Ring the Alarm: Montreal soundsystems come fi mash it
Local history and local heroes are important. And Canadian soundsystem culture isn’t just in Toronto — it’s across Canada, and certainly in Montreal. Back in 2005, I spoke to a bunch of the hardworking folks that were juggling, clashing and keeping the forwards coming. There had been a number of “iPod battles” at the time, and, as someone who totally and completely fell for soundsystems the moment I heard Stone Love, I felt that people should know about what I saw and still see as one of the most significant cultural phenomena of the past century. This piece also contains one of my favourite quotations of all time: “A reggae soundsystem brings life to your face.”
I was fairly happy with the piece-though I wish it could’ve been longer so I would’ve had space for additional interviews. So here it goes — originally published in the Montreal Mirror, April 2005:
When you ask Fatta, formerly of the Road Warrior sound crew, to tell you what a soundsystem is, he doesn’t list off different members of a soundsystem’s staff — the selector who picks the tunes, the MC who chats with the crowd and carries the hype, or anyone else who is involved in dealing with equipment or music.
“A soundsystem brings the way of life of reggae music to you,” he says. “They are showing you what music can do. A reggae soundsystem brings life to your face.”
We’re clearly talking about a hell of a lot more than just playing some records. Soundsystems, mobile discos that can set up anywhere, are the cornerstone of the Jamaican music industry. They may have started out as a more convenient, affordable form of entertainment than the traditional live band, but they’ve developed over time to not only set the template for hip hop, but also to create a vibrant cultural form that simultaneously creates and contradicts opinions and ideas.
As Carolyn Cooper, professor at the University of the West Indies and author of Sound Clash (Palgrave), a recent book about dancehall culture, says, “When a soundsystem is set up on a corner, it creates a public space for the consumption of popular music. If you don’t have these public spaces, then the music will become entirely domesticated.”
Sounds uptown and down
Our seemingly endless winters limit the possibilities for stringing up “sounds” on street corners, but the sun shines every weekend somewhere in Montreal. Don Ignorance of the Triple AAA record store (6895A Victoria Ave.), who founded the Little Thunder crew 15 years ago with his brother Scroogie, believes that we’ve got probably around 100 active sounds here (Crystal, Love Zone, Uptown Soundz, Assassins, King Levi and Moonshine Ladies, to name merely a few). The Sean Paul-ification of the pop charts has a lot to do with it. “It’s got so big that they want it downtown, they want it in the east end. Everybody knows reggae music used to be played mostly uptown, but it’s all over the city right now because it’s in big demand.”
This wasn’t always the case. “Most of the clubs used to fight against reggae music because they think it brought a rowdy crowd or the guys with the gunshots or stuff like that, but now, if you don’t have reggae in your club, nobody’s going.”
Though folks like Fatta and Don Ignorance are happy that more people are listening to dancehall, they want to ensure that people don’t forget the foundation tunes while they’re busy signalling di plane and rowing di boat. Don Ignorance says, “Our main problem is radio. We don’t have a direct radio station where we could play dancehall or lovers rock or conscious tunes on a daily basis, so it comes right back to what they show on the TV. That’s the reason why Montreal is set on dancehall, a little bit of cultural music and that’s about it at the moment.”
Though Fatta gives props to young sounds for “having the hype locked,” he wants them to be aware of their responsibility. “I want to see an educated dancehall crowd who understand and know dancehall because the sounds took it upon themselves to start educating. If you go to Jamaica, there is no young sound who will not play Dennis Brown and Garnett Silk, who will not go back to the roots.”
Especially in a clash.
Win, lose or drama
Soundclashes — musical showdowns in which soundsystems compete for the all-important respect of dancehall patrons — don’t happen very often in Montreal, but according to Don Ignorance, “When we do, there’s always a big controversy after — who wins, who loses.”
Fatta looks to Toronto, a scene he feels has a little less animosity. “Soundclash [in Toronto] is like watching Days of Our Lives. ‘Did you hear that song? I can’t wait till next week!’”
It’s all about learning more about the music — and that means a heavy emphasis on vinyl 45s. Sure, CDs are fine for juggling, Fatta’ll give you that, but in a clash, “if you don’t actually have the records in your box, what level were you thinking at, why were you not collecting these records? The whole point of a clash is to show knowledge of music, not to see who can download the quickest tunes at the best quality.”
But whether it’s on CD or wax, the soundclash showstoppers are dub plates — special versions, often limited to exactly one copy, of popular songs recorded with just the right combination of riddim (the instrumental track), artist and lyrics. A dub’s lyrics must always insist — in very creative ways — on the utter supremacy of the sound that plays it. Each selector has his or her own approach. “I look for artists,” says Don Ignorance. “I change up everything so when you hear it and the original track, it’s totally different, and that’s what makes your sound stand out more than the other sound.”
Fatta’s all about the riddim. “The riddim you put on a dub plate will tell the people how much you know about reggae music, how much you know how to fit vocals with instrumentals. That’s the magic of dub plates, it’s one big puzzle and you just have to put it together.”
Chatter by platter
It’s playing with the puzzle that creates the new from the old. “Reggae music talks to each other,” explains Fatta. “Say if you have a Sizzla plate and I can answer back with another artist, on the same riddim, and then whatever you say on the mike is also counteracting, it creates one big conversation.”
Cooper agrees. “What’s happening now is that the selector is claiming a role that’s quite different from the DJ’s. The selector is seeing him or herself as shaping the event itself by making comments on the music and inviting the audience to participate in a kind of conversation about the meaning of the song.”
Both Fatta and Don Ignorance appreciate the potential of reggae music in Montreal today, but regard patience as a virtue. “Don’t rush it,” says Don Ignorance. “It doesn’t build over a year or two. We’ve been doing this for 15 years now and we’re not even where we want to be yet.”
Fatta’s right there with him. “You can’t just say, ‘Tomorrow I’m going to go and play a sound,’ and not study the technique of playing reggae. Everything you say on the mic has to relate to something that goes on and people have to understand. That’s why you have some of the scandals in dancehall — they talk about things that happen in everyday life. Politics, religion, it’s who has the guts to say what and if the people receive it and respect what you’re saying. So dancehall is a thing where you have to create a vibe, you have to carry a message. The last thing you say, people need to remember.”
