. “You can’ sing your song in strange land,” he says. But his music is everywhere—particularly “Exodus,” the title song of his new album.
During the Jamaican election last December. Michael Manley’s campaign slogan was “We know where we’re going.” Shortly afterward, Marley wrote “Exodus” and the Rastafarian brethren believe the song was the appropriate reply to Manley’s assertion. “Open your eyes and look within,” Marley wrote, “are you satisfied with the life you’re living? We know where we’re going, we know where we’re from, we’re leaving Babylon into our father’s land.” The song has become the No. 1 hit in Jamaica. It is also No. 1 in England and Germany.
It is, of course, difficult to predict whether Marley will exert the same influence in this country. To date, his American audiences have been predominantly white. “Exodus” is the first of his albums to have captured the black audience. Marley has been told that many of his black American brethren have not been able to afford tickets to his concerts.
“That only part true,” says Tyrone Downie, the Wailers’ keyboard player. “The blacks in America are into glitter; they’re into platform shoes, fur coats and Cadillacs. They’re tame, man, and they ain’t about to let their pretty Afros down. All that talk of revolution—it vex ’em, man, it vex ’em bad.”
But in Europe and throughout the third world, Marley has become a figure of almost messianic proportions. His fans come to his concerts for the music but it’s the message they take away. To watch their stem, clenched-fist salutes, to hear their fervent chants of “Everywhere be war” and “Death to the downpressors” is to believe, however momentarily, that the revolution is near.
“Me don’ understand politics,” said Marley, “me don’ understand big words like ‘democratic socialism.’ What me say is what de Bible say, but because people don’ read de Bible no more, dey tink me talk politics. Hah! It’s de Bible what have it written and it strong, it powerful.”
“Yeah,” he said, lighting up his spliff again, “now is wicked time. De trot’ is always dere, you got to seek it out, dat’s all. Dere is plenty of wisdom on dis earth dat people don’t know. God is my boss and he tell me what to do, so I don’t make no plans.” Marley lay lack on the flour and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometime I talk and I don’ understand what I hear, but I know what I mean, y’know?” When questioned about the spreading of his message in America, Marley smiled and looked away. The question bored him. The spliff had gone out. Lying on the flour, he closed his eyes. He appeared to have gone to sleep.
And then: “Me not know if they be ready here,” he said. “In Africa, dey prepare for Zion. It is for dem me sing de song. Me only want to sing and spread do word. It slow to start, y’know, and now it creep up and do time is right. On time is come to rise up against Babylon. It have to be,” he said, spreading his arms, “in America, all over de world. It in prophecy. And dat, no man can change.”
Bob Marley: Movement of Jah People
by Vivien Goldman
(Source: Sounds, May 28, 1977)
“ISN’T it a nice feeling . . . isn’t it a nice day . . . isn’t it a nice feeling . . .” Bob Marley croons, strumming on an acoustic guitar. He’s glowing, planted on the neutral modern sofa, in this sunlit hotel room. Outside the sliding plate-glass windows there’s a balcony. Stand on the balcony and the river Isar rushes in a yellow froth far below, bubbling through spans of green leafy trees. We’re in—where are we again? Oh yeah. Munich. The Hilton.
It’s because, for example, Family Man never knows where the hell we are, that the Wailers travel in such a tight, closed unit. A real family on the road. It could be, and usually is, anywhere outside, but the Wailers’ world is secure. A mobile Jamdown in a Babylon. European Dread.
Looking around this light, spacious living-room of the corner suite, some of the family are taking their ease. This Saturday a.m. is brilliant. There’s a natural mystic flowing through the air, and everything happens crystal clear, because it’s Saturday morning, and it’s a day off the bus.
And everybody’s either singing, beating time on a coffee table, or just aware of the sweet music dancing like sunlight through the room. You can hear the river bubble, the hissing wind through the trees, you can hear the distant sound of cars on the highway, and above it all you can hear Bob singing this tune, mellow as the river, fresh/free as the wind.
The melody swirls like incense in the air, interlocking everyone into a mood of peaceful unity, breathing in synchompatibility. The tennis on the colour T.V. is turned down low. The positive vibrations are turned up higher than high. Photographer Kate Simon says, “Now I’m gonna shoot some black and white,” firmly switching cameras.
“Hey sister,” someone interrupts, “Why dontcha shoot some black and black. No offence.”
“That’s cool,” Kate says brightly, beaming like she’s just scored the cover of the National Geographic, “I’ll see what I can do.” And shoots off another dozen pics while she speaks. And when that film’s developed, there it’ll be, black on black.
Roland Kirk called it Blacknuss, playing just the black notes on the piano to make sweet rebel music, telling his brothers and sisters not to worry ’bout a thing, ’cos every little thing’s gonna be alright.
Bob Marley and the Wailers call it Rastafari.
“We know where we’re going, we know where we’re from, we live in Babylon” (‘Exodus’)
I’ve been on the road with all kinds of bands, and so’s Kate, but never on a tour quite as hermetically sealed as the Wailers’. Mick Cater, the man-on-the-road from Alec Leslie who set up the tour (very efficiently, I might add) had this to say:
“It’s easy to arrange a Wailers tour. All they want is a room where they can be left alone to eat their ital (natural) food, and not be hassled. The only reason why they’re staying in Hiltons and expensive hotels like that is because they’re the only places with private kitchens.”
The Wailers follow the Rastafarian way, they like everything to be natural.
And what’s a more natural part of life than FOOD? Right! Where other bands hit the night-spots, the Wailers chow down.
The Wailers are the exact reverse of junk food junkies. You can’t imagine Family queuing up at the Blue Boar for a plate of egg and chips, it just doesn’t work that way. No, the Wailers have Gilly and Inez in official green/yellow tour jacket ON THE BUS to take care of their stomachs.
Gilly looks like a cross between a swashbuckling seafaring man and a giant doorman from the Arabian Nights, with scimitar and turban. He rolls as he walks, and he has a way of looming over you as he talks that can be almost alarming. At gigs, he positions himself by Tyrone’s keyboards at the side of the stage, stepping solemnly in his imposing solar topee. Then he rushes to the kitchen and concocts those fabulous, indecipherable Jamaican brews. Standing sternly over the blender, he adds a splat of red, a smidgeon of brown, and whirrrrrrrs. Yumyumyum. What’s this, Gilly?
“This life protoplasm, mon.”
Seen. Not much answer to that, is there?
Like everybody connected with the Wailers, he’s fiercely loyal and protective. Inez was almost reduced to tears when she arrived at the Heidelberg hotel and found NO KITCHEN. (Turns out they had space reserved in the main hotel cookery, so everything, of course, turned out to be ALRIGHT. Don’t worry ’bout a thing.)
Neville Garrick, the Wailers’ willowy art director bred’rens hovers on the blender, eyes glued to the Life Protoplasm. As soon as the first lot’s done, he knocks a glass back, then says, “Where’s the skip?” and sprints solicitously off with the machine to ensure that Bob gets a generous dose of the life-giving juices.
Bob’s a man who spent a good few formative years being ripped off, and the result is, as Mi
ck Cater said, “Where business is concerned, Marley doesn’t trust anybody. That’s the only way to be.”
Members of Marley’s entourage took the accounts of the last tour away from Alec Leslie’s offices for inspection before this tour. (AL Enterprises weren’t obliged to show the books, but they did quite happily.) Marley representatives cover every aspect of the money-gathering procedure—double-checking. And on this tour, everybody’s on the case.
Kate and I were sitting in the back-up singers, the I-Threes’, room one night—they share a room together on the road, kind of like the Girls Dorm—Rita Marley, Judy Mowatt and Marcia Griffiths were lounging around on the gilded beds, offering us delicious cold spicy chicken they’d saved over from supper.
Rita’s small, dark and lithe, with a cheeky snub nose and a warm, urchin’s smile. She was tidying away her clothes in a big cardboard drum she travels with, folding tops and skirts away. A red-green-gold Ethiopian lion flag drapes over the mock Louis Quinze lampshade, softening the light. They’ve made this baroque one-night stop-over room look homely, inviting.
I tell them how much I enjoy watching them onstage—they always look like they’re having a party going on in the corner of the stage, looking at each other, whispering between numbers and laughing, generally vibing each other up while they sing those frighteningly perfect-to-the-point-of-sublime harmonies. Then towards the end of the set, perhaps during ‘Lively Up Yourself’, Bob dances over to them and flings an arm over Judy’s shoulders, swinging his hips against hers, eyes closed in concentration, singing along with them—“yes, lively up yourself,” . . . and sure enough, Judy, who all through the set has been performing with exquisite purity (tongue delicately poking out in concentration as she swings through the gun-shooting mime that accompanies ‘I Shot The Sheriff’) SPARKLES! even more. Marcia, pale moon-face serenely lovely, looks up and laughs. “Yes, we all brighten up when the big boss is around . . . ”
Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright Page 12