19/04/2023
Who was Jah Shaka to me?
Although not the first time I'd seen or heard Jah Shaka, the first time I felt the fullness of the Jah Shaka experience was on the opposite side of the UK to where I lived, in the mid-'90s, in the middle of the night, in St. Pauls, Bristol. An area where the police dared not step, on one of the most notorious streets in the area, on one of the most notorious corners. I was a young child, a sensitive child, always lost in thought, observing quietly. If there was danger, I'd know it in my gut; I'd feel it in the back of my neck, and perhaps tragically for a young boy, I knew exactly what constituted danger. Yet here I was, less than 48 inches tall, feeling safe, captivated, and feeling something I couldn't reconcile. The filament lightbulb, the metal amp case, the banners of Haile Selassie, and the unabated and liberated dancing of the kings and queens gathered for this royal occasion on the roadside. The air was heavy and thick but also somehow pure and light, simultaneously weighted and purified by the sacred vibrational tones of the bass boxes. The bass boxes, my measuring stick for my memories. How do I know I was less than 48 inches tall? I remember vividly being stood with my back to the bass box and turning around to see if I could understand how this box was making me feel the way I felt. Then, in one of those moments where reality and destiny collide, I observed a small metal tag fixed onto the grill of the boxes, which read 'Mr. Dubs' with a phone number. I recognized the dialing code as my hometown dial code, 0702, the old-school landline dial code for Southend-on-Sea. Quick segue, a few years forward from that and one-half of the Mr. Dubs duo, Red-I aka Dalan Dowley, became my first mentor and taught me about building boxes. He imparted to me a list of measurements and angles of the infamous 'Mr. Dubs Scoop' that he had memorized in his head. The side panels are 46.5 x 30 inches with a 3/4-inch top and bottom panel, making 48 inches, hence I remember my height with better accuracy than my age.
So what was a child, from the other side of the country, doing at St. Paul's Carnival, on Argyle Road, after dark, obscured by the shadows of night, surrounded by bass boxes taller than him? Well... I was hanging out with my father. And that was normal and safe and without cause for concern for anyone, why? Because Jah Shaka made it that way, why? Because he was a man of principle and wherever he strung up his sound system, those principles would govern the space. Be it a university campus or the coldest enclave of the ghetto. Those principles are the principles of the example of Haile Selassie, as interpreted via the lens of Rastafari, in the context of the black communities of the UK's inner-city environments. A set of principles I was going to be forced to rely on like my life depended upon them. And as it transpired, not only did my life finally depend upon them, but it was also ultimately saved by them.
In that same period, my world was blown apart one Sunday afternoon when an army of tactical police showed up at my door, with assault rifles and an armored truck to take my father away from me. Needless to say, that event and the innumerable related drama surrounding and leading up to it left an indelible mark on me. After all, I was still only 48 inches tall.
Why did I feel compelled to disclose that? Well, see, there's a particular type of rage that grows in a young boy whose father is held behind bars. There's a particular type of rage that develops in a young boy who sees his father beaten and bloodied by police and ultimately beaten by life itself. There's a rage that develops in you if you know the crime being alleged was not criminal, there's a rage that grows in you if you know your father was only seeking justice against injustice and yet the so-called justice system keeps him locked in a box and not in your home with you. That kind of rage puts you amongst the highest statistical odds of finding yourself held at the hands of those whose hands had torn your world apart.
There's a profound lack of places you can go once you feel like that; your inner frequency has been shifted. You start to magnetize chaos. Violence and conflict are suddenly found in abundance. Compared to most people around you, the world feels hostile, and you subconsciously seek hostile situations to provide relief from anticipating the next drama. You can't go to normal social events in that mindset; nobody understands why you overreact. Before you know it, the pain you were carrying has been amplified, one or two scrapes with the police, a wrongful arrest or two, and a few cuts and bruises, and you're now fully galvanized for war. It's a slippery slope along which many have fallen, and many fall into a place where there is little chance of returning.
Unless that is, you find yourself held in the safety of the Zulu Warrior's shield and under the protection of his spear. Enshrouded and sheltered in the contemporary urban reverberation of King David's music, being non-verbally instructed to face the image of the King of Kings and watch the silhouette of the King of Dub as he slides in and out of trance-like states and gesticulates to the transfixed audience that all glory belongs to the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. Unless that is, you find yourself shoulder to shoulder with a congregation full of the people in society who are not compatible with the 'status quo.' Unless that is, you find yourself in ghetto environments surrounded by peace, observing once hardened thugs, killers even, humble themselves to the undeniable experience of Rastafari music through the Jah Shaka Sound System. Unless you observe order being held with love, principles being held with dignity, and punishments for transgressions being measured and turned into healing and consciousness-expanding experiences for those who violated the order.
In these contexts, music cannot just be music, songs cannot just be songs, and bass lines cannot just be basslines. This is the difference between life and death for many. There is no space for ambiguity in this climate; either this gathering must be held with full righteous intent or it risks descending into unimaginable chaos.
Shaka was the glue. Shaka held so many of us when the catastrophe was knocking at the door. It extended beyond even the sessions. In between sessions, we'd be reviewing our cassettes (and later mini-disks) of the DIY recordings made on the table to the side of the control tower, taking a small audio-only simulacrum of the experience home with us. A page from the book to meditate on until the next reading. Cassette tapes that were so sonically obscure that the uninitiated could not decipher the ultra-saturated bass tones, the Zulu warrior drum patterns, the cathartic chants and cries from an audience persevering against all odds, all further propelled into obscurity by the fact it was recorded on a dictaphone placed on a wooden table at waist height in a crowded room.
Of course, I will never know, but I suspect Shaka did not set out to become the King of Dub. I suspect at a certain time, he felt he could best serve the needs of his community by divorcing himself from the 'scene' at the time and establishing the sound system as a solo vehicle for the expression of black unity and spiritual upliftment under the banner of Rastafari, on his terms, at his pace, in his unique style. The determination to forgo the flowers of the moment as a champion clash sound to find himself in empty halls and the subject of speculation. The steadfast vision to manifest the word sound and power with works, both in and around London and in Africa.
It's no surprise that Storm Noah hit the UK on the day of Shaka's journey to the ancestors. Who else could Shaka be likened to biblically than Noah? His decision to go at it alone must have appeared as crazy to his peers as Noah did to his neighbors building his ark. And then, did Shaka not assemble at least two from every nation and every age group on earth in the ark of his hand-crafted sound system? Did he not do this in service to the Almighty God manifest as Haile Selassie? And did he not sail us through the long dark nights when the music was drowning in filth? Shaka was more than just a visionary; in fact, maybe he's more to be likened to Moses. His mission was the desert in Exodus, the exile to wander in the wilderness for 40 years. That is where one needs to go if one wants to receive the Ten Commandments (of dub). Such claims are valid in the scale and magnitude of Jah Shaka.
In my father's absence, I inherited three of his belongings. These belongings formed the backbone of the path I was now going to have to forge through the world alone.
A postcard with three images of Haile Selassie: i.) as a child, ii.) in His Coronation regalia, iii.) as an elder leader and statesman
A double 15" bass reflex cab with 2 x Celestion 200w drivers
Max Romeo & Jah Shaka - Fari is the Captain of my Ship LP on vinyl
Jah Shaka was the glue that made this all make sense.
Fast forward 30 years, and I get a call on my phone one day. I picked up the phone with a curious tone, "Amlak, ahh Shaka dis, I want a copy of your latest record, can I come find you to get one?" Not the first time we'd spoken or met, but this one blew my mind. Firstly, because the great Zulu Warrior wanted something I made strongly enough to find my number and then arrange to drive to me to collect it, and secondly, as I was in the middle of moving my studio at that exact moment, and my father and I were enjoying a rare and profoundly overdue moment of father-son time as he had come over to help me move my equipment. Shaka arrived, and we were all standing in the yard of the studio complex. Shaka glanced at my father and gave a humble greeting. I informed him this was my father; his eyes lit up, his countenance was excitable, and he signaled his bredrin from the car as Shaka vehemently insisted on a photo of us all together to mark the moment. As we huddled together and struck a pose, in the close proximity that our huddle created, Shaka took the opportunity to congratulate my father on a job well done.
Shaka was not merely a sound system or a producer or a public figure. I can't find an accurate sentence to describe him, but what I can say without a doubt is that I am indebted to him immeasurably.
Shaka made it all make sense.
