“A gigantic cultural revolution is underway. Free expression and the joy of bodies, the autonomy, hybridisation and the reconstruction of languages, the creation of new singular and mobile modes of production – all this emerges, everywhere and continually.”
Toni Negri
[1]
There are threads running through the 1978 film Rockers that encapsulate the musical production process. From the opening scene of impromtu drummers and the horn rehearsal in the yard, followed by the studio session and manufacture of the single at the pressing plant, through to the distribution of records by motorbike and their reception at the counter of disco- shops and sound-systems the whole process of production, inclusive of the social practice from which it springs, is highlighted. But, crucially, each moment of this process is presented as a site of conflict. There is the musician as wage labourer having to ask to be paid and then being paid in records, there is the alternative distribution method of the motorbike and there is the policeraid on the sound-system. Likewise, in the 1972 movie The Harder They Come there are many compliments to the depiction of this process. From Ivan’s learning the means of expression from his life-experience to watching fawning auditions at the gates of a studio, to the shelving of his record and then the sudden interest in it from his criminal rebellion, there is added the sense of musicians being arbitrarily selected for work like those in a day-labourer queue Ivan joins, his being surplus to the requirements of ‘quality control’ and then, after having fallen foul of a ‘star system’ that is creative, in this case, of violent frustration, Ivan has his gunman notoriety exploited. However, there is a crucial scene in which the island’s main record producer, who is profiting from the sudden and unbenign interest in Ivan’s single, meets, as if in passing, with the detective on the trail of Ivan the fugitive. In an exchange between these two the record producer gives advice about how best to maintain law and order and hence profits. He warns the cop about the ramifications of banning Ivan’s record: “Fooling with the hit parade… that’s when they know something’s wrong”. He further warns him about stopping the ganja trade, and, profiling the economic force of the entertainment industry, he insinuates that the police actions could have even more dangerous ramifications: “Once these jokers get hungry enough to start trading without you, then you’re finished, then law and order is finished in the entire area”. This exchange not only signals that control of culture has a serious input into the balance of political power, it profiles the corruption involved in this, and, crucially the serious threat posed to this power-sharing by the merest threat of an appropriation of the means of production.
When viewed today these two movies paint a picture of Jamaica as not so much the idyllic holiday island of the brochures, an island that is productively backward and underdeveloped, but as a place where, with the absence of large scale industrialisation, there is much more profit to be gained from cultural production. In this light the Jamaican music industry, from its presentation of a watered-down ska at the World Fair of 1964 through the Peoples National Party musical bandwagon to the 1980s primeministership of Edward Seaga (a one time music impresario) is one in which a great deal is at stake. Prince Buster: “Every twist and turn of Jamaican music for the last fourty years has reflected what has been happening to the people, either politically or socially, and often it’s the other way around, with the music and sound system’s influencing the country’s politics”. The production of music, the cultural contexts, and intimacies it springs out from, the way it is expressive of more than representational politics can admit to, means that it became the keystone in a battle for political legitimacy; a production of consensus from the exploitation of the ‘living-labour’ of musicians. People involved in the music business such as P.J. Paterson and Vincent ‘King’ Edwards became MP’s and, when Bob Marley held his ‘unity concert’, musicians too took on a mainstream political role. What makes this situation prescient and the Jamaican music of these times so dynamic is not only that it predates the cultural turn of the western economies but that, in the absence of effective political opposition that is neutered by capital’s management of itself and its concomitant production of ideology to mask social antagonism, those people involved in producing reggae culture become fastly multiplying nodes of an oppositional and at times revolutionary sentiment. Forechoing Toni Negri’s contention that politics should become expressive rather than representational, reggae producer Derrick Harriott, speaking of ‘sufferah music’, offered that “if one feel it everybody feel it, and that was the only chance anyone had at represenation.” In this light much of the music Harriott is referring to is simultaneously expressive and representational, it doesn’t simply ‘speak for’ but ‘speaks through’ a context, it is representative of that which cannot be represented within existent political apparati: the antagonistic struggle of living labour.
It is this power of expressivity (the subjective residue of labour-power informing a reappropriateble living- labour) that polticises the production of reggae music and makes it a production of experience. So, there is more to reggae than the production of commodities; there is, as a result of the antagonism over the social potentiality of labour, the production of contexts for living and the production of the species-being as a sensual recipient of sound. As Walter Benjamin has written: “… the rigid, isolated object… is of no use whatsoever. It must be inserted into the context of a living social relation.” In the late 60s, then, with the coming into focus of roots music, itself linked to the coming-to-expression of the rasta communities, there was a concomittent rise in the amount of sound systems, small studios, independent record labels and sub-labels, and, following on from this, a much wider participation in the making of the music. This is often marked by a whole range of one-off singers and a wider network of collaboration as reggae music diversified to a degree that allowed for non-professional musicians and studio technicians to participate. Whilst it is well acknowledged that the sound systems were the midwives of developments in styles of reggae, it is less acknowledged that the sound systems and their supporters were coming into control of their own means of production based upon the reappropriation of living labour. There was, amidst all this, as a key productive force, the creation of bonds and responsibilities, the production of a ‘living social relation’. Derek Harriott again: “But more than just hearing the music, the equipment was so powerful and the vibe so strong that we feel it. Like when we were dancing you were actually part of it. It was ours and so many of us wanted to do something to contribute to it.” It is this kind of enthusiasm, a revalorised surplus of energy, that cannot be legislated for, that cannot be voted or paid into existence. Such a ‘living culture’ is neither the ‘product’ of labour-power as a commodity nor the outcome of intense competition as many reggae historians offer, but the relation-forming aspect of a ‘living labour’ that has the potentiality to get beyond the wage-relation and, inversely, reveal the subjective, practico-sensuous residue of all labour. Such an enthusiasm is often the keystone of cultures developed by working class and dispossessed peoples who, having little to call their own and no space from which to be expressed, create themselves as a collective context through the reappopriation of living labour. What occurred in the late 60s, then, was a massive outbreak of self-confidence as musical practitioners and their audiences united to strengthen a ‘living culture’: a culture that is expressively-representative, that creates contexts and bonds from which to be expressed, that breaks barriers of competence by means of the antagonism of ‘living labour, and which builds upon the cultural ley-lines of its recent past.
Just as punk music in the UK led to a growth of independent record labels such as Factory, Fast Product, Rough Trade and Industrial Records which all offered a reappropriation rhetoric, so, too, by the time roots music had surfaced in Jamaica there were several factors already in place that led to the growing militancy of reggae culture. Of the many sound-systems that were in operation the two headed by Coxsonne Dodd and Duke Reid which were warring between themselves over RnB and soul records imported from the USA were added to by Prince Buster’s system. When competition between systems, itself generated by a listener response that often gave its own titles to the tunes heard, found itself leaving the search for exclusive imports behind and making home grown ‘imitations’ (the ‘backward rnb’ known as ska) into exclusives, there was the beginnings of a means of expression that musicians could call their own; a means-of-expression premised upon a ‘failure’ of a mimetic impulse. With Prince Buster, who called his sound-system ‘Voice Of The People’, there is this meeting of the means-of- expression with a newly found confidence that made the sound-system and the labels that followed a context for the political force of living labour to constitute itself as an improper polis: “My sound system was to be the people’s radio station… where their points of view would be heard… To me it was important to name my sound system so, because the music of the ghettos and the countryside was being created by the people for the people”. Furthermore, Buster’s work with Count Ossie, the rastafarian drummer from the countryside, is vital in that it brought into play a discourse that had roots in the 1930s and which had long practiced a mode-of-living that scorned slavery, wage labour and the colonial system. Key to the spread of rasta beliefs amongst the dispossessed and working classes was its acceptance of non-doctrinaire and non-judgemental forms of expression. It was an autodidact religion that was fluid. As reggae historian Lloyd Bradley has written: “All ideas and theories are open- ended, subject to constant evolution and individual interpretation, making it impossible for anybody’s views not to count.” This sense of self-confidence and self-consciousness that comes with ‘mekkin a try’ (i.e.coming to take yourself seriously), when coupled to the expressive developments of reggae, led practitioners to distance themselves from capitalist social relations, inflecting the living culture of reggae with a sense of ‘internal exile’ and the desire for ‘exodus’. In other words there was not only a utopian dimension to the culture, but, with an increasing reappropriation of the means of production, a sense of speaking out and being heard in an expressly differentiated manner from participation in representational politics. In this way the sound systems, small studios, independent record labels and sub-labels came to function like bottom-up institutions forming a dispersed polity.
The move from ska to the soul-inflected rock steady did not eclipse the former but lead to a sense of layering, achronological folds, within the culture. Again, attributed to the will of the dancehall goers for the music to slow down, the ‘move’ was receiver-led, but it also coincided with the musicians and vocalists wish to become more expressed in the gaps that the new rhythms provided. Whilst there had been no shortage of social commentary and ‘sufferah’ tracks in Ska, so too Rock Steady continued in this vein and the sounds themselves came to take on a political hue in that their depthening and use of ‘dirty timbre’ helped listeners alter their perceptions of the music, themselves and their situation. As Derek Harriott mentions, the sound-systems could help make feelings come into expression, a shared semiotic of the impulses that could overcome the blockage of language and profile the ‘living labour’ of human sensuousness. The demand for instrumentals in the late 60s had the effect of not just readying us for the next historiographic shift but, more crucially, allowed for the ‘living labour’ of the receiver, not just as dancer, but as an ‘operator’ who could produce the culture without necessarily being a musician or producer. To listen and be immersed in sound could aid in the perception of possible emotion (‘dirty timbre’ has this capacity to articulate emotions that are too fast and flexible for words), it could make the inexpressible come closer to having a material enunciative effect; a kind of enthused circulation of the experience of listening, a responsiveness that could produce the living social relation of a reception-context. This was heightened by the possibilities of space and rhythm that dub music opened up. It is maybe not so far fetched to suggest that with urban spaces being foreshortened by lack of cash and opportunity to travel this dub music, beginning with the instrumental overdubs of rocksteady records in the late 60s (the skinhead sound), opened up ‘existential territories’ that enabled an expansion of consciousness (i.e. a greater modular fluidity between the conscious and the unconscious). The level of detail in dub records, the minutest changes and shifting of sound, the reverberative sequences analogous to an image of thought, are indicative of a will to expand perception to such a degree that the ear becomes an ‘auricular drive’. Dub, at its best, becomes a matter of what Marx spoke of as the ‘species-being’: a fully sensualised experience that collapses the disjunction between thought and feeling and, to echo Pierre Klossowski, ‘frees animality from its function’. In the twinkling of a fader we get an insight into the transformative possibilites of the human: conscious instinct, historical nature, redefined time. This is also seen in the way that dub producers clip the vocal track, making an enunciation into a pre-articulation, suspending a phrase’s conventional meaning and making it an infinitesimal potential. Such a fucking with language, the very paradigm of communication, is not only a mark of an inchoate politics of expressive-assemblages it is indicative of a confidence to take control of the means of production in order to produce not just commodities but a ‘living social relation’. Toni Negri: “It is in the deconstruction of communication that the subject is constructed, and that the multitude finds its power”.
If dub music represented a growing confidence with the technology of the means of musical production to the point where Mikey Dread could say of King Tubby “the man fast, like he part of his board”, then other innovations linked in to the rise of roots similarly profile the ‘living labour’ of the whole process. King Tubby, an autodidact perfectionist, would cut each channel of a track onto its own dubplate to check how the mix sounded on vinyl. These ‘test-cuttings’ were linked to the way Tubby was making remixes of older Rock Steady tunes for Duke Reid which, with newly made spaces and overdubs, would be used for DJs to toast over at dances. This whole ethos of recycling can be approached from a variety of angles. For one, it could be said that any to-be-valued stockpiling of rhythm tracks was undermined by value only accruing to the rhythms when they were in use. The DJ style of toasting over these tracks also marked a move ‘into reality’. Finally loosening the grip of an American rnb and soul influence, there was a chance for recognisable speech patterns, syntax and language-play to become a creative influence in their own right. Big Youth: “Nobody was going out there…dealing with everyday talk like the way people suffer and the way that the people live, when those were the things that we feel.” These DJ cuts, as an immediate precursor to roots or ‘reality songs’ as they were known, are more than just an everyday aesthetic, a representative realism, but, as is the case with the love songs of the era, they bring a phatic element into play, a realism of the emotions talking that Asger Jorn, envisioning an ‘art of the future’, has described as a “change-over to another rhythm of life in which the essential thing is not the emphasis on the private, the masterpiece the individual… but life’s own rhythm, luxuriance and free growth”. Such variation which Jorn offered “lies in finding something old in something new and something new in something old” is to be found in these DJ cuts that can be seen as an example of what is known as ‘free indirect discourse’. The re-use of tracks that were familiar and established provided a context from within which the likes of U-Roy and Big Youth could find the confidence to express themselves and bring a ‘sufferah’ dimension into the music. The vulnerability that can come with talking about ‘personal experience’, albeit as an offer to be shared-in by others, is offset by the ready availability of a means of expression, a ‘place’ from which to speak. It is not so much a matter of plagiarism, which can remain locked in the realm of ownership and insincere intention, but a freeing of the paradigm of ownership into one that enables us to speak without proprietry, to represent ourselves as being socially expressive, social individuals. As Rupie Edwards has said of his mode of working through dub: “I got something to say on that tune”.
This recycling and layering forms an ‘assemblage of enunciation’ that Gilles Deleuze has described as“carrying out two inseparable acts of subjectivation simultaneously, one of which consitutes a character in the first person, but the other of which is present at his birth and brings him on to the scene.” It is no surprise then that this form of ‘free indirect discourse’ is what is made possible by close collaboration and relations of trust that are pre-articulated before a song or a rhythm have even been written. There is no ‘first time’ but only the ‘again’ of certain popular tracks being played over and over on the sound system. Such tracks represent a peculiar nexus: not just a trust between the ‘first persons’ of the DJ and producer (an assemblage of expression), but a well-protected ‘eternal return’ whereby those participating in a living culture produce a context through which they can realise the surplus value of their living-labour (an assemblage of reception). The labour of the past is therefore not squandered and wasted (the ‘murder of the dead’ of capitalist production), but reactivated on to spar with the living labour of the present. Marx understood this cultural revolutionary effect when, in a letter to Ruge, he wrote: “Mankind will not begin any new work, but will consciously bring about the completion of its old work”. Originality, then, as the marker of bourgeois cultural legitimation in the West, becomes more than a misnomer and operates as an oppressive cultural-structuration that seeks to deter a wider-scale production of culture – the use of the ‘three chord’ paradigm of punk and the ubiquitous renditions of 808 State’s Cubik riff in techno culture are analogous events. It is not the ‘end product’ that should be subject to a strict critical reflection but, beyond such aesthetic valorisations, an ‘overstanding’ of its contribution to the living culture: how it is productive of experience and how it expands social relations founded on the reappropriation of living-labour as a social power. Such intimaticies, that maintain the curious aural specifics that roots music makes audible, also allow, then, a form of comradeship across time. The present, whatever that is, is, following Walter Benjamin, ‘shot through with chips of messianic time’; a messianic time that, emanating from the cultural conductance of, say, Ken Boothe’s living-labour, is as secular and materialist as the emotive vowel of the bass in the solar plexus. This conjunction between the cultural labour of the past and the cultural labour of the present is articulated as the continuous presence to us of living-labour beyond the measure of the working day; a ‘free indirect discourse’ that not only comes to inform the ‘history and culture’ leanings of roots music (all wrongs, universal and historic wrongs, to be put right) and the re-use of biblical language as a means of expression (exodus – babylon – wicked man – sufferah etc), but, as an embryonic shattering of the capitalist means of production, opens up the possibility of what living-labour can produce: a “disposable time no longer converted into surplus value”.
When King Tubby, a dubmeister well versed in expanding time into an infintisemal duration to be experienced, advised Mikey Dread to make his own label and release the tracks he had been learning to mix at Tubby’s studio, there is a matter-of-factness to his advice that sees the meeting of an assemblage of expression with an assemblage of reception as a natural fact. Rather than taking his tracks to a major label and run the risk of having his expression made into a representation and his living labour made into wage-labour by means of the recording contract, Mikey Dread, already giving the music away for free on his Dread at The Controls Radio show, launched his own label. These small labels, long since a staple of the music cultures, operated as nodes in a living culture that took the onus away from the established channels of a corporatised culture. As Walter Benjamin has said: “To supply a production apparatus without trying to change it, is a highly disputable activity.” Without this drive to alter the prodution process, to bring living-labour to bear on the distribution and circulation of the music (both aspects of an expanded production according to Marx’s Grundrisse), then the resultant ‘protest art’ carries the ‘rhetoric of disobedience’ that was attributed to punk bands who signed for majors and, in some circles, to Bob Marley’s work for Island Records. Such a neglect of the creative labour behind not just the production of a track, but its packaging and means of circulation (cf early Factory’s non-advertising policy and Fast Product’s detournement of advertising – ‘this is a naive advertisement’ etc) neglects not only the new sites for antagonism brought forth by a expanded notion of production but looses sight of the new ‘object’ of production: a reception context that becomes a nexus for the producton of experience that relies on encouraging participation, a strengthening of the social relation that in turn encourages the means of expression. With reference to the reggae culture Lloyd Bradley mentions the“plethora of almost personal record labels that had not only sprouted up in the capital, but in Burghs such as Port Antonio, Ochos Rios and Spanish Town”. Burning Spear, a stalwart of the roots scene, expresses the situation thus: “Although we was up against the establishment it actually wasn’t so hard, because then you didn’t have to go to one of the big studios to get your record made or pressed-up. You had a lot more people dealing with that kind of music, and because they work independent… it became much easier to get your records made… It was people just like me who was dealing with the music… so it wasn’t a problem to get across what you wanted to say.” With this Burning Spear articulates that peoples having an umediated, non-commanded, access to the means of production (a forecho of their reappropriation) meant not only that the mode of their own relation was brought under their mutual control (wrested from being overly directed by the command of mediators), but that this too had the effect of producing deep-rooted ‘life contexts’ as more and more people could be expressed as social representatives. In this way the ‘sound wars’ of reggae lore, with their dissing and coded insults, are not solely about competitive disagreements and petty jealousy, but also function to strengthen and protect crucial practices of trust that come about in any ‘living culture’. The issuing of warnings such as ‘Straight to the Capitalists Head’ etc are about having respect for the social wealth of a living culture and not exploiting it. For many roots practitioners there was far more at stake than hit records and dunza: sincerity.
When artist-theorists Negt and Kluge spoke about the early days of the workers movement as being concerned with securing the right to communication, a means to securing the circulation of struggles, then, the small labels of early 70s reggae, picking up on the depiction of the sound systems as places to hear of ‘news’ and ‘events’, were, with the rise of ‘consciousness lyrics’, similarly means by which a social horizon of experience could be opened up. If, as Negt and Kluge contend, living labour is a “social form of expression”, then, in the roots reggae scene of this time there is much to suggest that such a form of expression, itself often urged upon its listeners by lyrics encouraging control of the means of expression, moves from a personal ennunciation to a collectively worked upon enunciation that iterates the personal as already collective and the collective as dynamised by singularity (‘your mistake is my mistake’). The labels and sub-labels, the sound systems and independent studios can all be seen as ‘self- institutional’ means by which practitioners of the living culture of reggae could come to control the mode of their own association, a creative control that has been denied the classical working class whose association at a place of work was controlled and effected by capital. In a passage reminiscent of depictions of Charles Fourier’s New Hamony, Lloyd Bradley describes Lee Perry’s Black Ark studio as a “dreadlock camp… There’d be a a little oil-stove lit under a pot to which everybody who expected to eat would contribute… Herb and liquor was in abundance, and the ideas flowed freely, as singers would contribute to or finish off or take over each other’s material…”. Whereas in the UK many of the independent labels were reliant on buying time from studios that still retained a specialist and ultra-professional aura about them, the rise in small studios such as the Black Ark made massive contributions to the spread of a living culture that, as a disseminated attitude, a social bond, many people were responsible for maintaining. The collective creativity attached to them made them into reception nodes, places of autodidactic learning (Junior Delgado:“the Black Ark was a school”), places of everlasting ‘downtime’, and, with their proximity to the street, their turning into yards, opened up thoroughfares between the ‘private’ creative process and its ‘end’ result that is reflected in not only an improvisational and live-mix approach, but in reproducing experiences that were reinforced in their validity by being circulated on vinyl the day after they were first heard in the Black Ark’s back yard. Such a recursive seriousness and sincerity is made possible by what Marx describes as“the appropriation of totality of instruments of production”. From the winning of the means of expression by practicing ‘free indirect discourse’ to the multiple reception-points, there is no time-lag befitting research into supply and demand, no need for promotional material to produce need when the product produced has emanated from and is intended to erve the needs of a ‘living culture’ based upon the circulation of experience. In these circumstances one cannot talk of a glut of tracks needing aesthetical curation but of a multitudenous desire to contribute coming from many places at once. So, with producers such as Lee Perry having a stockpile of rhythms to match up to a first-time singer’s song, the process of circulation is quickened. But unlike the capitalist dream of instantaneous exchange value what is circulated in the roots reggae culture is not so much a product but the relational and co-operative example of living labour itself. In this way when Marx speaks of reality as“the product of the preceding intercourse of individuals themselves”, then the ‘reality songs’ of roots reggae take on an added dimension: they are producing reality as an actual life process and not as a representative experience. David Barker, talking of his involvement in the collaboration between the Wailers and Lee Perry, reported that,“Scratch would tell them we have to look ‘pon this reality. They would all pile into Scratch’s big car and go driving. We drive everywhere and every time we see an incident they discuss it.” Within such an expressive paradigm politics is no longer a separate activity, carried on in the professional chambers of parliaments, but a politics of experience made possible by an ongoing redefintion of wage-labour as living-labour.
The living culture of roots reggae, then, in offering an example of the reappropriation of a totality of the means of production and in thus revealing the division of musical production into its different ‘specialised’ moments as a means of creating monetary value, is a political threat to the rule of capital for many reasons. What it profiles by this reappropriation is the unmeasureable worth and achronological folds of ‘living labour’ as it circulates throughout a production process that, coming under mutual control, is properly socio-historic. This ‘living labour’, occuring during circulation and at the points of reception, ensures that each ‘stage’ of the process is, in fact, antagonistic. The resultant reappropriative dynamic marks not so much a continuation of capitalist poduction schedules as the revived creation of a social relation that, unlike that foisted upon the working class by being set to work by capital, uses the means of production to produce itself. Yet what makes this ‘living labour’ a source of antagonism is it is this energy, this ‘discretionary effort’, that capital seeks to harness as ‘human capial’, but which is not always compliant in being used as a component of wage labour. The difference, the source of antagonsim, is that wage-labour linked to private property and the individualisation of the worker as he or she is ‘socialised’ by capital, is incompatible with the productive force of ‘living labour’ as cooperation and mutual control of relation. These latter, profiled by the living culture of roots reggae, are the mark of a properly socialised production. The cultural wokers of this domain know that they are contributing to a general social wealth that can’t be apportioned into private property, but remain the non-property of all through reuse, redubbs and reversioning. The very organisation of wage labour into specific tasks and areas of competence does nothing to encourage living labour as a social form of expression because the division of labour at work in production for profit is asocial: relations aren’t spontaneous but grounded in a self-interest that can’t get an overview. In this way the living labour of cultural work, because it is felt as involving all the dynmaics and modulations of the social, passion and drives, is invested in to a degree that capital is envious of: the cultural turn of capital is as much about winning the enthusiasm, the living labour, of the work force. So, at the end of the 1981 movie Babylon when the cops move in against the sound-system, there is this palpable sense that they are coming to smash a means of cultural production that is simultaneously a reception point and a source for a renewed means of expression. As doors are barricaded to ries of “Stand Firm” and the Brinsley Forde character chants “We Can’t Take No More Of That”, the means of production as a mode of expression takes on a political dimension. The sound system, serviced by independent labels, is an ‘improper polis’ creative of a simultaenity of expression and representation, a site where, free from the wage-relation, living labour can produce unmediated social interconnections, where a people can make itself through the experience of its expression.
October – November 2002
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