Andrea Harris hates reggae:
I don’t hate Marley as a person — for one thing, he’s dead, so it would be pointless. But I hate the people who keep flogging him as some sort of Jesus of music. That song, “No Woman No Cry”? Hey, how about not getting stoned on weed and sitting around like a stinky lump. Also she’s tired of you stealing her brassieres, Mr. Pot-Made-My-Moobs-Grow.
The reason so many white people like reggae is because most white people live well above the Tropic of Cancer and thus think of reggae and other genres of “island” music as “exotic” and a promise of an escape from driving down icy streets every day to a nine-to-five job or shoveling snow. I sympathize, but since I actually grew up in the tropics I also know that living year-round with humidity in the 90s coupled with temperatures in same, every insect on earth, and a yearly threat of hurricanes isn’t exactly a vacation, and the prevalence of music where every single song has the same drunken-donkey-walk rhythm and must always be sung in high, whining tones doesn’t help. It’s almost as bad as salsa.
Yes, living in Puerto Rico, and the Caribbean in general, was hell for me, musically.
Not to mention, almost everyone who loves reggae seems to think that you also have to have dirty hair full of mud (I don’t care if the mud came out of a forty-dollar jar you bought at your stylist’s — your dreadlocks look like you went outside after a good rain, scooped up a wad of dirt from the back yard, and rubbed it into your hair) and smoke pot. Marijuana smells worse than the stinkiest cigarettes, and I’m pretty sure all the second-hand pot smoke I inhaled at too many concerts contributed to the destruction of my sinuses.
You may or may not be surprised to learn that she doesn’t like ska, either.
[Update a few minutes later]
I should add that technically, Miami (which I think is where she grew up) is not the tropics, but it’s miserable enough to seem like it.
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