My Relationship With Reggae

Image courtesy of Daphne Bryant

Growing up, there were a few things constantly on the radio: KIDZ BOP, black female powerhouses like Beyoncé and Alicia Keys, motivational Christian music, American rock bands like The Fray and reggae. Sooo much reggae.

Reggae is a musical genre that originated in Jamaica in the 1960s. It’s strongly influenced by traditional mento, American jazz and rhythm and blues, and has since expanded into the mainstream. Many people have only now begun to jump onto the wave, but for me, there was never a time when I didn’t know reggae and its syncopated, driven rhythms.

As a kid, I recall my entire family, all five of us, packed into a car embarking on a road trip and singing the lyrics to the heartfelt, “Reggae” by Etana at the top of our lungs. There’s videos of toddler-me dancing with my siblings in our earth tone living room to Gyptian’s “Hold Yuh.” I will never forget listening to the iconic “Cheater’s Prayer” with my Gran-Gran and laughing as the true meaning of the record went completely over her head.

Barbados.

My mom immigrated to the U.S. from Barbados — and that adoration for reggae came packed with her and her bags. She never wanted us to forget that we were Bajan Yankees, through and through. My dad, who wasn’t even from the Caribbean, loved reggae just as much. As a family, we went to Barbados once for a gigantic family reunion, it was undoubtedly one of the most memorable trips I’ve ever taken. I still remember reggae and calypso blasting from every stereo and feeling like I was at a home away from home.

Outside of my house in Georgia, though, reggae wasn’t nearly as cool. Most people in my school district and the white kids at my church rocked heavier with rap, hip hop and groups like One Direction or Little Mix. No one was talking about reggae; no one — at least, publicly — cared. So, it became something I loved in secret.

When I was younger, I never fully understood how nuanced reggae is. I connected with it, of course, but as with most genres, there were layers to the music that my nine-year-old self didn’t quite understand.

“She’s Royal” is one of my anthems now. Riley sings about the beauty of a black woman, referring to the subject of the song as a “Nubian queen.” What’s great about this song is that it discusses not only physical appearance, but also character and self-love. “The way she moves to her own beat / She has the qualities of a queen” and “And when they ask what a good woman's made of / She's not afraid and ashamed of who she is” are lyrics that stand out to me as things I aspire to be. Back then, I would always look at my mom as she sang this song, loud and proud, and wonder how she was so secure in herself and her identity. I didn’t get it — I didn’t know what was so royal about my kinky hair, about my dark skin, about the way I differed from others around me. I was someone who grew up hating and wanting to conceal parts of my blackness, but this song makes me want to claim them and proclaim them to the world.

I was someone who grew up hating and wanting to conceal parts of my blackness, but this song makes me want to claim them and proclaim them to the world.

Certain songs, like “Show Love,” where artist Pressure sings out with a rawness, “Show love / Let me teach you / Show love / Love is how I greet you” serve as motivation for my own life. One trait my friends always compliment me on is my kindness — my positive energy and my determination to spread good vibes. A lot of this, of course, comes from my upbringing. The “love your neighbor,” Christian faith I grew up in, the amazing parental examples I had and the messages of reggae that hit me so much harder now as I learn to navigate this world. As a young person, seeing happy, beautiful black faces in music videos — like the one Pressure put out — only reiterates how important it is that we are exposed to not just black struggle, but black joy.

It’s also no wonder I’m a hopeless romantic when so many reggae tracks are about love and romance. Jah Cure’s “Never Find” always makes me want to lie down on the beach with my soulmate, baking under a summer heat, unworried as to what the world thinks of us. That music video lives in my head rent-free, images of a life I hope to have one day.

Another one of his songs, “Call On Me,” with artist Phyllisia is nostalgic and similarly describes that best friend, meant-to-be love I crave. Alaine’s “Sincerely” is one of the most genuine love songs I’ve ever heard, and is in short, how I feel when I get into a relationship with someone I truly care about. Reggae is also notably cheeky; it’s a cultural thing. Busy Signal’s “Come Over [Missing You]” is all about desiring your sneaky link a little more than you should. “Hold Yuh” features statements like “Mi tek it anytime and anywhere / Inna de square, so me nuh fear” which essentially means Gyptian is down for that public sex: no shame. I missed hilarious and honestly, very human sexual innuendos like this, but now, listening to songs like the ones I mentioned make me feel confident in and proud of my sensuality. All of this being said, the Caribbean is an incredibly heteronormative and homophobic culture. It’s sad knowing that there’s very little queer representation in a genre I love so deeply. For this reason, I appreciate artists like Koffee. I don’t think one should speculate about artists’ sexuality, but I admire that the Jamaican superstar consciously avoids using pronouns in her lyrics, experiments with gender-fluidity, refuses to confirm or deny rumors and visibly shows support for the gay community.

Buju Banton performing.

Some reggae songs serve as political commentary. The first one I think of is “Hills and Valleys” by Buju Banton. The track serves as a warning about oppressive forces in the lives of marginalized people and can even be seen as a protest song, in the sense that it subtly calls for empowerment and liberation. Despite being released in 1997, the same messages still apply, across continents. Listening to the lyrics, “Let them know we waan go home a we yard / It hard, it hard, it hard” and “Look around who free the people / Over hills and valleys too / Don’t let them fool you,” it’s impossible for me not to think of the conflict in Palestine. My soul aches and goes out to everyone targeted or afflicted with unwarranted harm; I’ve cried listening to songs like Banton’s, with this in mind. That’s what reggae does, it makes you feel something.

These days, I’m finally unashamed, proud to proclaim my appreciation for the genre that has shaped me most, as a person. There’s so many special things about reggae: the English-based Creole language that goes beyond Jamaica and its diaspora, the upbeat drums that urge you to get up and whine, the cultural roots and different means of storytelling. I will never hesitate to recommend reggae to someone who’s never listened before, or whose version of reggae only includes Bob Marley and the — white — Omaha-based band, 311’s “Amber” made viral-victim by Tik Tok.

I’ve chosen to attach to this article my dad’s reggae playlist, the one that, to this day, I still listen to on repeat. Give the music of my heart a try and it might just change your life.

”Reggae, play chords and I will strum
Reggae, sing out and I will come, come, come, come
Oh reggae, you're the one” - Etana