Yes, Actually, they are Damian Jr Gong Marley's backup dancers.
If there were any serious disconnects between image and reality at this concert last night, it was the set by Damien Jr Gong Marley. Son of the great, great, reggae legend Bob, not married to Princess Lauryn Hill (that's other brother. Right on, Rohan!). It's not that the music wasn't great. (hater alert) Or interesting. (hater alert) Or stylish. (officially hating now) But was it reggae? Was that the point? Was it reggae-soul? Was it reggae-gold? What is reggae-soul, something the soul crown can get into? Was it nu-reggae? Or electro-reggae? Eddie Grant reggae, smoothed out on the R&B tip? Certainly, there was some roots reggae, then jazz reggae with that Joshua Redman like solo (smooth brother, smooth, *note click and watch do not press enter).
There was a reggae-looking dude on stage waving a flag back and forth for the entire show. (Ire mon). There was an old-rasta head/Burning Spear look-a-like who came on stage and big upped Marley during a well timed-set intermission. Respect. But, I am curious about Jr Gong's reggae. Like I said, twasn't a bad show, but I am not sure this was the organically berthed Blue Mountain coffee I was looking for or the Dunkin Donuts variety, which I am also told is good ...
Jr Gong's reggae has lots of synths. Lot's of funky drumming. Lot's of slick baselines, and whirling funkadelic key-notes, released from a very big soundsystem by a sagacious looking rasta keyboard player who not only looks like he's getting jiggy behind the Kurzweil, but gives anyone standing on the carefully arranged stage a dirty look if they don't. Oh, and Jr Gong has backup dancers. They sing too, and that's not only Rasta, that's also Gangsta. Gangsta-Rasta!
My mind has been cooped up in some non-social/corporate shit for awhile, so I thoughts to me-self, maybe this is just how out-of-step I've become. Maybe, I missed the whole nu-reggae boat, I'm thinking Stone Love, and this is the year 2006. I want rockin' dub, sound system science, and people are talking to me about Radiodred. I am at the Tony Starks show and people want to give me free tickets to The Streets.
I digress... Truth is, I am not a hater because it's fun to hate, which it is, but also it is right to hate. Without hating, we would lost in a world of post-modern modalities, and neither George "Honkeylips" Bush or Osama would be right, or wrong.
Jr Gong had some interestings songs, whatever music he plays is an interesting place for reggae to go, retred Americanization filtered back to us in Jamaican patois, a process increasingly recognized as globalization. It's all good, really. Where would Taco Bell and Tupac be without it. If you don't agree, please go see Jr Gong for yourself and get an edumacation. And when you go, please pay special attention to the fine backupdancerswhocansing, from here on out called BWCS.
From the back of the prison-like-gynasium/auditorium the BWCS looked goog. Fine. Big women, like how women are supposed to look like Jamaica. No, these weren't the svelt, Afrodivas of Bob Marley's touring days, the Three I's. No, these were real, Jamaican women.
Healthy Bigg 'uns. Rubenesque. Stout. I was pround of my man Jr. Takes after ol' dad, but flips it on some modern dancehall shit. Ire, man. Gangsta!
But then we moved up. Closer, so I could get a better picture with my camera phone. From the second level, things were different. The BWCS were still big, but just not as fine. In fact, maybe they were a little too big. Big enough maybe for gospel choir, and as I say that let me tell you Mo'Nique is a one, fine, woman. Big enough for that. Big enough to be Jamaican, and who doesn't love Jamaican women. I'd say the BWCS were big enough to hit high notes just right. In that operatic sense. You can't really imagine an opera diva hitting those piercing, transcendent notes, not to mention wearing one of those funky vikings helmets, standing onstage without having a little extra love to her. Tthat's all right. Can't hate on that.
But the problem was they also sounded like opera singers at some point. I've heard reggae with harp before, but I don't know about a reggae aria.
These women could certainly move — they were under the watchful eye of the Rasta piano-player/overseer. And move they did. Gyrating about their hour-glass frames in stilletto boots, like wooden Russian dolls glued to spinning tops. And just when the music picked up into a churning, cinematic, reggae-soul crescendo, complete with snare drum pops and stuccatto word-power, the BWCS began to perq out like Beyonce in the ring the alarm video. As Paris Hilton says, That's hot. In fact it's Rasta-gangsta. Ire-Rasta-Gangsta. Kinda like my cool photo from the show. Scratch and sniff.
The Snoop show was dope, too. But I can't post on that right now. Too $hort was onstage, being OG and hyphy. JT BiggaFinger, Sam Quin and others were hyphy as well.
