“Body and Soul” – Two Versions
Njelle Hamilton’s Spotify playlist referenced in Phonographic Memories has few songs from the jazz genre. Yet two performed versions of the jazz standard “Body and Soul,” by Ella Fitzgerald and Coleman Hawkins, claim space. The former with words, the latter without, and both offering a reimagining of a song that has been quintessential to the jazz genre for nearly a century.
Ella Fitzgerald:
The bass beat from the band starts right at the beginning, paired with a chorus of saxophones and a single trumpet. The saxophones, smooth and languid, climb up and down. A listener can’t help but sway as the notes move, oscillating between high and low. Twenty-five seconds in, a saxophone arpeggio. Then: Fitzgerald. “My heart is sad and lonely! / For you I sigh, for you dear only” she begins. At the end of each line, she holds out the note. Her vibrato quivers—crooning, confident, sensual. The song’s message of surrendering to a distant lover is undisputed in a quick glance at the lyrics. But Fitzgerald maintains a control over the music that asserts that she—and no one else—calls the shots here. Hamilton describes this control as if Fitzgerald has “put everything she has into producing this sonically whole ‘body’” (88).
Her control is most evident around the three-minute mark. Repeating the previous verse, her voice grows and the band builds. The string instruments take a central role, creating a more sentimental mood. Together, they all reach an emphatic peak at the lines: “My life a wreck you’re making! / You know I’m yours / For just the taking.” Whereas most of the song up to this point is dominated by low intonations, the vocal notes here reach new heights. The last word of the song, soul, hangs in the air before the band begins to fade out.
Coleman Hawkins:
Gone is the bass beat and full band lead-in. Instead, Coleman Hawkins 1939 version of “Body and Soul” begins with a flutter of piano notes. Then, the beat and the saxophone join in, the saxophone taking center stage. The beat is faster here than in the Fitzgerald version. Rather than long, stretched notes that lend themselves to the body swaying, the pacing feels more like a head bop or a shoe tap. Between each arpeggio, the quick breaths of Hawkins can be heard. One can imagine his lips briefly parting with the saxophone’s mouthpiece before uniting again. The parts of the song are indistinguishable—the saxophone improvises its own rhythm, its own flow. This rendition of the song, Hamilton asserts, is somehow able to “simultaneously call to mind and erase the first-person testimony of a woman pining for requited love” (87).
The climax of this version of the song is reached around the two-and half-minute mark. The notes ark upward before floating back down. Then, the saxophone alone. It nearly completes the chord progression before a one-note, collective ending with the entire band.
It is important to note that if someone were listening to Hamilton’s playlist from beginning to end, the Hawkins version of “Body and Soul” would be encountered first. For me, listening to the Hawkins version before the Fitzgerald version makes it more difficult to compare the two. Perhaps that is what Hamilton intended. Two unhindered music experiences rather than two competing pieces. Two parts to a whole.
“Casi un Bolero” / “Almost a Love Song”
In her 2019 monograph Phonographic Memories, Njelle Hamilton defines what she terms a “bolero aesthetic” as “the simultaneous romantic and nationalist nostalgia of Cuban ‘songs of love’” (21). She explores the ways that excessive nostalgia through the bolero can warp an original memory, and how over time this distorted, overplayed recollection ossifies into the only memory. There are a select few boleros–Cuban love songs–that Hamilton includes in her paratextual playlist Spotify playlist to Phonographic Memories, one of which is Puerto Rican singer/songwriter Ricky Martin’s “Casi un Bolero” (1998). “Casi” was originally written and performed in Spanish, but a year after it was first released, Martin recorded an English version of the song “Almost a Love Song.” While acknowledging that this translation may not retain some of the original sentiments rendered in Spanish, I have chosen to analyze the English lyrics that accompany the same melody in the 1999 re-release of the song.
Hamilton describes the nostalgia of a bolero as simultaneously remembering both a lover and a nation, and I would argue that this duality is rendered in “Almost a Love Song” through nonliteral readings of embodied action and geographic ambiguity. Certain clues in the lyrics suggest that the apostrophic figure to whom the song is addressed is a man or woman (Martin himself is openly bisexual), but these hints are subtle enough that the possibility that he is singing to something other than a person is not entirely erased. A figurative interpretation of lyrics such as his love’s “laughter,” “voice,” and “dancing out of time” together could make the case that his love and that for which he is pining is actually a place. The line “dancing out of time,” for example, may be interpreted both as a physical, embodied dance with another person, and as an asynchronous, anachronistic relationship with his country where the memory of his love flickers in between a nostalgic historicization and the present, condemned to temporal irreconcilability.
Equally salient is the notion that Martin and his apostrophe are spatially displaced. The song is coming from a place which is not situated in a knowable location: the only lyrics which refer to the geography read “In this empty house there’s an echo” in the first verse, and “It looks like a ghost town in my mind” in the third. Both evoke feelings of desolation or barrenness of his present location compared to the time and place he is remembering. An “empty house” may be at the same time a remark about his former romantic lover leaving the house they shared and an allusion to his feelings of displacement from his home country, which give rise to the impression that his current habitation is barren by comparison. His later evocation of a “ghost town” achieves a similar dual effect: the image of a ghost town carries with it the association of being both devoid of people who formerly inhabited it, and a place which has been abandoned and forgotten except in nostalgic memory.
Things Change–A Meditation on Buju Banton
Buju Banton has long been the epitome of the Jamaican dancehall badman. His conviction for drug-related incidents in 2011 led to much outcry in both Jamaica and in the United States. Much opposition to the conviction stems from accusations that Banton was “set-up and seduced” by an informant of the U.S. government. Banton was released in 2018, deported to Jamaica, where he performed a sold-out concert to his loyal fans in Kingston. In addition to the drug charges, however, Banton also received backlash for his homophobic lyrics. Several supporters believe that Banton was intentionally targeted due to supposed “anti-gay sentiments” and “promoted attacks on gay men” (ABC News), as related in the Dancehall song “Boom Bye-Bye.” In March 2019, Banton removed the song from his catalogue, promising never to perform the song again.
The triptych of Banton songs included in Hamilton’s playlist, in my opinion, cannot be read without the context of Banton’s rocky past. The songs chosen (explained in further detail below) fit fairly well within the realm of “conscious” music, engaging themes of religious sentiment, community-minded action and a decry of faulty government. However, Boom Bye Bye, Banton’s homophobic anthem, was released in 1992. Deportees (Things Change) was released in 1993, Untold Stories in 1995 and Hills and Valleys in 1997. There is a deep hypocrisy in Banton’s call for “Brothers and sisters/Looking out for one another…Not contrary…tearing down each other” in light of his own back catalogue.
As a Jamaican woman, there is often present an uneasiness when listening to dancehall. The lyrics have often been accused of sexualizing and objectifying women, while at the same time revealing little knowledge regarding the spectrum of female pleasure. I imagine that Hamilton, in her own listening experience, feels much the same way. There is another level of discomfort as we consider the context in which Banton writes. Banton, who grew up in a poor neighbourhood in Kingston, often seeks to portray the violence and class discomfort within the country. I find myself in what I presume to be the same situation as Hamilton—a Jamaican who has decided to pursue education in the United States, singing along to Banton’s declaration: “Who can afford to run will run / But what about those who can’t…they will have to stay”. In Phonographic Memories, Hamilton invokes the use of Caribbean music in diaspora novels as “in the service of remembering and returning to the homeland, even if only in the imagination.” (15) As we consider of inclusion of a problematic figure such as Banton’s music on her playlist, I ask this question of Hamilton, and of other migrants, including myself. We love our artists when they represent us. But what do we allow ourselves to take from their narratives vs. what might we rather leave?
Deportees (Things Change) (1993)
Deportees (Things Change), is sung in patois. The opening lines of the song reveal its thematic concerns, namely as a warning for Jamaican emigrants who fail to acknowledge their roots. The narrator declares, “Anytime yuh go foreign neva you dare trow stones behind you/’Cau wicked t’ings will tek yuh/ Watch mi nuh! Yuh hear!” What follows is the story of the deportee, who after migrating, ignores the call of his family, country, and his God. The “mi” narrator of the song, who we learn himself is a character in the story, is presented in opposition to the deportee. We learn that things have changed for the deportee, and after spending his money abroad, he finds himself forced to return. The narrator, who has heard about the deportee’s return, neglects to acknowledge him on his return.
As the song progresses, we learn more about the specifics of the deportee’s life. Instead of sending remittances to his home, in the form of shoes for his father or letters to his mother, the deportee spends his money on frivolities—Mercedes Benz and Lexus cars, Clark’s shoes, clothes that haven’t been worn. We learn later that this money has been earned through a “life of crime,” whereas the narrator, unable himself to migrate abroad, “couldn’t mek a dime”. We have context for the narrator’s ill-feeling towards the deportee, then, as the narrator exclaims, “when mi hear di bwoy get dep (orted), yuh know mi vibes cramp/ send im back Uncle Sam/ cause im deh dey an a ramp/ an nuff yout out ya wan drop inna di camp.”
However, the song’s bridge suggests a new beginning, for both the deportee himself and for his relationship with the narrator. The repetition of the lines, “Back together again, mi baby frien’/Dust off yuh clothes, an’ start from scratch again” suggests that a new life must be built for the deportee, perhaps with the help of his lost friend.” However, the song (like many dancehall and reggae songs) is cyclical, the verses and choruses repeated before the bridge fades out at the end. There’s a cruel irony to the song, recorded many years before Banton himself was deported from the United States in 2018, after his release from jail. Do things ever really change?
Untold Stories (1995)
Untold Stories is sung in both English and patois. The lyrics are relayed over an acoustic guitar and snare drum, rather than a reggae or dancehall beat. Banton’s voice, however, functions as the most powerful instrument on the track. It is both gravelly and tuneful, growing in emotion as he strains. The song takes up themes of religion and politics. As relayed in the chorus, while the narrator takes comfort in his belief in a higher power, there exists a divide between “we” and “the leaders,” the former having to pay for the decisions make by the latter. The first verse introduces a distinct friction—between the life of crime many young people turn to, and the inability of their government to attest to their needs. Where does the breakdown in society occur when the government refuses to take into account the livelihoods of their citizens? As Banton decries, “What is to stop the youths from get out of control/Full up of education yet no on no payroll”?
It seems that the answer is faith in God, at least to an extent. The chorus reminds us that, “I am living while I am living to the father I will pray/ Only him knows how we get through everyday.” However, as the song continues, we learn more about the specific challenges of the lives of poor Jamaicans. The second verse opens with, “Who can afford to run will run/ But what about those who can’t…They will have to stay.” Happiness appears to only exist outside of the Jamaican context—happiness is migration. Despite the fact that “mama spend her last and send you go class,” job opportunities remain “scare commodity(ies).” The poor are doomed to outspend what they earn, while leaders continue to increase the prices of goods (perhaps a call to IMF austerity policies?). Even the faith in God, then, seems to fail to provide answers. The song might prove hopeless, if not for the turn taken in the third verse, which ends, “Though this life keep getting me down/Don’t give up now/ Got to survive somehow/ Could go and on and the full [story] has never been told.”
It is in the final refrain, “I could go and on and the full has never been told” where Banton finds answers, and hope. Here enter the background singers, who repeat the first verse in conjunction with Banton’s rasp. As they sing, “Untold Stories” moves into the realm of gospel hymn. The last minute of the song is devoted to the refrain of “I could go on and on the full has never been told”. In the last extended release of the world “told”, we recognize the purpose of the backing vocals. A harmonized, sonorous medley of voices. The song is a lament, but suggests a community that outlasts the effects of broken leadership. The full story has never been told, but through song and music, the stories themselves remain worth telling.
Hills and Valleys (1997)
Hills and Valleys is a reggae song, sung in a combination of English and patois. It is explicitly religious, the opening lines to the song claiming, “Only Rasta can liberate the people.” In addition to these religious tones, however, the song is generally community-minded. However, the community defined within the song appears to be at war. The narrator warns, “Don’t let them fool you/ Don’t believe for the a minute that they are with you.” Who are the “them” and the “you” defined here, as opposed to those of “Untold Stories”? The distinction is hazier here. Do we see the divide as between believers and non-believers? The people (citizens) vs. Babylon (establishment/government/police structures)? The narrator sides with the “you”, claiming that “If it was up to them my friend/We would never see the sun nor the snow.” The landscape described by Banton thus goes beyond the bounds of Jamaica, the Caribbean. The “hills and valleys” rendered by the song, seem to evoke both the homeland and the diaspora.
If we return to the song’s religious origins, Banton also appears to be addressing a form of “mental slavery”, to use Marley’s term. The second verse decries the use of “hard drugs”, suggesting that they are one of “their” tools. The final lines of the verse read, “Many live this life without having a clue / No reason why are they are so sad and blue/ Places to go, so much things to do/ Not a moment to reflect on the cycle of life.” From what is “Jah” liberating the people? Is it from the capitalist system that places a heavy emphasis on productivity, on work, rather than on living full, spiritual lives? One interpretation of the song, then, asks the listeners to return to spiritual and communal living, denouncing Babylonian concepts.
The song’s bridge, however, asks us to again consider the theme of immigration. Where, in fact, do the “you” end up? The bridge tells us, in the form of a lament. As Banton intones “It hard, it hard, it hard/Mek them know we waan go home a wi yard” his voice grows ever more gravelly, and filled with emotion. His voice aches with the sound of breath, exhalation. As typical of the genre, Banton ends the song with the first verse, albeit with differing riffs on the language. The song, then, maintains its cyclical quality, anchored by its groaning hook.
While the song was released over a decade before Banton’s drug conviction, it provides yet another instance where the listener is asked to separate the art from the artist. Banton himself was apprehended and jailed by arguably the strongest of Babylon’s forces—the CIA. How seriously can we take his demands for us to live our lives in opposition to these influences?
Fin
For an answer to that final question, I ask that we look to Banton’s most recent single, Steppa, which was released in November 2019. The chorus reads:
Say you a badman, fine
And you don’t step and left your gun no time
Say them heartless and mean when them a step with them team
Now a white suit and tape from forensic
A life of a badman, according to Banton, indicates the imminent end of that life. Things change, indeed.
Sources Consulted
Hamilton, Njelle W. Phonographic Memories: Popular Music and the Contemporary Caribbean Novel. Rutgers University Press, 2019.
https://www.vibe.com/2019/03/buju-banton-why-he-removed-boom-bye-bye-from-catalog
https://genius.com/Buju-banton-deportees-things-change-lyrics
https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bujubanton/deporteesthingschange.html
https://genius.com/Buju-banton-hills-and-valleys-lyrics
https://genius.com/Buju-banton-steppa-lyric
Bob Marley, a singer, storyteller, and revolutionary.
Marley is known for situating music outside of the realm of entertainment. He makes space for Caribbean culture to be validated worldwide through the repetitious sound of his music, and the context of his messages: “Marley’s romantic ballads are central to his politics and musical origins, and his discography suggests that romantic, erotic, national, and divine love exist on a continuum (Hamilton 290). The repetitive nature of Marley music is central to the Carribean sound as well as one’s ability to connect with his messages regardless of their familiarity with the music. In her book Phonographic Memories: Popular Music and the Contemporary Caribbean Novel, Njelle Hamilton speaks to the ways repetition connects to people and allows them to remember what they have heard in ways that later creates nostalgia “its inherent characteristics of repetition, rhythm, and perhaps its appeal to our pleasure and emotional centers mean that even nonmusical people tend to remember music and its associated contexts with a high degree of fidelity (Sacks xii)” (Hamilton 152-153).
In Bob Marley’s 1976 hit “Jamming” written and performed while Jamaica was then on the front lines of the Cold War, with a pro-Cuba socialist government led by Prime Minister Michael Manley clashing against a fiercely anti-Communist right-wing opposition led by Edward Seaga (Andrew) The lyrics of “Jamming” can be view through a lens of romanticism or nationalism. Hamilton offers the idea that this song brings a political message through love and the imagery of black bodies dancing as an act of resistance. “Jamming,” a staple of the Wailers’ live set list, at first seems to be an invitation to party and/ or have sex (“ I wanna jam it with you”), yet it belies a covert political message (Hamilton 300). The song opens with the listener believing that Marley is referring to a night of dancing or intimacy: “Ooh, yeah; well, alright We’re jammin’ I wanna jam it with you. We’re jammin’, jammin’ And I hope you like jammin’ too. Ain’t no rules, ain’t no vow we can do it anyhow I and I will see you through. ‘Cause every day we pay the price. We are the living sacrifice. Jammin’ till the jam is through”(Genius.com). Yet, as the song progresses we see that the movement of “Jammin” is more than a physical attempt to achieve brief happiness. Jammin speaks to Marely’s activist mission to commence a movement that would “cast out the plague of political violence” (Andrew).
The song continues to allude to the black couple dancing through his lyrics, but soon challenges the listener to listen with an ear of intent:” We’re jammin’ To think that jammin’ was a thing of the past. We’re jammin’ And I hope this jam is gonna last. No bullet can stop us now. We neither beg nor we won’t bow. Neither can be bought nor sold. We all defend the right Jah Jah children must unite. For life is worth much more than gold” (Genius.com). There is a message of Unity the Marely is hoping for his listener to get. Unity through love and resistance, Marely is making a statement that black love which is self-love is essential to achieving political freedom. Hamilton offers a similar read of these particular lyrics” Togetherness, here articulated as the black couple dancing together and loving on each other, is central to the liberatory political project of repatriation and nation-making. The lyrics insist that, while jamming to reggae, “no bullet can stop us now.” In other words, dancing and loving are defensive and offensive strategies in the fight against Babylon” (Hamilton 305).
Marley’s song continues with these lyrics “We’re jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’. And we’re jammin’ in the name of the Lord. We’re jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’. We’re jammin’ right straight from yard. Singing Holy Mount Zion, Holy Mount Zion. Jah sitteth in Mount Zion And rules all creation. Yeah, we’re jammin’, Bop-chu-wa-wa-wa. . We’re jammin’. I wanna jam it with you. We’re jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’. And Jamdown hope you’re jammin’, too. Jah knows how much I ‘ave tried. The truth cannot hide. To keep you satisfied. True love that now exists. Is the love I can’t resist. So jam by my side. We’re jammin’, jammin’, jammin’, jammin’ I wanna jam it with you. We’re jammin’, we’re jammin’, we’re jammin’, we’re jammin’. We’re jammin’, we’re jammin’, we’re jammin’, we’re jammin’. Hope you like jammin’, too.(Lyric.com). This song keeps the theme of love and revolution alive while invoking the presence of God (Jah) and creating what one might consider a song of worship. Marley finds a way to combine the elements central to his Jamaican identity in order to tell a story and rally others whose stories are mirrored here. Through the continued repetition of the word Jammin the listener connects to the music in both a spiritual and sexual fashion. Marley’s lyrical genius lives on through the nostalgic feelings of hearing” Jamming” just one time.
Work Cited
Hamilton, Njelle W. Phonographic Memories: Popular Music and the Contemporary Caribbean Novel. Rutgers University Press, 2019.
https://genius.com/Bob-marley-and-the-wailers-jamming-lyrics
https://jablogz.com/2012/09/the-story-behind-bob-marleys-jammin-2/
