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May 30, 2006
As we go through our lives, certain moments become fixed in memory. Most of us can recall exactly where we were when we saw the Challenger disaster or learned of the attacks on the World Trade Center or lost our virginity. And those of us who love music often have crystalline, eidetic memories of hearing, for the first time, the music that would change us forever.
I was fourteen, listening to the college radio station and doing my homework when I heard Desmond Dekker's "Israelites." My pencil dropped from my fingers and rolled onto the floor as I tried to soak up every note coming out of the radio. This was my music; this was the way I wanted the world to sound. The next day, I skipped gym class so I could run down to the record store as soon as it opened. The only Desmond Dekker track I could find was part of a larger compilation of Jamaican ska, but I bought it anyway. That afternoon, I holed up in my bedroom and played that album over and over, feeling tectonic plates shift inside my soul. I had heard the Specials and the English Beat and some of the early third-wave ska bands out of Boston, but now I had the source material. I spent hours studying that record, memorizing songs by the Skatalites, Laurel Aitken, and Prince Buster. A music geek was born.
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Now I live in a different town and a different time. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by the barrage of new bands and musical styles, but whenever I tuned my car stereo to the college radio station and heard "Israelites," I smiled and relaxed into the full-body tingle that song always gives me. But this time was different — I heard the news that Desmond has died. My eyes teared up and I pulled over to the side of the road, killed the ignition, and sobbed over the steering wheel. Hell, I'm still crying now as I write.
Desmond Dekker was a master singer, a clear amber tenor with such virtuosic phrasing and flexibility that only a few people (such as Fine Young Cannibals' Roland Gift) have followed closely in his footsteps. Most truly great musicians leave scores of imitators in their wake, but Desmond Dekker's passing leaves little more than a hole in the hearts he once thrilled. There will never be another like him.
Those of us who deeply love music also mourn the passing of Grant McLennan of the Go-Betweens, who died peacefully on the sixth of May. The Go-Betweens recorded some of the most perfect songs in the pop music canon, the sort of songs that transcend both music and poetry to become something much greater. It's the sort of music that can save your life and make you promise that, from this moment on, you'll be a better person. Your life will somehow live up to the beauty trickling through your headphones and through your body right into your soul.
photo courtesy of Low-Max Records
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We spend so much time gerrymandering music into tiny genres and labels, piling words into sacred places where speech and ego just don't belong. What if, just for today, we threw away those labels, stopped trying to control music, and let the music take control of us? What if we ignored the medium through which music comes into the world, and just accepted the music in its own right?
Just for today, let's say there is no first, second, or third wave of ska. There is no new wave or no-wave. There is no rock or pop. There is no punk, no post-punk, no emo, no hardcore. No prog-rock, no post-rock. No old school, no hip-hop, no East Coast, no West Coast. No baroque, no early music, no New Music, no pops, no orchestras, no string quartets. No guilty pleasures, no music for musicians. No "I hate country," no new country, no alt-country.
There's just that deep, deep part of us that isn't complete without music. There's just that unforgettable moment of hearing something great, that current that runs through us all regardless of age, gender, background, or politics.
Relax your shoulders, breathe deeply through your diaphragm. Feel that chill run down your spine, feel that tingle through your extremities, feel that inspiration, and act upon it.
When we make excellent music, like Desmond and Grant did, we realize the best parts of ourselves. Music existed before humans came into the picture, and it will stay long after we're gone. It's the only lingua franca we have.
Desmond, you made me a citizen of the world. Grant, you made me a citizen of myself. For that, I will thank you forever. I wish you'd never go, but I hope the next world recognizes your genius, lifts you up on a dais, and parades you through the streets, ribbons streaming and angels singing harmony.
We loved you. Goodbye.
Posted June 2006
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anna commented, on June 20, 2006 at 7:16 p.m.:
Desmond is so cute in that picture. I remember listening to the Israelites on an Anorak compilation tape (yes, ole tapes) my friend Sally made for me. Circa... 1986