Bob Marley: Live At The Roxy

BOB MARLEY: LIVE AT THE ROXY (1976/2003)

1) Introduction; 2) Trenchtown Rock; 3) Burnin' And Lootin'; 4) Them Belly Full (But We Hungry); 5) Rebel Music (3 O'Clock Roadblock); 6) I Shot The Sheriff; 7) Want More; 8) No Woman No Cry; 9) Lively Up Yourself; 10) Roots Rock Reggae; 11) Rat Race; 12) Positive Vibration; 13) Get Up, Stand Up/No More Trouble/War.

Although this performance, recorded at The Roxy in West Hollywood on May 26, 1976, had been widely bootlegged ever since its original radio broadcast, it was not until the release of the com­plete performance, together with its lengthy encore, in 2003 on Tuff Gong Records that it became sort of a consecrated Holy Grail for Marley fans, quite a few of whom now swear by it as the ultimate Marley live album, putting both Live! and Babylon By Bus to shame. This means that it at least merits a separate mention, if not necessarily a lengthy review.

The encore is actually the kernel of the legend: without it, the performance was already previous­ly available as a bonus disc on the «deluxe» edition of Rastaman Vibration (yes, «grabbing for cash» is a practice not unfamiliar to people dealing with the legacy of the world's most famous Rastaman). It is a 24-minute non-stop medley of ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ, ʽNo More Troubleʼ, and ʽWarʼ, one that not only confirms that most reggae songs can indeed be played to the exact same rhythm pattern without a single change (as if we didn't know!..) but also confirms that the Wailers were perfectly able to hold a steady, unnerving, unyielding, constantly energetic groove for as long as Jah was willing them to hold it. There are no build-ups, or climaxes, or gimmicks, or audience teasers — the team sounds pretty much the same at any given moment, but somehow, the performance does not ever get boring or really feel like 24 minutes, probably because of Bob's ability to hold the listener's interest by merging three songs into one and making it look as if he is slowly building up to the «vocal climax» of ʽWarʼ, and then gradually taking us back down through the same stages.

Other than that, Live At The Roxy is perfectly solid, but I could not confirm that the quality of the performance definitively «trumps» the rest of Bob's live catalog or anything. For one thing, Earl ʽChinnaʼ Smith on lead guitar is a decent player, but too humble for an arena performance: Julian Marvin's arrival in 1977 would change things significantly, adding more lyrical individu­ality to the music, whereas Live At The Roxy is really all about the collective groove, and there is nothing wrong with that, but maybe not for 86 minutes. For another thing, this is already Bob Marley in his «mission» era, where there is a constant danger of putting more emphasis on the «message» than the «music» — on a purely technical level, there is no accusation that could be justified against the band's playing, but instinctively, I still prefer the live band on the 1973-74 recordings, prior to the departure of Tosh and Bunny Wailer.

That said, if you belly hungry for another Marley live album, and "now you get what you want, do you want more?", that kind of thing, Live At The Roxy is indispensable. One major argument in its support is the excellent sound quality — although all of Bob's live albums were recorded indoors, The Roxy must have had the best acoustics of 'em all, so that you really get to hear all the musicians close-up and uninhibited by the audience or by empty space, almost as intimately as if they'd been recording in a radio studio. Plus, I think this one has the only live version of ʽWant Moreʼ to be released on an official album — a fine, tense, desperate song to be played live and really get the juices flowing, somehow overlooked elsewhere. Probably I could scramble to­gether a few other minor arguments as well, but on the whole, such things should rather be left to seasoned Marley veterans, so I will just say goodbye here with a conventional thumbs up. 

Bob Marley: Talkin' Blues

BOB MARLEY: TALKIN' BLUES (1973-75/1991)

1) Talkin'; 2) Talkin' Blues; 3) Talkin'; 4) Burnin' And Lootin'; 5) Talkin'; 6) Kinky Reggae; 7) Get Up Stand Up; 8) Talkin'; 9) Slave Driver; 10) Talkin'; 11) Walk The Proud Land; 12) Talkin'; 13) You Can't Blame The Youth; 14) Talkin'; 15) Rastaman Chant; 16) Talkin'; 17) Am-A-Do; 18) Talkin'; 19) Bend Down Low; 20) Talkin'; 21) I Shot The Sheriff.

Although the format of this album is rather strange, yet in a way, Talkin' Blues may be the most important live record by the Wailers ever put out. Essentially, this is the complete or near-com­plete show that the band played for a San Francisco radio station on October 31, 1973, with the original lineup still in place — interspersed with cut-up segments of an interview that Bob recorded for Jamaican radio in 1975, and throwing on, as a bonus, some alternate studio cuts and a lengthy, bombastic performance of ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ from a London show, also in 1975: not a trivial way of sequencing your data, by any means.

The interview bits are a tough nut for anyone not used to Jamaican English — about 70% of the time I have absolutely no idea what the man is saying, although you can generally guess the topics (music, spirituality, communication with people, relationships with Peter Tosh, etc.) and then you probably have some vague idea about what is being said even without making out the particular words. Not that any of it is particularly important — in fact, I'd say that the very sound of Marley's voice earns him far more sympathy and admiration than whatever semantic content is concealed in that sound. Like most modern-day «prophets», he was never particularly deep or innovative in his message, and as for the deep meaning of his music, well, I'd always prefer to somehow infer it from the music on my own than strain myself to understand his verbal explana­tion. But hey, at least these spoken bits substantiate the «punny» album title.

The performances are an entirely different matter. These are the young Wailers here, unspoiled by fame or fortune, still earning their «musical Messiah» credentials, captured live in the studio in pristine sound quality, not having to toy or fool around with their audiences, but having some­thing to prove in the way of musicianship. As they launch into ʽBurnin' And Lootin'ʼ, the degree of internal coordination between all five involved musicians is awesome — they are already way past the «minimalistic» Lee Perry stage, when the bass was all that really mattered, but quite far away from the stage when the music began to matter less than the Exultation / Exorcism ritual. All of these performances, without exception, are at least as good as their studio analogs, and sometimes may be even better — for instance, the guitar duet on ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ is much more lively (extra scratch, bark, and snap) than it was in the studio.

For those who want something more than a set of alternate versions, no matter how flawlessly executed, there are also some rarities — including Tosh's ʽYou Can't Blame The Youthʼ, a song that is quite questionable as to its lyrical content (all reservations applied, Christopher Columbus was a very great man, and so was Marco Polo — not so sure about the pirates Hawkins and Morgan — and this is just not a very convincing example of why the elders, rather than the youth, are to be blamed for current problems, even if they really are), but quite admirable by way of its basic groove and lively workin'-team harmonies. The previously unreleased outtake ʽAm-A-Doʼ is nothing too special, but any outtake from Marley's most important period is... important? Whatever be the case, you will not leave here empty-handed.

To be fair, the talking and singing are actually integrated rather than interspersed randomly. For instance, at one point they have a short conversation with the interviewer about Bob's playing the flute, and this is followed by an alternate take of ʽBend Down Lowʼ that does indeed have a flute lead scattered all over the place — never made it to the final runthrough, and it is somewhat of a pity, since the extra touch of pastoral tenderness is quite appropriate. But in the end, it really does not matter — if the talking bugs you, it is extremely simple just to edit it out and still have a re­spectably lengthy live album, worthy of an assured thumbs up. For obvious reasons, Talkin' Blues will never be anybody's first choice for a live Marley album (the man is too strongly asso­ciated with the «shepherd-and-the-flock» imagery to make one believe to try him out first in a radio studio environment), but that's alright as long as you do not forget about its existence: an essential acquirement, really.

Bob Marley: Confrontation

BOB MARLEY: CONFRONTATION (1983)

1) Chant Down Babylon; 2) Buffalo Soldier; 3) Jump Nyabinghi; 4) Mix Up, Mix Up; 5) Give Thanks & Praises; 6) Blackman Redemption; 7) Trench Town; 8) Stiff Necked Fools; 9) I Know; 10) Rastaman Live Up!.

As an equally-righted Bob Marley album, Confrontation is nothing special, and it certainly does not stand out that much against the background of the similarly-titled Survival and Uprising. But as an album released posthumously, worked up by Rita Marley and friends and colleagues from a set of raw demos left over from Bob's 1979-80 sessions, this is an excellent job: most chances are that you won't even be able to guess that the final record was released without Bob's explicit consent — although, who knows, maybe Rita did feel the presence of such a consent, transmitted directly into her conscience from the lower levels of Jah heaven.

The songs mostly go back to the Survival sessions, so the album feels a bit less «poppy» and innovative than Uprising, once more going back to the rather stern, stiff, anthemic style of the fight-for-your-rights propaganda of 1979, with some inevitable lyrical failures — for instance, ʽBuffalo Soldierʼ uses the image of the enlisted black man in late 19th century US army as a sym­bol of fighting for freedom and independence, when in reality the «Negro Cavalry», formed already after the conclusion of the Civil War, was regularly used to mop up natives in the Indian Wars, or at least clean up after the whites had mopped up the Indians, so using that particular image as a symbol for all things good and progressive is rather questionable. Then again, poetic licence and all, and the phrase ʽbuffalo soldierʼ has got such an empowering ring to it, who could really resist temptation to use it in a freedom-loving context?

Anyway, one more word on that and we will be falling into the trap of placing the words before the music. The problem is, there is not much I, or any other reviewer, could say about the music, other than just re-stating the fact that all the post-Marley overbuds, applied to his demos, are quite consistent with the Marley spirit — synthesizers, horns, backing vocals, which is not all that surprising, considering that they have been applied by the same people who'd worked with him through the last half-decade of his life. The horns, by the way, are the only thing that adds a little distinctiveness to such tunes as ʽTrenchtownʼ, which they Latinize a little bit; and the synthesi­zers help transform ʽI Knowʼ into the closest thing to a «dance-pop hit» that Bob could ever have (I know that he expressly wanted the song to be turned into a single, but I do not know if that was before or after the pseudo-orchestral synths had been added to it).

Probably the single best song is ʽJump Nyabinghiʼ, referring to one of the oldest Mansion of Rastafari and featuring here more as a positive, light-headed, celebration of life and love than an anthemic call-to-vigilance. Just due to that, it stands out in a bright light against the rest, not to mention a funny reference to smokin' it ("we've got the herb! we've got the herb!") the likes of which, I believe, we have not heard since Kaya hit the stores. Its chorus may not be as catchy as the one on ʽRastaman Live Up!ʼ, ending the album on one final sloganeering note, but it sounds more wild and tribal than anything else on here, the only time where Bob comes close to briefly losing his head and giving in to the ancestral spirit inside.

All of this is harmless fun, yet upon hearing Confrontation, I have to say that I am somewhat relieved that Marley did not leave enough stuff in the vaults to last Rita and the boys for another half of a lifetime. Whichever direction he was planning to take (if he was planning anything at all) after Uprising, we can only guess about — the problem is that, after all has been said and done and all the homages have been paid, Bob Marley was essentially a one-trick pony (okay, two-trick, if you succeed in separating his romantic troubadour side from his hero of the people side), and Exodus took that trick to levels that could not have possibly been outdone: just like no classical opera can surpass The Ring on the 1-11 scale of «grandiose regality», so no record that subscribes to the reggae idiom can trump «Movement of Jah People!». Could he have moved out into other areas? Would he want to? Certainly Confrontation is not the right kind of record to address that question to — but if your demands towards the man's art are reasonable, it is quite the right kind of record to own and enjoy, in loving memory of Haile Selassie's most loyal servant. 

Bob Marley: Uprising

BOB MARLEY: UPRISING (1980)

1) Coming In From The Cold; 2) Real Situation; 3) Bad Card; 4) We And Them; 5) Work; 6) Zion Train; 7) Pimper's Paradise; 8) Could You Be Loved; 9) Forever Loving Jah; 10) Redemption Song.

The last album released by Marley in his lifetime is sometimes criticized for being way too overt­ly Rastafarian and message-directed, and sometimes criticized for not being too interesting from a musical standpoint, but my general impression is that such criticisms should much more appropri­ately be reserved for Survival, whereas Uprising is actually a musical rebound — a brighter, more colorful record that attempts to break out of the rigid reggae formula way more often than you'd expect from somebody who was not only clearly past his absolute peak, but also dying, as a matter of fact. The latter circumstance one should keep in mind, I guess, when looking at the album cover and seeing Bob depicted as a mythical awakening giant — an excusable bit of self-aggrandizing for a cancer patient, who may already be more concerned about his image in the afterlife rather than the here and now.

Anyway, Uprising is surprisingly diverse and even «poppy» for Marley: there is no telling where the Wailers would go had he been kept alive for another half a decade at least, but Uprising shows that they could have expanded into such areas as R&B (ʽWorkʼ), dance-pop (ʽCould You Be Lovedʼ), and acoustic balladry (ʽRedemption Songʼ), without losing the «Marley spirit» nor the «Wailers sound». ʽWorkʼ sews together reggae and a slow funk groove, along with some ominous bluesy guitar playing and larger-than-life vocal harmonies. ʽCould You Be Lovedʼ bops along as if it were a party-time summer dance piece, pinned to a bassline that shakes its musical butt like an oversexed young lady, and it is fun, not to mention a little baffling to be hearing this and realizing it is, in fact, a piece by Bob Marley, and not by Kool & The Gang.

Then there is ʽRedemption Songʼ, of course, widely celebrated for its humble understatements and simple acoustic beauty — and, cynical as it sounds, hugely aided by the fact of being the last song on Marley's last album, thus forming a natural musical-lyrical testament for the guy: "Eman­cipate yourself from mental slavery / None but ourselves can free our minds". Musically, there's not much here, and lyrically, there's not a lot of news, but you could say the same about Lennon's ʽImagineʼ, I guess — some things are easy to criticize, but not easy to wipe out of the collective conscience, and Bob's "won't you help to sing these songs of freedom?" is one of those naïve, but persistent questions that will probably dangle in the air till the end of time.

In between these formula-challengers we have our usual reggae schtick, but with the balance smoothly corrected from «messagism» to «catchism», so that a song like ʽComing In From The Coldʼ first grips you with its repetitive, but funny chorus, and only later, if you want to, you can begin pondering its predictably serious message. Equally catchy is the chorus to ʽPimper's Para­diseʼ, a song made ever so moody with some clever synthesizer textures in the background that it will take some time before you begin wondering whether, this time, the message is not just a tad too conservative and moralistic for a guy who wants us to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery (some might even call the song «misogynistic» — of course, that would be pushing it too far, but some­how, up until now Bob had had no incentive to rail against party-going women).

There is no question of these songs being truly on the level with Marley's best stuff, but some­times, all you really need to have to get by is «solidity», and this is as solid a swan song for Bob as, say, something like In Through The Out Door was for Led Zeppelin the previous year, or Who Are You was for the Keith Moon-era Who the year before that: a bit tired, lumpy, and grumpy, but still capable of looking out for new ideas and adapting themselves to the rapidly changing world. Well worth a thumbs up, anyway.

Bob Marley: Survival

BOB MARLEY: SURVIVAL (1979)

1) So Much Trouble In The World; 2) Zimbabwe; 3) Top Rankin'; 4) Babylon System; 5) Survival; 6) Africa Unite; 7) One Drop; 8) Ride Natty Ride; 9) Ambush In The Night; 10) Wake Up And Live.

Kaya was a very smart follow-up to Exodus — a spiritual detour showcasing «the other side of Bob Marley» — but as internal and external pressure on Bob's spirit to return to full-scale prophet mode increased, a «proper» follow-up to Exodus, one that would push the rebellious, militant spirit of The Wailers even further, was inevitable, and Survival is all about the message — an honest, noble, progressive, if sometimes a bit naïve or even misguided, message, but one that, unfortunately, works against the music: this is the first Marley album that I would have to dub «generally unsatisfactory» — mildly speaking.

The best thing that can be said about the music is that the songs are still catchy. And they should be: a set of powerful political anthems should have quickly gripping, easily sing-alongable cho­ruses that seem to come so easily for Bob at all times. The fervor and charisma are still there, whether Bob is crying out his soul at how there's "so much trouble in the world", or grimly stating that "we're the survivors, yeah the Black survivors", or calling on Africa to unite, or urging us all to "wake up and live, y'all!" (a bit creepy, considering his own beginning battle with cancer at the time). However, the balance is just not right — there's too much fervor and charisma this time, not enough sheer musical power.

Honestly, I do not care all that much about Bob Marley as a prophet. His idealistic vision of Africa as a potential spiritual paradise where people can break free from their chains and show the world the one true way is endearing, but desperately naïve — «uniting» is by far the last thing on the minds of the majority of Africans, too busy with much harsher problems, and, while in 1979 it might have seemed progressive, today the ode to the glorious liberation of Zimbabwe, in the light of what has happened in that country ever since, sounds totally ridiculous. That said, even the most ridiculous plight, or creed, or ideology can be pardoned and lived with if it is ex­pressed in the form of genius — and on previous records, the Wailers were not only prophets, but also serious musical innovators and «groove-masters». Had something like ʽExodusʼ (the song) lyrically been an ode to Robert Mugabe, it would not have (seriously) influenced my admiration for the power of the recording.

But compare ʽExodusʼ (the song) with ʽSurvivalʼ (the song), and you will probably see how the power level suddenly has dropped down — ironically, the more politicized the message gets, the less energy and passion there is in the playing. ʽSurvivalʼ is a not-too-bad groove in itself, but it lacks the sharp funky horns, the tense harmonies, the mystical echoey production, the "Move! Move!" bits that drive you to action, basically, all the flourishes that made ʽExodusʼ such a sym­phonic experience. At the same time, ʽSurvivalʼ is not an exercise in stark minimalism, either: it has a fairly standard arrangement, with a bit of everything thrown in (keyboards, horns, harmo­nies), but nothing in particular standing out.

I do not think even a single one of these songs has managed to attain truly «classic» status, even though not a single one of them is truly «bad» (except for some of the lyrics) and the album is pretty even, and goes down very easy. There's nothing wrong, in fact, about singing along to these choruses, but I only wish that a song called ʽWake Up And Liveʼ would really make me want to wake up and live — this one, instead, with its completely static, unyielding groove, puts me into a somnambulant trance. (A great idea would be to transform it into a zombie anthem soundtrack in the next instalment of Night Of The Living Dead or something).

Political blunder of the day: ʽAfrica Uniteʼ is a kind slogan all right, but was Bob really so naïve as to think that the majority of Africans would be inspired by a unification anthem with lines like "we are the children of the Rastaman"? Most likely, they'd simply think that sly old Bob is pushing for a pro-Ethiopian agenda here — Africa united under the bening rule of the followers of Haile Selassie. What works for Addis Ababa might not necessarily work for Kinshasa, you know. Real noble utopian sentiment, though.

Bob Marley: Babylon By Bus

BOB MARLEY: BABYLON BY BUS (1978)

1) Positive Vibration; 2) Punky Reggae Party; 3) Exodus; 4) Stir It Up; 5) Rat Race; 6) Concrete Jungle; 7) Kinky Reggae; 8) Lively Up Yourself; 9) Rebel Music; 10) War/No More Trouble; 11) Is This Love; 12) Heathen; 13) Jamming.

It is interesting that, although the tracks for Marley's second live album were all recorded in mid-1978 on the Kaya tour, only one song on the setlist is from Kaya itself, although quite a few more were actually played as a regular part of the show. Clearly, the resulting live album had to expand and deepen the image of the Wailers as cutting-edge «social» artists with a message — no wonder that the record begins with a Rastafari greeting in the name of Haile Selassie and all his living-godly splendor. And then there's that whole «spiritual party» aspect, where the performer and the audience join souls and dissolve in the universal conscience on a sub-atomic level. Not so easy to do with Kaya songs, which are typically more individualistic.

As far as I can figure out, fans generally prefer the earlier Live! to this one, and I cannot quite understand why — maybe they find that Babylon By Bus is a bit too megalomaniac an exercise to properly convey the humble reggae spirit. It also makes a point of not repeating any tracks from Live! (with the notable exception of ʽLively Up Yourselfʼ), meaning that neither ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ nor ʽNo Woman No Cryʼ, two of the most iconic Marley songs, appear here, but it's not as if the man had nothing to offer in their place. So, instead of ʽSheriffʼ you can take the plaintive stateliness of ʽConcrete Jungleʼ, and instead of ʽNo Woman No Cryʼ, you can relax a few minutes to the tender rocking of ʽStir It Upʼ.

There also seems to be significantly more difference between the originals and the live versions now than there used to. Many of the songs are extended, sometimes simply to give the groove more time to soak in, but sometimes also to place the spotlight on individual players — most notably on ʽHeathenʼ, where Junior Marvin gets to play an incendiary blues guitar solo in the best tradition of blues-rock (the studio version was twice as short and had no solos). Some of the tempos are sped up, and some of the production gloss that could be a source of irritation on the studio albums has also been shed (inevitably). This is not always an advantage: ʽExodusʼ and ʽRebel Musicʼ, for instance, are inferior to the originals — the former is a tad more loose and less rigorously mobilized, dissipating the required feel, and the latter suffers because the "aaaaah, re­bel music!" backing vocals are less well coordinated. But as a general tactic to «lively up your­self» and add some extra energy and volume to the live show, it works.

That said, I am once again at a loss when it comes to commenting on specific performances — everybody is having a good time, and that's about it. Just because the album is longer (and more Marley is better Marley), and because it does a better job of showing off Junior's talents, I'd rate it very slightly over Live! and give it a minor thumbs up — oh, actually, there is one more reason: the audience reaction is better captured on tape this time around (maybe because there is simply more audience, period), so if you really want to suck on the vibe, Babylon By Bus is your most obvious audio ticket to the spiritual unity between the shepherd and the flock. Too bad the she­pherd, free as he was to tour Babylon by bus, remained altogether unable to properly lead the flock out of Babylon — maybe that Haile Selassie guy is not, after all, nearly as powerful (or empowering) as they make him seem, eh?

Bob Marley: Kaya

BOB MARLEY: KAYA (1978)

1) Easy Skanking; 2) Kaya; 3) Is This Love; 4) Sun Is Shining; 5) Satisfy My Soul; 6) She's Gone; 7) Misty Morning; 8) Crisis; 9) Running Away; 10) Time Will Tell.

Look no further than Kaya for a good argument why records may mean different things when taken on their own and when taken in context. The level on which Kaya works best is the level of contrast with Exodus — the Wailers' most bombastic, exuberant, quasi-messianic statement to date quickly followed up by Marley at his most peaceful and mellow, with nary a single song carrying a sharp political message (with the possible exception of ʽCrisisʼ and ʽTime Will Tellʼ) and most of them simply inviting you to quiet down, relax, share a joint, and strive for inner peace rather than actively pursue the issue of human rights. Well, let's face it, even Moses could have hardly en­dured forty years in the desert without taking a well-deserved break every now and then.

Not only that, but Bob even falls back upon the idea of digging into his past, resuscitating at least two oldies here (the title track and ʽSun Is Shiningʼ), as if he were a bit lazy to come up with a whole album of original tunes — on the other hand, the arrangements are completely different now, so this is not so much laziness as nostalgia, a throwback to the good old days when the Wailers were quite far from embarking on a world-level mission, and were fully content to enjoy the bare necessities and complain in allegory, or, at least, in a hushed voice.

Many people dislike the new arrangements, implying, once again, that the «raw» originals work better. They do have a point — when we compare the original melody of ʽKayaʼ, carried by bass vocal harmonies, with its new incarnation, where the human voice is replaced with a not-too-em­pathetic synthesizer tone, it must be hard on one's conscience to take a stand near the synthesizer rather than the original Wailers. But somehow, when this new production gloss is being sanc­tioned by Bob himself, and when his vocal delivery on the new version is just as life-asserting and uplifting as it used to be, I can easily disregard the lack of rawness, and enjoy Bob in all of his hi-fi rather than lo-fi glory. As for ʽSun Is Shiningʼ, it is given almost three extra minutes to let the groove soak in deeper, and give Junior Marvin enough space to seduce us with his nerve-tingling bluesy licks (many of which he probably lifted from Clapton, but who's complaining?).

As is now usual with Bob, there are no bad songs on the album — repetitive, obsessive vocal hooks are all over the place, Kaya really being a fine pop record, thinly masked as another exer­cise in reggae grooving. ʽIs This Love?ʼ asks the obvious question in the same way in which a melodic, sensitive, romantic Californian singer-songwriter would have asked the same thing. ʽShe's Goneʼ actually has elements of crooning to it — yes, putting a traditional melodic spin on that vocal delivery bit. And on ʽRunning Awayʼ, the singing duties are largely relegated to back vocalists, while Bob moves amusingly close to scat singing, and the entire arrangement pays serious tribute to lite-jazz entertainment.

None of these songs really sweep you off your feet, but together, they combine into a very pretty, very pleasant relaxation package — this is not Bob Marley «losing steam», this is Bob Marley turning down the temperature a bit, wooing you over with his sentimental side, and it goes without saying that he is doing a much better job about it than the average professional crooner with his predictable pathos. However, as I already said, context is key: a whole string of Kaya-like records, had this turned into a mission to cross reggae grooves with sweet sentimentality, would have quickly become routine and unbearable. As it is, this particular dish is really best served after the inspirational, hyper-stimulating main course of Exodus, a sweet, refreshing lull after the big storm, and it is mainly in this context that I give it a certified thumbs up.

P.S. And, just for the record, if you can find a sweeter, more emotionally calming way to sing the line "think you're in heaven but you're really in hell" (ʽTime Will Tellʼ) without losing the seri­ous­ness of this message, let me know. Kaya places its bet to win — even the harshest truths on this record are unequivocally delivered in the soothing-est of possible tones.

Bob Marley: Exodus

BOB MARLEY: EXODUS (1977)

1) Natural Mystic; 2) So Much Things To Say; 3) Guiltiness; 4) The Heathen; 5) Exodus; 6) Jamming; 7) Waiting In Vain; 8) Turn Your Lights Down Low; 9) Three Little Birds; 10) One Love / People Get Ready; 11*) Roots.

I am pretty sure that this album would have been impossible without Marley's brush-with-death experience in late 1976. With a miraculous escape like that, you start thinking, quite naturally, of all the things you have not yet completed in your life — you get an incentive to accelerate, to realize your grandest ambitions, no matter how much energy and spirit it costs you. So, perhaps Exodus is not necessarily the best Marley album lying around, as critical ratings often evaluate it (and it is even more absurd to call it «the best reggae album ever», because Exodus honestly does not give a damn about what musical style it was accidentally cast in). But it is quite clearly the «biggest» Bob Marley album, in scope and in execution; there is no use denying that the man set himself pretty high marks here, and there is no need to insist that he did not manage to hit most of them as best he could.

Exodus means Moses, and it is this album that turned Bob Marley into a modern-day Moses indeed: particularly the first side, all of which is structured like a multi-part sermon from the most esoteric depths of the Old Testament. "There's a natural mystic blowing through the air / If you listen carefully now you will hear / This could be the first trumpet / Might as well be the last". The musical backing is nothing particularly special — sparingly minimalistic, but with a neces­sarily ominous ring to the bass, and most of the overdubs (guitar, occasional brass) have been pushed way back into the mix: this helps generate the impression that the man is somewhere over there (on Mount Sinai, perhaps, receiving the latest instructions from Jah), letting you, the listener, in on his serious conversation — and the rest of the crowds are someplace down there. Waiting for the trumpets and all.

Although the first four songs are all good, in reality they all sound like honest-to-God dress re­hearsals for the title track. At 7:40, it is the longest track so far on a Wailers album, and its epic length is not accidental: most of the actual musical secrets of the groove are disclosed within the first minute already, but, like all great grooves, it is supposed to put you in a state of trance that you'd wish could last forever. The combination of stinging wah-wah guitar, that ominous bass, and the funky brass section that almost seems temporarily loaned from Sly & The Family Stone is quite worthy in itself, but it is the vocal shamanizing that pushes the whole thing over the top. Did Bob Marley truly believe that, like Moses, he could rally the people around him, leading them out of «Babylon»? (Should be «Egypt», of course, but it's all the same to them Rastas any­way). Even if he was naïve enough to believe that, the ensuing idealism, bottled in this track, still suffices to give you a spiritual jolt — maybe not strong enough to set you on the proper path of demolishing Babylon, but enough to make you go out and feed a homeless kitten or something.

The song is not even properly a «reggae» song, more like a reggaeified funk vamp, full of grim determination that is as far removed from the usually more relaxed atmosphere of reggae as pos­sible. There is one motto throughout — "move! move! move! move!" — echoing around the room like a retranslation of Jah's own command, and you can just feel that crazy, but disciplined drive urging and urging you on. The heat that is generated by the moment is on a James Brown level, but James Brown, even at his very best, was an entertainer, not a prophet, and his trance inductions could only be called «religious» figuratively, whereas ʽExodusʼ is indeed a religious musical ritual that even Moses himself could appreciate. Easily the most single powerful track of 1977, a year that was fairly ripe on powerful tracks — but no anthem from the punk or New Wave crowds could pack that much depth.

The second side of the album intentionally brings the level of tension down: not only are there some tender love songs, but even the political ones, like ʽOne Loveʼ, are delivered in a more lyrical and friendly key. There is ʽJammingʼ, which has always seemed like a fairly tame and unimpressive little ditty next to ʽExodusʼ to me — go figure why it has become so insanely popu­lar, but I guess that the majority of the population can't take it as heavy as ʽExodusʼ, and needs something lighter and catchier for their personal freedom anthem. If anything, I like ʽThree Little Birdsʼ with its nagging little keyboard riff, more than ʽJammingʼ, maybe because it is so simple and childish in every aspect of its execution that it comes out as more adequate — a simple love message for a simple song. Then again, it really makes no sense to compare.

Some people complain that Exodus is too glossy — that they like their Wailers «raw», not pre­pared carefully in the studio according to some particular technological recipe. I do not buy this accusation, and neither should anybody: by 1977, Bob Marley was anything but committed to the formulaic demands of «hardcore reggae», yet at the same time he had lost none of the fiery spirit of old — if anything, that attempt on his life only rejuvenated that spirit — and if Exodus sounds overproduced to you, well, so does Pink Floyd, and we have never found that aspect of their sound to be a problem. On the other hand, the «gloss» and all the extra overdubs really help to overcome the sometimes uncomfortable simplicity of the basic groove and push the songs to­wards masterpiece status on the strength of their atmosphere.

Listen, for instance, to ʽThe Heathenʼ and to whatever Julian Jr. Marvin, the band's new lead guitarist, is doing out there in the background, sometimes sending out small, compact thunder­balls of distortion and sometimes letting go with killer screeching blues-rock leads, and how Tyrone Downie begins his part with simplistic three-note synth phrases and then gradually buries himself in some real crazy jazz-fusion stuff. Or how Julian adds some lovely country guitar licks to ʽTurn Your Lights Down Lowʼ, a song that brings Marley dangerously close to «adult contem­porary» (or, at least, some really boring 1970s R&B) but keeps its distance because of the devotion of the nuances of the indivudual players. That may all be «gloss», but unless I am in some very special mood, I will take that gloss over Lee ʽScratchʼ Perry's minimalism any regular time of day. Deep bass groove, after all, is not the only possible way to worship Jah.

In all possible respects, Exodus is an outstanding record that goes way beyond the basic values of reggae as a musical genre and/or of Rastafarianism as a religious ideology. It is a triumph of in­spiration and active drive, a certain spiritual push-up that Marley would not be able to replicate ever again (in fact, and perhaps to his honor, he did not even try). Not the best place to come looking for hooks — Catch A Fire or Natty Dread would be more obvious choices; not the best place to understand what the hell is «reggae» supposed to mean (since, even technically, about half of this album is not really reggae); but just a great place, no doubt about it, if you're looking for a little outside aid to charge up your batteries. Exodus, movement of Jah people, the works. Major thumbs up guaranteed.

Bob Marley: Rastaman Vibration

BOB MARLEY: RASTAMAN VIBRATION (1976)

1) Positive Vibration; 2) Roots, Rock, Reggae; 3) Johnny Was; 4) Cry To Me; 5) Want More; 6) Crazy Baldhead; 7) Who The Cap Fit; 8) Night Shift; 9) War; 10) Rat Race; 11*) Jah Live.

Although this record became Bob's big breakthrough in the US, selling lotsa copies and yielding his most popular single in that country (ʽRoots, Rock, Reggaeʼ — supposedly American people were reluctant to buy up reggae singles that did not have the word «rock» in the title), I would say that Rastaman Vibration is somewhat less impressive than the two studio albums flanking it in Marley's discography. Natty Dread was somewhat of a challenge, in that Marley had to prove he still had it in himself to survive without the rest of the original Wailers — and the soon-to-come Exodus would be fueled with mega-ambition, some of it perhaps brewed up in the aftermath of the unsuccessful attempt on Bob's life in December '76.

In comparison, Rastaman Vibration has neither quite the impressive hooks of its predecessor, nor the undeniable grandeur of its follow-up. It is as sharply politicized as ever, perhaps even more ("it's not music right now, we're dealing with a message", Marley himself told interviewers in 1976), and in this intermediate context, such politicization means a certain unity in the groove: every track starts off with more or less the same little explosive drumroll from Carlton Barrett, after which you get more or less the same tempo, more or less the same instrumentation, more or less the same vibe, and more or less the same body temperature. Throughout.

This does not mean it ain't a nice enough vibe or temperature. By now, Marley has fully mastered the art of capturing the listener's attention with a bare minimum of means — his punch is econo­mic and simplistic, but it is hard not to feel it every time. Even when the music really occupies second place next to the message — ʽWarʼ is little more than just a famous UN speech by Haile Selassie set to a rhythmic pattern — just by simply repeating the mantra "everywhere is war, me say war" at the end of each paragraph, Bob makes his point (but note how he has this trembling wave of sadness inserted, just so you know that it is not his declaration of war, but rather his constatation of other people making war on his people: a defensive, not aggressive stance).

This bit of trouble determining whether he is on the attack or on the defense ain't accidental: there is always some sort of vague mystique, incomprehensibility, ambiguity, associated with Marley — like all great people, he was not that easy to pigeonhole. Another good case is ʽPositive Vib­rationʼ, with another unforgettable chorus hook (the "Rastaman vibration ye-e-ah, positive..." bit) that is nevertheless offset by the positively threatening bassline, which makes it seem as if the man is harassing you into "making way for the positive day" (at certain points, when they begin asking you "are you pickin' up now?", the melody once again goes straight into ʽHow Do You Sleep?ʼ territory — terrifying, almost!). He'd probably deny any such intention, but the fact is, even when Mr. Marley seems to be spreading that positive vibe, the music is anything but shiny and happy. Gloomy reggae, not some kiddie-happy ska here that Paul McCartney appropriated for ʽOb-La-Di Ob-La-Daʼ (now that was some «positive vibration» indeed).

On ʽRoots, Rock, Reggaeʼ, the band's mantraic declaration — "play I some music, dis-a reggae music" — is, in itself, stern and war-like: for Marley, new trends in music should necessarily be accompanied with new trends in spirituality, and he is unwilling to offer the people just the music without the message. The trick is that he is singing "we're bubblin' on the top one hundred / just like a mighty dread" with the same intonation he normally uses to describe the sufferings of his people in and out of slavery, and this works: you might think you're just boppin' and hoppin' around to a nice little rhythm, but in reality you're, like... joining The Cause! And the funniest thing of all, the single did get into the top one hundred, so it's not just you.

On the whole, though, Marley raises his voice noticeably high only once here — not on ʽCrazy Baldheadʼ, as one might think, whose basic seemingly-aggressive message ("we gonna chase those crazy baldheads out of town") is delivered in a surprisingly peaceful tone instead, but rather on ʽWant Moreʼ, a song that seems to be usually overlooked in the huge Marley catalog, yet it is really the strongest precursor here to the Moses-and-Aaron-rally of Exodus, with the sharpest, shrillest riff on the album, well matched with Marley's «driven-to-the-edge» point: "you get what you want, do you want more?..." "You think it's the end, but it's just the beginning" is one of the most threatening moments here in Wailers history, so do not overlook it.

Like most of Marley's output, this record almost automatically gets a thumbs up regardless of specific criticisms — not out of an act of boring political correctness, but more like a recognition of a steady genius, capable of delivering gripping material even in a temporary state of «musical inertia», so to speak. (Technically, Rastaman Vibration is somewhat innovative in that it intro­duces synthesizers into the Marley sound, but this is really so peripheral that I almost forgot to mention it in the first place). No fan, after all, could properly call himself a fan without having grooved heavily to the sounds of ʽPositive Vibrationʼ or without witnessing the peaceful consta­tation of ʽWarʼ (as opposed to, for instance, the gross misuse of the song by Sinead O'Connor, whose radical stance makes Bob Marley look like Rush Limbaugh in comparison). But in a larger context, somehow, many of these tunes seem a bit like... peanuts, maybe, for the real level of Mr. Marley and his team.

Bob Marley: Live!

BOB MARLEY: LIVE! (1975)

1) Trenchtown Rock; 2) Burnin' And Lootin'; 3) Them Belly Full (But We Hungry); 4) Lively Up Yourself; 5) No Woman, No Cry; 6) I Shot The Sheriff; 7) Get Up, Stand Up; 8*) Kinky Reggae.

To have witnessed an actual show put on by Bob Marley & The Wailers is usually considered as one of the luckiest possible things that could have happened to a human being. The presence, the vibe, the energy, the brotherly love, the dance, the groove, the inspiration, do I even have to go on with this list? Naturally, one could try to be cynical about it, insist that it was all really just show business (to a certain extent, it certainly was), bring out the old argument that «when the Wailers lost Peter Tosh, they really lost it all», but nobody could deny the primal effect that Marley had on his audience. He was a Jamaican witch doctor (a benevolent one, lucky for us all), and his audience were his willing and obedient patients. It was as simple as that.

However, I am not nearly as sure as the majority that this whole vibe was so easily captured on record. All hype and rave aside, the Wailers' first album, recorded at the Lyceum Theatre in Lon­don, July 19, 1975, is an excellent performance, but the sound does not really easily provide the impression of the pastor and his church joining as one into a single, focused, star-bound spiritual wave of energy. The Wailers are doing their thang, the people are listening and frequently going wooooh! (most importantly, at the beginning of ʽNo Womanʼ), but it's not as if being in the pre­sence of his flock pushes Bob to any extra heights that have not already been reached in the studio, nor does the flock itself seem to inspire any additional emotions. Perhaps it is simply one of these «you had to be there» moments.

Anyway, formally speaking, there is no complaining, because the songs are so great, and per­formed with a fine mix of spirit and discipline. At the very least, there are enough tweaks in the arrangements to warrant an additional listen: ʽNo Woman, No Cryʼ is taken at a slower, softer tempo, and Al Anderson adds his lead guitar lines everywhere where he wasn't able to earlier (ʽBurnin' And Lootin'ʼ, ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ, etc.). The biggest tweak is added to ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ which, as it winds down to its conclusion, is expanded with a different groove, including a call-and-answer session with the audience — and, believe it or not, a bass riff that seems to have been borrowed right from John Lennon's ʽHow Do You Sleepʼ (coincidence, probably, but after the naggin' question of «where the hell did I hear that before?» had pestered me for several days, once the answer finally came, there was no way I could leave it out of the review).

Come to think of it, the way the audience swoons in tact with Marley's "everything's gonna be alright" on ʽNo Womanʼ, or his ee-yo-yo's on ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ, the album does show some glimpses of the shepherd and the flock becoming one — in that respect, it's got plenty of historical importance, demonstrating the Western world's, or at least, part of the Western world's recognition of dreads, reggae, Rastafari values, and the poor black man's struggle for peace, freedom, and happiness in a thoroughly unjust universe. But outside of that context, «live reggae» is not a huge improvement over «studio reggae» if both are done reasonably well. I admire the vibe (as long as, as it happens with any religion, I do not have to focus too much on its external parapher­nalia), but I see no reason to prefer these versions to their studio counterparts — not even the famous live rendition of ʽNo Woman No Cryʼ, because I really have no use for it as a stadium anthem and prefer to hear it in a far more natural, intimate setting. I mean, it's a dialog between Bob and his woman, for Chrissake. Why do we need several thousand mouths singing along to it in unison? Beats me.

On a technical note — curiously, the original LP was only 37 minutes long; plans for an expan­ded deluxe edition still have not come to fruition (not that it is particularly important, considering the overall wealth of live Marley material already on the market). The remastered CD version does add ʽKinky Reggaeʼ as a bonus track, used for Bob as a setting to introduce his «brothers» and «sisters», but otherwise, fairly true to the original.

Bob Marley: Natty Dread

BOB MARLEY: NATTY DREAD (1974)

1) Lively Up Yourself; 2) No Woman, No Cry; 3) Them Belly Full (But We Hungry); 4) Rebel Music (3 O'Clock Roadblock); 5) So Jah Say; 6) Natty Dread; 7) Bend Down Low; 8) Talkin' Blues; 9) Revolution; 10*) Am-A-Do.

And so Peter Tosh and Bunny Wailer split off, and the band becomes «Bob Marley and The Wailers» — forever splitting the fans, too, as some hardcore veterans accused Marley of exer­cising too much of his «I», while others pointed out that this was simply a wise move that helped spread the word of Jah far wider into the world than could have ever been foreseen. Who knows who's right and who's wrong? In the end, all we should care about is the music.

Naturally, Natty Dread is completely different from everything that came before it. While reg­gae rhythms are still its foundation, there is a whole lot of other stuff here — catchy pop choruses, pleasant female backing harmonies, complicated brass overdubs, relatively loud guitar solos from the band's newest member Al Anderson, in short, a whole lot of stuff to take your attention away from the bare groove and draw it to the same elements that, in 1974, you'd be attracted to on various «rock» albums. But the recompense is that almost each and every song here has its own separate face — try and accuse this record of being monotonous; you might just as well apply the same accusation to The White Album.

Interesting enough, only two songs on the album are credited to Bob himself, of which at least one (ʽBend Down Lowʼ) is a playful bit of filler, catchy in a nursery-rhyme way (its main opening theme is somewhat of a cross between Mother Goose and ʽLet It Beʼ), but nothing more. The other one does set a good tone for the rest of the album — ʽLively Up Yourselfʼ opens the proceedings on a «lively», jumpy note, while at the same time being driven by a slightly scary bassline: once the brass section starts doubling the bass, the atmosphere becomes downright threatening, or, at least, solemn to the point that the recommendation to lively up yourself becomes a stern order. "You rock so, you rock so" — yes sir, whatever you say sir.

There are all sorts of speculations as to whether «Vincent Ford», a little-known Jamaican perso­nage, actually wrote ʽNo Woman No Cryʼ or if that was just an act of generosity on Bob's part, giving away a song to the needy (although, in retrospect, it wouldn't become all that famous until next year's Live! version). Its popular appeal is easily crackable — where Marley's lyrics are often obscure to those not well versed in Jamaican cultural or linguistic realities, everybody, including non-English speakers, easily understands what "no woman no cry" and "everything's gonna be alright" is supposed to mean. But singling it out from the rest of the album would be absurd — as good as that organ melody is, its overall emotional power is neither weaker nor stronger than the power of the more overtly political material here.

At the very least, the Barrett brothers and Rita Marley show that they can be every bit as cool at songwriting as Mr. I-And-I himself. My personal favorite on the album is actually Rita's ʽSo Jah Sayʼ, a song whose stern bass and Mount-Sinaic brass simply breathe the Old Testament down our backs — every time I hear that introduction, it makes me want to prostrate myself before His Presence, whoever He might be (the Great God of the Left Speaker, or was it the Right one?). On that one, genre considerations simply melt away, and you are no longer aware of what you are listening to — reggae? R&B? soul? gospel? Essentially, it is the genre of «solemn musical pro­phecy». You can shake your body to these sounds, sure, but it will be a shamanistic kind of shaking, not just a fun dance kind of thing.

Another good one is Aston Barrett's ʽRebel Music (3 O'Clock Roadblock)ʼ, a lengthy song that knows how to gain in intensity by rising the pitch on every next chorus of "aaaaaaaaah, rebel music!", reaching new levels of desperation while the harmonica blasts add a «swampy» atmos­phere to the proceedings. Better than most songs on here, it manages to convey the impression of a world where danger might be around every corner, and where people's brief moments of happi­ness are constantly interspersed with a «watch-your-back» sense of vigilance. Every now and then, we are told to "forget your troubles and dance" (ʽThem Belly Fullʼ), and we do, but "I've been down on the rock for so long / I seem to wear a permanent screw" (ʽTalkin' Bluesʼ).

This idea of a «permanent screw» is actually important in that Natty Dread, even despite taking good care of its individual components, still works better as a whole entity. Now that Bob has the full weight of the band on his shoulders, as well as the responsibility to bring The Message to every new-fangled fan of ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ, he has to uphold a thematic unity and maintain a serious tone throughout the album on a whole new level, and he totally rises to the occasion: other than ʽBend Down Lowʼ, each song is tied to the ones around it with one uniting idea — end the suffering. Other than the man's conviction that Heaven can be found on Earth, the rest is so totally in line with early Christianity that sooner or later, you'll figuratively begin looking for figurative traces of stigmata on the man's figurative hands. Is that emotional manipulation? If it is, it's one of the highest order — bring it on, I like to be manipulated that way, even if there's no chance convincing me of the Second Advent where I have enough trouble with the First already.

Anyway, a great record whose total is so much more than its parts. One can only wonder what it would have sounded like if Tosh and Bunny decided not to split — but something tells me they would have objected against all the colorful overdubs, and I cannot imagine these songs without Al's weeping-and-wailing lead guitar, or without those brass parts that add a symphonic compo­nent. So, cutting it short, just put your hardcore worries behind your hardcore back, all you great lovers of Lee ʽNo­thing But Scratchʼ Perry, and join Mr. Marley on his last and grandest ride through the mid- and late Seventies as reggae's, Jamaica's, Haile Selassie's, and all the oppressed and suffering people's messenger to the world. Thumbs up.

Bob Marley: Burnin'

BOB MARLEY: BURNIN' (1973)

1) Get Up, Stand Up; 2) Hallelujah Time; 3) I Shot The Sheriff; 4) Burnin' And Lootin'; 5) Put It On; 6) Small Axe; 7) Pass It On; 8) Duppy Conqueror; 9) One Foundation; 10) Rastaman Chant.

Once something has caught fire, it then usually proceeds to burn — a simple truth that, until 1973, found no expression in a succeeding line-up of album titles, though. But clearly, the underlying idea of Burnin' was to dispel the popular myth of the Rastafari movement as just some local Jamaican version of the hippie wave. As per Bob Marley, reggae people may be friendly and pacifist, but that does not mean that they completely reject forceful activity or even violence in their behaviour and their music. Branding and condemning Babylon is noble enough, but there's nothing like watching Babylon burn, really.

The sociopolitical ferocity of Burnin', reaching such levels of energy, passion, and explicitness that all of the Wailers' previous efforts seem like Tiny Tim in comparison, has arguably led all the politically correct people to somehow overrate the album. Technically, it was recorded in a bit of a rush, forcing the Wailers to fall back once more on their back-stock from Kingston (at least three tracks are re-recorded from earlier times), and this time, there are no overdubs from addi­tional session players, so the sound returns to Spartan standards. (Still, there is no Lee Perry any­where in sight to rev up that bass: the Wailers would never again return to the same «skeletal» type of sound they'd been awarded on Soul Revolution).

Most commonly, Burnin' is known and revered for its rebellious classics — ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ, ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ, ʽBurnin' And Lootin'ʼ, to a lesser extent ʽSmall Axeʼ as well — and almost certainly, much of that knowledge and reverence has been stimulated by the Eric Clapton cover of ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ, which became a major hit in 1974 and probably made millions more people aware of Marley and reggae in general. To be fair, Eric Clapton singing ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ, a song very much rooted in the realities of Jamaican life, is as awkward as if Jimi Hen­drix decided to put his stamp on ʽLa Donna E Mobileʼ, but he does always play a mean guitar on that song, so let us not be too harsh on the «white boy perversion» that did help bring reggae to a larger audience, and ended up making the world a better place (we hope!).

ʽI Shot The Sheriffʼ is not so much rebellious, though, as it is fatalistic: the gradually descending melody of the verse is like the grim pull of destiny, swirling and spiralling and eventually cutting the thread in one final desperate flash. The lyrical matter is pretty much the same kind of stuff you can find in so many folk, blues, and country-western songs, but Bob sings it in the first per­son (Clapton once pressed the man into telling him whether the story was true or not, and Marley said that parts of it were, but he wasn't going to say which ones), and the effect is intimately haunting. It's all simple and accessible and unforgettable — the falsetto harmonies on the chorus may take some getting used to (mainly because that kind of voice has become so firmly associa­ted with disco, post-factum), but they do provide the important hookline that helps draw your attention towards the rest of it (and, come to think of it, the verse part of this song is far more emotionally resonant than the catchy chorus).

Likewise, ʽBurnin' And Lootin'ʼ is more of a philosophical mourning, or a bitter justification of Jamaican violence, than a direct call to action. As if to enhance the understanding that the chorus is not to be taken too literally, the Wailers expand upon the initial "that's why we gonna be bur­nin' and a-lootin' tonight" with the metaphorical "burnin' all pollution tonight, burnin' all illusion tonight" — for those who want to hear it, of course. The slow, gently swaying groove is nowhere near «aggressive», either: the chorus sounds more like a cross between a lullaby and a funeral march than anything «punkish» or genuinely violent in nature. At the same time, you do have your "how many rivers do we have to cross / before we can talk to the boss?", which, as has been previously noted, is like a clever retort to Jimmy Cliff's ʽMany Rivers To Crossʼ, and implies that real burnin' and real lootin' is not a totally excluded solution, either.

The most aggressive and militant song on the album, of course, is ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ — one of the few songs in the Wailers' catalog that could really be called a revolutionary anthem, and one that would certainly have rallied plenty of troops around the banner of Jah in case of need. For the first time, Bob is properly and intentionally feeding upon negative energy, learning how to throw thunderbolts, and even Peter Tosh, replacing him for one of the verses, is adding an angry vibe to his formerly epic, but peaceful tone. It is more of a sermon than a song, instructing people to search for Heaven on Earth rather than wait for a time when "Great God will come from the skies, take away everything and make everybody feel high". But it is set to one of their most tightly focused, clenched-teeth grooves ever — just as lyrically it disbands the myth about Rastaman people «feeling high» all the time and not giving a damn about much of anything else, so, musi­cally, it can dispel the myth of reggae being «relaxed», «lazy-sounding» music. ʽGet Up, Stand Upʼ has as much rocking power as ʽSuperstitionʼ or ʽSatisfactionʼ, if «rocking power» is to be understood as the impulse that shoots extra adrenaline into your brain and makes you feel as if you could take on the world with your bare fists.

In between these particular landmarks of class struggle reflected in music, the rest of the tracks on Burnin' veers between hit and miss. Side B, in particular, has always felt like a relative letdown to me: the «socially relevant» material there seems to lose some of the energy and focus, either degenerating into too much monotonousness (ʽRastaman Chantʼ — with its ʽLouie Louieʼ-ish musical attitude, this one does feel like everybody finally got high at the end of the sessions) or swerving into too much pleasantness (Tosh's ʽOne Foundationʼ is way too friendly in comparison with the first side's barn-burners). On the other hand, Side A reaches near-perfection with the addition of the gospel-reggae chant ʽHallelujah Timeʼ and the hypnotic feel-them-spirit mantra of ʽPut It Onʼ — also monotonous, but it does convey a good impression of somebody being taken over by a benevolent spirit and busily merging the manly and the godly in one's own person.

It is hard to tell whether the legend of Burnin' owes more to the quality of the music or the loud­ness of the expressed social feeling — I would personally suggest that, from a sheerly musical point of view, Catch A Fire contains more original and exciting ideas, but about half of the songs on that one are love songs, whereas Burnin' is completely dominated by tunes «with a message». But then again, this is reggae we are talking about, where the power of the groove is always more important than any melodic hook, and in terms of power, the first side of this album easily trumps Catch A Fire and would not, in fact, be matched until the appearance of Exodus. So let us just call this another relative triumph, give it a thumbs up and, just in case somebody stupid lands on this page, remind one more time that Bob Marley and The Wailers are not advocating violence, and that they'd rather you burn up your illusions than anything physically flammable. 

Bob Marley: Catch A Fire

BOB MARLEY: CATCH A FIRE (1973)

1) Concrete Jungle; 2) Slave Driver; 3) 400 Years; 4) Stop That Train; 5) Rock It Baby; 6) Stir It Up; 7) Kinky Reggae; 8) No More Trouble; 9) Midnight Ravers.

And now we see The Wailers get in the big league. From a certain justified point of view, this is where Bob Marley «sold out to the system», making the jump from local Jamaican labels and the local Jamaican market to a major label (Island Records, which, not coincidentally, was founded by Chris Blackwell in 1959 on Jamaica, but had been operating from London as early as 1962, and was not at all limited to ska/reggae by the time Marley signed his contract) and to an inter­national audience — Catch A Fire got all the way up to #171 on the Billboard charts, and Mar­ley's commercial stance would only be toughening up since then, all the way to Exodus.

More importantly, and somewhat predictably, the jump was accompanied by a significant change in sound. In order to properly put Bob on the international scene, some concessions would have to be made: listeners worldwide, it was deemed, would hardly have the assiduous tolerance for the «hardcore reggae» approach of Lee Perry, meaning that the songs would have to be a little more «pop», and the arrangements would have to be a little less Spartan. After The Wailers had recorded the master tapes in Jamaica and brought them over to Chris Blackwell in London, the latter took the decision to «spice 'em up», hiring a host of session musicians, such as Wayne Per­kins on guitar and Rabbit Bundrick on keyboards, to generate ear-pleasing overdubs that would put that stuff more in line with the commercial sounds of the Seventies. Marley, ever the vigilante man, sensitive to trends and striving for world recognition, did not object — yet I am not so sure about how Peter Tosh reacted to the whole thing, and whether that was not one of the reasons for the beginning of his alienation from Marley.

Nevertheless, I will admit to the «embarrassing» reality — I do find the Wailers with extra over­dubs more accessible, and I do find these overdubs in very good taste. Case in point: ʽStir It Upʼ, one of Bob's most charming, tenderest reggae ballads, has a wah-wah lead from Wayne Perkins that utilizes a gruff, grumbly tone to play a suitably tender part, and adds an extra individual voice to the beautiful, but repetitive group harmonies of the chorus. Would the song have become a hit without that lead guitar, or without Tyrone Downie's organ accompaniment? Possibly, pos­sibly not, and who cares about the exact number of sold copies anyway: the important thing is, these additional layers steal nothing from the «base» of the song, but add quite a lot. Naysayers may go back to the original two-chord ska version from 1967 — just remember that, had all of Bob Marley's output been like that original version, most likely, very few of us would have ever heard of who the hell Bob Marley was in the first place.

Quite a few other songs here are oldies as well, including both of the Tosh-sung numbers (ʽ400 Yearsʼ and ʽStop That Trainʼ) — these ones, curiously, are taken at much slower tempos than the originals, sung and played with less energy, but more «soul», that is, not necessarily with more feeling but a bit more in line with what is usually expected of the experienced soul singer / show­man. This makes them no better or worse, just a little different, but ʽStop That Trainʼ does get an extra guitar riff that makes the song even more memorable.

That said, the album is really all about its first two tracks — ʽConcrete Jungleʼ and ʽSlave Driverʼ. The former is as highly tragic as Marley can ever get, putting his optimism aside for a moment and lamenting about the impossibility of escaping from this «concrete jungle» (all the more ap­propriate considering the Wailers' temporary relocation to the big cities). Perkins adds another suitably wailing guitar solo to the track, but really it's all about Bob losing his head and shouting "illusion! confusion!" as if banishing by name the evil demons that have turned all our lives into such a wretched mess. As for ʽSlave Driverʼ, one of the most sparsely arranged tracks on the al­bum, well, what can be said? Other than this is probably one of the calmest, most self-contained «rebel anthems» ever recorded? "Slave driver, the table is turned, catch a fire, so you can get burned" — never was an extremist slogan presented before in such a catchy, collected, almost friendly singalong manner.

Catch A Fire leaves plenty of space to explore the Wailers' non-political side — besides ʽStir It Upʼ, there's also the equally catchy and lovable ʽRock It Babyʼ, and ʽKinky Reggaeʼ is one of those novelty numbers that veers between total absurdity and presentation of society's flipside — but it ends more or less the same way it begins, with the anthemic ʽNo More Troubleʼ demanding to give peace and love a chance and the arousing ʽMidnight Raversʼ offering a rather uncomfy apocalyptic vision, ten thousand chariots without horses and all. Clearly, there is a strong sense of purpose here: Bob knew that the album had to break in him and his message, and so there is an extra «push» to this record that would gradually weaken and abate with the coming years, right until Exodus when Bob would give himself the next such push.

Not coincidentally, Catch A Fire consistently occupies one of the top spots in the ratings of Marley's catalog — a turn of events with which it is very hard to disagree. A great, diverse, in­spiring job from everybody, starting with the Wailers' core and ending with the understanding session musicians (Wayne Perkins, apparently, did not know a thing about reggae when he was asked to contribute, yet he got into the spirit immediately), and a very natural thumbs up.

Bob Marley: The Best Of The Wailers

BOB MARLEY: THE BEST OF THE WAILERS (1971)

1) Soul Shake Down Party; 2) Stop The Train; 3) Caution; 4) Soul Captives; 5) Go Tell It On The Mountain; 6) Can't You See; 7) Soon Come; 8) Cheer Up; 9) Back Out; 10) Do It Twice.

This is a fairly weird entry in Marley's yearbook. To «the best of» my knowledge, this is the only The Best Of... album in existence that is not actually a true «best of», but rather just a collection of tracks recorded during a brief time period, none of them previously issued. Namely, these songs were recorded by The Wailers circa 1969-70, prior to the band's engagement with Perry and under the supervision of equally notorious (back then, at least) producer Leslie Kong. Some­thing stalled or backfired, though: the band did not get along with the man too well, eventually abandoned him for Perry, and the tracks remained shelved for about a year and a half.

As the band started gaining traction, though, Kong decided to capitalize upon those leftovers, and released them under this super-arrogant title — translated to «you thought the Wailers with Scratch Perry were good? you ain't heard nothing yet, you silly amateurs!» According to urban legend which is too awesome to be true, Bunny Wailer, upon hearing Kong's plans, told him that it would really only be the «best» Wailers if the man didn't live long enough to hear anything else by the band — and, true enough, Kong died of a heart attack, aged 38, one week upon release. I'm positive Bunny just invented that story post-factum, but the fact does remain that the album was released without the band's consent, and with a stupid title to boot.

Not that there's any serious reason to complain, because, best or not best, these ten short tracks (making up for a «mini-LP» at the most) are really quite good. Without Perry around to make them concentrate on the basic essence (or should I say «bassic essence»?), they are somewhat croonier, poppier, and doo-woppier than anything on Soul Rebels, and, in fact, the whole album still gravitates more towards old-fashioned ska than newly-born reggae. The atmosphere still reminds of the early days when the Wailers used to wear suits and ties, and cut their hair short — but the music is already bubbling with fine songwriting ideas, and the «social value» of the songs, while not immediately jumping out at the listener, is already quite deeply embedded.

The only number to appear on later releases in a re-recorded format is Tosh's ʽStop That Trainʼ, showing a Sam Cooke influence (ʽGood Timesʼ), but completely readapted for the sound and style of the wailing Wailers — Peter's powerful delivery and barely concealed desperation makes the song every bit of the band's equivalent for the Beatles' ʽHelp!ʼ: a "lonely man" brought down by something that is hard to express in words and searching for refuge/salvation, all the while clothing his desperation in poppy choruses and friendly rhythm patterns. And his sheer vocal strength and soulful conviction, both here and on the traditional hymn ʽGo Tell It On The Mountainʼ, are two more reasons to sorely lament his parting ways with Marley, since he is every bit the better, or, at least, definitely the more «epic» singer of the two.

Interestingly enough, at least half of the songs are credited to Rita Marley rather than Bob, showing that her stature within the band was even more prominent in those early years than later (although she is still responsible for a good bunch of the Wailers' mid-period classics, like ʽCrazy Baldheadʼ etc.). Like her husband, she is not specializing in any particular direction: ʽSoul Shakedown Partyʼ, for instance, is a quiet love celebration (the best thing about which is its simple, instantaneously memorable organ riff), whereas ʽSoul Captivesʼ and ʽCheer Upʼ are quiet by-the-rivers-of-Babylon-style anthems of hope and liberation: danceable rhythms, relaxed, optimistic Caribbean/surf lead guitar parts, and statements that "freedom day will come", so we might as well start rejoicing on the spot.

Other than ʽStop That Trainʼ and ʽSoul Shakedown Partyʼ, the only true standout is once again Tosh's — ʽSoon Comeʼ, another dissatisfied rant about expecting stuff and not getting it (techni­cally, complaining about being constantly let down by a love interest, but allegorically inter­pretable as complaining about being let down, period). The trivial hook — song title made into a falsetto mantra — bites into you at once, and focuses your attention on one of Peter's finest examples of «getting into character», whereas Bob, throughout the album, is playing it cool, never letting himself get carried away. Funny, yes, but at this point it was not at all certain who would eventually come out «on top» within the Wailers.

Although, technically, this is more like a footnote in the story of Bob Marley, the record is still an essential acquisition for all the fans of Peter Tosh, all the admirers of Rita Marley as a songwriter in her own rights, and all those who want to remember Leslie Kong as one of the first influential Jamaican record producers, responsible for the rise of reggae. For those who just love good music, it is probably not so essential, but there is nothing whatsoever to dislike — amicable rhythms, pleasant solos, cool organ riffs, catchy harmonies, and some social value. Thumbs up, closing our eyes on the ridiculousness of the title.