[Tyr Zalo Hawk]: 712.Essays.I Can't Help Falling in Love With Reggae

Just before I came here to the university, I had the opportunity to head out to a reggae concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The only thing I knew about Reggae was that it was from Jamaica, and the only thing I knew about the Hollywood Bowl was that it was in Hollywood somewhere. Reggae was foreign to me at the time, and I only really agreed to go because my family wanted to and, well, I’ll give most any music a try to impress me. I expected drugs to be smoked, soft music that everyone would just relax to, a small gathering of people who liked the music, and that I wouldn’t know a single lyric to a single song before it was sung, or after I’d left. It was just going to be the third concert I’d ever been to in my life, and a way to spend time with my family, who were all equally new to the subject of Reggae. Boy was I wrong.
Arriving at the Hollywood Bowl, a stadium that seats over 17,000 people, is a little bit like being thrown into the ocean after learning to swim in the kiddy pool for a small town boy like me. You walk for nearly ten minutes just to find the section you’re sitting in, another 3-4 to find your seat, and 2 minutes to squeeze past the other people around your seat to sit down. I’m not sure how much my grandmother paid for the tickets to get us into this colossal thing cost, but I’ve been told they weren’t exactly cheap. From my seat the stage was over 100 yards away, and I wondered just how I was going to be able to hear this gentle music, even with the gigantic speakers they had way down there. The stage was seemed empty in comparison to the stages at other concerts I’d been to where the instruments were waiting for their performers before the fans even entered the venue. There didn’t even appear to be a mic from what I could see. People poured in through the dozen or so entrances for over ten minutes straight, and all my thoughts of a small, relaxed atmosphere went dashing away before the concert had even begun.
The people themselves seemed like they were all just picked out of some sort of human hat. There were young, attractive college girls, little 7-year old kids bouncing on the seats, the middle-aged parents of said children trying desperately to both calm their kids down and have another drink, and even elderly people who wore thick glasses and complained about how loud the music they liked was being played. Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, Asians, Californians, my small town knowledge about musical appeal was shot through the head, buried, and then forgotten all at once. Some looked like they’d just come from off the streets, and others were so obviously rich it was almost sickening. Friendly, rude, and eccentric, they were all there because they loved Reggae. They brought their coolers of food and drinks, their inflatable beach balls and balloons, and their glowing bracelets. There was smoking, there was drinking, and the inflatable objects were thrown into the crowd and juggled through half the concert, just for fun. People got up, walked off to join others, and no one seemed to mind if you talked during the music, in fact, no one seemed to mind much of anything besides their own little groups. It was loud, yea, but the people there were all about as relaxed as I thought they’d be, even when their hands were flying up to smack a plastic ball down a few rows.
My grandmother and father, the only two in our group who had even heard Reggae before could tell me nothing about the bands, gave me no real warnings about what the music was like, and repeated the phrase ‘It’s enjoyable’ at least 20 times whenever asked about it. Luckily, the college girls sitting next to me seemed like they were willing to talk. Maybe it was the drinks in their hands, or maybe they were naturally happy-go-lucky, but they were all I had at the time, and they were certainly more useful than my family. They were there because, well, they loved the atmosphere. The girls liked to go to concerts, and Reggae was, apparently, one of the better types of concerts around. In a place like Hollywood, that seemed pretty impressive to me at the time. I learned that the music was good to dance to, and fun to listen to. I gathered their familiarity with the music from their knowledge of the songs being played. They smiled, they laughed, and they sang along. They didn’t know every song, or even every word, and I don’t blame them with the speed of some of the lyrics, but they knew enough to give off the impression of at least casual fans to the artists that were performing. Of course, at a concert where the only intermission is a massive rush to the bathrooms, I soon lost track of the girls in the crowds, and when they didn’t come back to their seats, I could only assume they’d found a more interesting group of people to hang around with. With my only sources of information gone, I had no choice but to listen closer to the songs, and figure it all out for myself.
The music was good enough, but far different than whatever I thought to expect. It had a nice beat, something that, as I was told, really was something you could easily dance to. The performers always had a level of crowd involvement, even if the words, if you could call their collections of sounds words, that they wanted us to say were a bit ridiculous. I mean, who can honestly hear, memorize, and then repeat the phrase “shalalahamamalililillalmamalioooooo!”? It certainly wasn’t me, though I did try. It was fun, after all. The first artist gave me a sense of, what I believe is, more modern Reggae. He was a fast talker who wanted things to go back to the old ways and I barely caught a word. The next was softer, smoother, and all about the love songs. He was more professional than the first, and I believe the people who came knew him better overall, because he got more of a crowd response for less. The real performance though was saved for after intermission when UB40 made their appearance. Once again, I believed I’d know nothing about their music, but that it’d be enjoyable, just like the first two. Once again, I was wrong. They were easy-going and relaxing, with a rich, powerful sound that captured you in a way that most music doesn’t know about. The songs evoked emotions that made you feel like you didn’t need to worry about anything, and, so, I didn’t. I knew their songs. I could sing along and, in fact, everyone sang along. This was what the 17,000 strangers around me had come for, and, in the end, it was what I feel I came for. I was no longer just one listener. I was part of a single entity that swayed and sang along with the band. We shouted at the top of our lungs in order to augment his voice, to feel like we were the ones on stage, and everything else faded away. I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You was the last song that night, and even my family, the people who knew nothing about Reggae, all sang along with the others and me. The concert overall was ok, but those last few songs were incredible.
The atmosphere, the carefree people, and the great music really left an impression on me. If I’d gone to any sort of smaller venue, I’m almost sure my views of Reggae wouldn’t have changed in the least, because, well, then my original thoughts probably would’ve held true, or at least truer than they were at the Bowl. However, sitting it in that huge, sold-out arena, with all of those people surrounding me, altered my perceptions. I’m not so sure the music itself could’ve pulled that off. But, I guess now we’ll never know.
So, the concert wasn’t I expected it to be, for the most part. Yes, the songs were calming and relaxed, but I knew a few, and they felt good to listen to, not just the stuff I would consider to be background music. The people were of every shape, size, and color, and so my stereotypical ‘Jamaican listener’ didn’t hold water at all, and they all loved the music, for a very good reason too. The experience was something I could never forget, because it was nothing like what I thought it would be.

© Tyr Hawkaluk (2004-Present)