System Clash: Jah Shaka

Sound system is a complex art form, and many different elements must coalesce for any given set to impact. To ensure drawing power unmatched by rivals, exclusive material is a major key; stylistic microphone chanters are another plus. The massive banks of amplifiers and speaker boxes also need to be managed with skilled finesse; sheer wattage alone is insufficient. Above all, each sound system must have a distinctive identity that sets it apart from competitors.

The first sound system I ever experienced was Jack Ruby Hi-Power, which incredibly undertook a coast-to-coast US tour in 1982, and I encountered DBC on a trip to London the following year. Since then, I have caught King Sturgav, King Jammy, Stone Love, Coxsone Outernational, Fatman, Frontline, Duke Vin the Tickler, and countless other sets in Jamaica, Britain, the US, and elsewhere. Yet the sound that remains closest to my heart is Jah Shaka, the Spiritual Warrior who changed Britain’s sound system culture forever.

Although I attended my first Shaka dance in the ’80s, I remember it like it was yesterday: upon entering the pitch-black space under a railway arch, the atmosphere hit me like a mallet; heavily permeated with ganja smoke, a mass of sweaty bodies stood expectantly amidst an impressive array of hand-made wooden speaker boxes, as the treble strains of Yami Bolo’s “Jah Made Them All” raked the air. Expectation formed a heavy presence, though of what was not yet entirely clear. And although the song was instantly recognisable, it sounded nothing like the actual record, because everything was, at that moment, skewed entirely in the treble spectrum; guitar and keyboards were audible, along with Yami’s distinctive vocal, but the rhythmic foundation was a ghostly echo.

Then, without warning, the short man with the massive tam that stood by a sole record deck gave a mighty flick of his wrist to overwhelm our senses by completely flipping the orientation, so that only the bass notes were audible. As the thunderous bass, electronic drums and percussive sounds worked their way below our rib cages and down the length of our spines, people cried out in ecstasy. With his eyes tightly shut and a microphone in hand, his body swaying to the rhythm, Shaka began to chant praises to Jah, seemingly in another realm.

As the night wore on, a series of incredible tunes made their way onto the platter: there were exclusive, unheard dub-plate mixes of old favourites like The Wailing Souls’ “Very Well,” Cultural Roots’ “Mr Boss Man” and the “Kunta Kinte” rhythm, while at other moments, freshly-recorded nuggets by aspiring UK artists were aired. There were also some popular tunes of the day, such as Junior Delgado’s “Raggamuffin Year,” but all were presented in a unique manner, thanks to the unbelievable power of equalisation, the sound being manipulated by Shaka, enhanced by drastic applications of echo and delay, so that even the spatial placement was affected.

Sonic revelations abounded in rapid succession, and, for the second time in my life, I found myself compelled to dance, my body rocking and popping along with everyone else until long after daylight broke. The overriding feeling was witnessing something of great gravity, but with more joy in the atmosphere than anything else. Such was my introduction to the extraordinary phenomenon of Jah Shaka sound system, the longstanding champion of the UK’s roots and culture scene.

Jah Shaka was born in Jamaica, but migrated to England as a youth during the mid-’50s. He settled in southeast London, began playing music in a school band in the early ’60s, and was soon associated with local sound system Freddie Cloudburst, who played rhythm and blues records and soul. Jah Shaka eventually formed his own sound system during the ’70s, and made a quick impact with dub plates gleaned from Joe Gibbs, Bunny Lee, Lee Perry, The Twinkle Brothers, Al Campbell, The Abysinnians and others. Shaka trounced Coxson Outernational in 1976, leading to further sound-clash trophies between 1979-83. By then, he had produced a number of esoteric dub albums and vocal works, having founded his King of the Zulu Tribe label around 1980, the same time he made a cameo appearance in the film Babylon, playing himself in action at a sound clash.

During the late ’80s and early ’90s, when slackness and gun talk was the rage, Shaka was a voice of reason, a committed individual who only played music with an overriding message of spiritual or social importance. He also stayed true to his principles, living for extended periods in Africa, where he involved himself in charitable work. Shaka’s playlists spoke of the need for human unity and pointed to the greatness of African civilizations, while he delivered his own chants about the powers of the Almighty, and the need for positive actions from Mankind.

In essence, there was nothing frivolous, cheap or easy about Shaka’s sessions, which focussed on positive sounds of actual importance, with Shaka on the mic himself, emphasising the message of the tunes he was playing, and further manipulating them in dub. Then, as now, he would tailor his selection differently for each venue, and the sonic qualities would always differ, due to how the sound system interfaced with the acoustics of the place.

A Jah Shaka session really is akin to a religious experience; even those who claim not to be religious themselves will often report feeling something spiritual there. And although his core audience was black, Shaka never closed his sessions to anyone; indeed, the flyers often stated, “How good and pleasant it is to see all nations come and hear Jah music.”

Shaka has since become a regular fixture of the festival circuit in Europe, Japan and the United States, yet he remains as humble, committed and enigmatic as at the start, still running all-night sessions as one man, with one turntable and one microphone.