It
was a bitterly cold, blustery night in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which happens
to be my home town, and also happens to be one of the coldest places in the
world. I’ve lived and worked in some of North America’s most notoriously
frigid cities, and none can match the bone-numbing cold of my beloved Newcastle,
in the remote north east of England, on a bleak February evening.
Byron Lee at the mixing board
Trinidad Publishing Company
My wife and I were waiting in the basement of an ancient pub called the Bridge for the arrival of one of the Caribbean’s music legends. We hung around for half an hour in the chilly, damp room — a local music venue of some repute, specialising in African, Caribbean, and non-mainstream jazz — when suddenly the doors burst open, and in walked the most bedraggled, miserable, cold, and wet bunch of Jamaican musicians I’ve ever set eyes on.
One of the sad-looking group spotted us, and walked over, smiling wryly.
“Garry, Wendy, I’ve never played in anywhere so small for 40 years, and I’ve NEVER played anywhere so cold,” exclaimed Byron Lee. “This place can only hold a couple hundred. How can they do this to us?”
It looked as though things couldn’t get much worse. Then the show started, and the audience, such as it was, showed scant interest in the music staple of Byron Lee and the Dragonaires: rip-roaring soca.
Lee, occupying his usual position at the sound-board, wasn’t having one of the better days or nights of his musical life.
But about half an hour into the show, the band cut into a ska number — and, in an instant, the small dance-floor was jam-packed with local “skinheads’’ — young white males prone to shaving their heads, hanging out in large groups, and frequently causing mayhem.
They’re also known for their love of ska, and with the dance floor suddenly heaving, Lee was having a good time at last. A couple of quick signals to the band, and, instead of an evening of soca, we found ourselves in the middle of a ska revival. And Lee, bandleader and musical opportunist extraordinary, had chalked up another in a long line of successes at doing what he does best — getting a crowd, any crowd, anywhere, any time, on its collective feet and dancing.
I tell this story because I’m a fan and admirer of Lee, a not always fashionable stance among devotees of serious roots reggae. Lee has not often been taken seriously as a musician, despite the fact that few have done more to make Caribbean rhythms — ska, rocksteady, reggae, or high-energy soca — popular around the world. Along the way,
Byron Lee has become a Caribbean institution.
I've known Lee for more than two decades, and I’ve seen him perform dozens of times, in venues as diverse as Reggae Sunsplash in Montego Bay, a cavernous aircraft hangar in Toronto, and that pub basement in Newcastle. And he’s never put on a show that wasn’t 100 per cent entertaining. He’s never failed to get the crowd up an. . .
Byron Lee at the mixing board
Trinidad Publishing Company
My wife and I were waiting in the basement of an ancient pub called the Bridge for the arrival of one of the Caribbean’s music legends. We hung around for half an hour in the chilly, damp room — a local music venue of some repute, specialising in African, Caribbean, and non-mainstream jazz — when suddenly the doors burst open, and in walked the most bedraggled, miserable, cold, and wet bunch of Jamaican musicians I’ve ever set eyes on.
One of the sad-looking group spotted us, and walked over, smiling wryly.
“Garry, Wendy, I’ve never played in anywhere so small for 40 years, and I’ve NEVER played anywhere so cold,” exclaimed Byron Lee. “This place can only hold a couple hundred. How can they do this to us?”
It looked as though things couldn’t get much worse. Then the show started, and the audience, such as it was, showed scant interest in the music staple of Byron Lee and the Dragonaires: rip-roaring soca.
Lee, occupying his usual position at the sound-board, wasn’t having one of the better days or nights of his musical life.
But about half an hour into the show, the band cut into a ska number — and, in an instant, the small dance-floor was jam-packed with local “skinheads’’ — young white males prone to shaving their heads, hanging out in large groups, and frequently causing mayhem.
They’re also known for their love of ska, and with the dance floor suddenly heaving, Lee was having a good time at last. A couple of quick signals to the band, and, instead of an evening of soca, we found ourselves in the middle of a ska revival. And Lee, bandleader and musical opportunist extraordinary, had chalked up another in a long line of successes at doing what he does best — getting a crowd, any crowd, anywhere, any time, on its collective feet and dancing.
I tell this story because I’m a fan and admirer of Lee, a not always fashionable stance among devotees of serious roots reggae. Lee has not often been taken seriously as a musician, despite the fact that few have done more to make Caribbean rhythms — ska, rocksteady, reggae, or high-energy soca — popular around the world. Along the way,
Byron Lee has become a Caribbean institution.
I've known Lee for more than two decades, and I’ve seen him perform dozens of times, in venues as diverse as Reggae Sunsplash in Montego Bay, a cavernous aircraft hangar in Toronto, and that pub basement in Newcastle. And he’s never put on a show that wasn’t 100 per cent entertaining. He’s never failed to get the crowd up an. . .
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