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<TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD><DIV class=bigheadline>The reign of reggae
</DIV><DIV class=byline>Ric Hernandez</DIV>
<DIV class=dateline>Saturday, March 3rd 2007</DIV>
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I was going to talk about silence this week but out driving last Sunday we stopped for lunch at an Apache village and something there prompted me to talk instead of reggae.
It struck me after sandwiches at the village how incredibly this Jamaican music travels the world and I began to think of the different places I myself had seen evidence of the art form.
And I'm not talking about Jamaica or in Trinidad and Tobago. Reggae and rude boys have had a long run at home and, working in Jamaica, it somehow always seemed appropriate, and ordained even, to have reggae as a soundtrack to encounters with Red Stripe and patties.
Reggae first surprised me in Hampstead Road in northwest London. I was there working on a campaign for the inaugural BWIA London run and was probably seeking a little R&R in a pub down the road from the office.
An oldster came in and, before ordering his pint, placed a coin in a jukebox, summoning a wicked reggae. Surprised though I was by the man and his music, I found the reaction in the pub equally remarkable: quiet old fellows gazing into their Guinness hardly raised an eyebrow! </DIV><DIV class=texte>
Reggae was obviously at home, even among the geriatrics.
From Hampstead, London, in the borough of Camden, to Camden, Maine and the Maine Photography Workshops.
Camden is one of those picture book little towns dotting the Maine coast. It was there in the 60's that they filmed Peyton Place, the Grace Metalious soap saga that starred a young Ryan O'Neal and Mia Farrow.
It's also the home of the Maine Photographic Workshops in adjoining Rockport.
And there was I, coming to terms with the mechanics of printing photos one night when other, keener, students had long gone, leaving me with a fellow-sluggard in the darkroom.
D'you mind, he asked after a while, pointing to his little portable, and getting a nod, surprised me with a very current reggae number, changing the mood of the place.
The red glow of the safelight immediately become more hospitable and, with a lighter heart, I managed to finish my assignment.
Reggae also surprised us on Orcas Island, off Washington state. This is a location where Britain and the US once, improbably, almost came to blows over a pig shot and killed by a local.
You arrive at Orcas in a splash, by seaplane, or you sidle up to it on the inter-island Washington State Ferry.
We were greeted on the dock by an elaborate poster announcing the imminent arrival of a Jamaican contingent for concerts on the island. Unfortunately we didn't stay there long enough to believe our ears.
And not long ago I came across a picture of an unlikely "Bob Marley Hotel," in the requisite red, yellow and green of Ras Tafari. They said the hotel was in Kathmandu!
Following up to see if this was genuine, I was reassured by Nepalnews.com that reggae had indeed invaded the country.
A blog mentioned some chaps, all muffled up, fixating on the picture of the great man himself while they meditated on the lament, "I Shot the Sheriff."
That shot heard around the world was quietly reverberating on the roof of the world as well! The story noted, also, how much of a treasure Nepali men consider Bob Marley bandannas.
Astonishing, too,
</DIV><DIV class=byline>Ric Hernandez</DIV>
<DIV class=dateline>Saturday, March 3rd 2007</DIV>
</TD></TR><TR><TD>
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><TABLE cellSpacing=0 width="100%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD width=5></TD><TD><TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 border=0><TBODY><TR><TD align=middle></TD></TR><TR><TD class=caption></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><DIV class=texte>I was going to talk about silence this week but out driving last Sunday we stopped for lunch at an Apache village and something there prompted me to talk instead of reggae.
It struck me after sandwiches at the village how incredibly this Jamaican music travels the world and I began to think of the different places I myself had seen evidence of the art form.
And I'm not talking about Jamaica or in Trinidad and Tobago. Reggae and rude boys have had a long run at home and, working in Jamaica, it somehow always seemed appropriate, and ordained even, to have reggae as a soundtrack to encounters with Red Stripe and patties.
Reggae first surprised me in Hampstead Road in northwest London. I was there working on a campaign for the inaugural BWIA London run and was probably seeking a little R&R in a pub down the road from the office.
An oldster came in and, before ordering his pint, placed a coin in a jukebox, summoning a wicked reggae. Surprised though I was by the man and his music, I found the reaction in the pub equally remarkable: quiet old fellows gazing into their Guinness hardly raised an eyebrow! </DIV><DIV class=texte>
Reggae was obviously at home, even among the geriatrics.
From Hampstead, London, in the borough of Camden, to Camden, Maine and the Maine Photography Workshops.
Camden is one of those picture book little towns dotting the Maine coast. It was there in the 60's that they filmed Peyton Place, the Grace Metalious soap saga that starred a young Ryan O'Neal and Mia Farrow.
It's also the home of the Maine Photographic Workshops in adjoining Rockport.
And there was I, coming to terms with the mechanics of printing photos one night when other, keener, students had long gone, leaving me with a fellow-sluggard in the darkroom.
D'you mind, he asked after a while, pointing to his little portable, and getting a nod, surprised me with a very current reggae number, changing the mood of the place.
The red glow of the safelight immediately become more hospitable and, with a lighter heart, I managed to finish my assignment.
Reggae also surprised us on Orcas Island, off Washington state. This is a location where Britain and the US once, improbably, almost came to blows over a pig shot and killed by a local.
You arrive at Orcas in a splash, by seaplane, or you sidle up to it on the inter-island Washington State Ferry.
We were greeted on the dock by an elaborate poster announcing the imminent arrival of a Jamaican contingent for concerts on the island. Unfortunately we didn't stay there long enough to believe our ears.
And not long ago I came across a picture of an unlikely "Bob Marley Hotel," in the requisite red, yellow and green of Ras Tafari. They said the hotel was in Kathmandu!
Following up to see if this was genuine, I was reassured by Nepalnews.com that reggae had indeed invaded the country.
A blog mentioned some chaps, all muffled up, fixating on the picture of the great man himself while they meditated on the lament, "I Shot the Sheriff."
That shot heard around the world was quietly reverberating on the roof of the world as well! The story noted, also, how much of a treasure Nepali men consider Bob Marley bandannas.
Astonishing, too,
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