The Boot Goes to the City:
The Montreal International Reggae Festival

June 4-6, 2004

Review and photos by Ted Boothroyd

Prologue

Friday morning, early. The Montreal International Reggae Festival is 8 hours away. I load the car with the essentials: water, snacks and pre-recorded cassettes— imagine, cassettes! I pick driving music: rock, folk, doo -wop, blues, but not a single reggae album. I’ll be totally immersed in reggae for the next three days, and I’m afraid of overdoing the overdosing.

I detour to pick up Ben, a family friend who has arranged to visit his Montreal buddies. Good weather, overcast but not raining, we make good time. Stop only for coffee in and coffee out, plus gas. When the conversation falters I crank up the volume to keep alert. The hours drift past, and we’re getting close. Reggae Festival, here I come! The lanes are filling with fast vehicles; French signs are everywhere. That’s okay, I’ve got a French-speaking navigator right next to me. Uh oh, he’s nodded off.

Inevitably, wrong exit, and we’re battling rush hour amidst the east end streets. As we slug along, I offer a silent plea that the first few acts will be late coming on stage. We find the hotel, Ben takes off, and I organize my backpack: camera, batteries, brand-new MP3 recorder that I barely know how to use, notebook and pens, water. Check.

It’s a longer walk to the festival site than I expected. I walk farther, peering through the chain link fence. People. Happy people. Throbbing bass fills the air. Reggae’s heartbeat. This is indeed the right place, the perfect place to be. An opening in the fence, and I’m in. “The media tent is right there, sir, beside the stage.”

Day One

A friendly face competes with the booming speaker a few feet away to give me the lowdown. I ask loudly who’s on now. Not sure; we’re a little behind. I ask loudly about the festival’s producer: is he available to interview as well? Sure, no problem. The friendly face will make inquiries and be in touch. Great; now let me explore. The security guy lets me out into the audience.

It’s too early for much of a crowd yet. A hundred or so at most, a few individuals, lots of couples, small groups, families; everyone moving, some more than others, some but not all watching the stage. I watch and bop my head to the white band playing some skanking good stuff. Overhead, above the stage the banner reads, “ Unis Contre la Violence/United Against Violence”. Underfoot, some sort of fine gravel/sand/clay, and I hope the rain holds off for the duration. It’s a promising beginning, sunny and warm.

There are tents along the periphery, people milling about. Drifting along, I snap photos, nod hello to the eager overseers of the kiosks and try to determine what spending limits my conscience will agree to. Not too much, I decide. Jewellery, souvenir t-shirts, CDs, DVDs, carefully crafted works of art, mass-produced schlock, unidentifiable things in wonderful semi-disarray. An eager, talkative husband and his alert, beautiful wife are promoting travel to Africa and the Caribbean . There’s color everywhere—multicoloured shirts and dresses everywhere: hanging on racks, displayed on counters, proudly garbing the passers-by. I come to a tent selling African masks. Ahh , my weakness; I may have to rethink my financial decision. We barter. I wander off to think about it, heading toward the food tents. I’m persuaded to get a mango ice-cream.

An umbrella-wielding female deejay—from Toronto —takes photos of the audience and introduces Strugglah from Calgary . An intense guy dressed in army garb pants delivers a rootsy set. Black Child follows. Much more of a crowd now, various ages, black and white and a few other shades.

It’s 8:02. The Itals come on stage; Keith Porter’s dreadlocks piled atop his head like a nest. I rush back to the secure area, show my pass, work my camera harder now. “I say holy, holy Mount Zion .” I know the song from their new album, so I sing along. My camera quits, and as Keith croons, “There’ll be days like this, mama said,” I change batteries. More Motown --tunes from the Smokey Robinson and the Miracles songbook; obviously soul is in The Itals ’ blood. It’s starting to cool off, getting breezy, and we’re back to pure reggae. Everyone skanks happily to the track “Mi Livity ”.

Recorded music fills the air while the onstage camera crew fusses around. In the media tent, the lead vocalist for Strugglah has adopted a pious attitude for a portrait, so I snap one myself. Junior Kelly is announced, and I hitch my backpack onto my shoulder and go to watch. He gives an energetic performance, running back and forth across the stage as his four musicians rock steady and his two backup singers harmonize vigorously.

I take another walk among the partying crowd out front—not that I’m restless, just pumped. The stage is brilliantly lit, the sky now dark. Suddenly to the left bright triangles of light appear and slowly move. They’re sails; it’s a “tall ship”. Hey, that’s right, this is the waterfront--the St. Lawrence River is a stone’s throw away. The ship is for tourists, no doubt.

Junior Reid’s up next. He starts to work up the sweat, punctuating his vocals with swirls and high kicks; the crowd responds; he shows off with half a dozen quick push-ups. Several Black Uhuru songs: “General Penitentiary” melds into “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”. He introduces the two young lads who have been jumping around aimlessly on stage; they’re his sons, and soon a feisty toast from each demonstrates why they’re really there. The set closes with “One Love”, and the audience loves it. Afterwards, in the tent, Reid tells us that the music industry bears responsibility for slackness and gun lyrics; artists wouldn’t make it if radio stations didn’t play it.

Abijah follows Reid. He does an intense version of Marley’s “War”, followed by “No More Trouble”, then a straight soul version of Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long”. My photos all fail; the best I manage is an out-of-focus shot as he sings “The Harder They Come”.

Last up is Coco Tea. “ Babylon , your throne gone down,” he chants, nice and slow, then moves into the songs he’s known for and the audience wants. They readily respond to his exhortations and sing along. He does several medleys. For a long time he stays almost immobile, stage front and centre, a vision in white, with a red, gold and green tam. “Down by the Boardwalk”, “Crying Time”, “Jamaican Farewell”. The day ends.

Day Two

I arrive at 1:00 to hear Django’s introduction. He recites scripture to the scattered massive, then continues to preach even as he sings. I stroll, people-watching. A dreadlocked kid kicks a soccer ball around. There’s a kids’ section with some giant loopy balloon figure weaving and bowing.

On stage young women in red are dancing: the Explosif Sisters from Montreal. Then break dancers: Flow Rock, also Montrealers. By mid-afternoon, the crowd has grown rapidly. French emanates from the stage, “Montreal! Ça va ?” “Ça va BIEN!” comes the emphatic response. The accents I’ve been hearing confirm that due, no doubt, to its long history as a francophone city, Montreal has also become home to many recent black immigrants from the French Caribbean.

I’ve withdrawn some cash and I head for the kiosk with the carved masks. My favorites are still unsold, one from Cameroon and one from Zaire, so I hand over the money and stuff them securely in my backpack.

I watch from the entrance to the media tent as three guys from Toronto, one with a cane, do a spirited set on stage; they are LeeJahn, I’m told. “Any word yet from the producer?” I ask, “I’d still like to talk to him.” Right, I’m told, should be no problem, they’ll see to it. I watch a few people talking on cell phones in front of the huge, booming speakers, and I’m amazed.

Jah Cutta appears in an earth green outfit, without the expected Smurfette. A distinguished greybeard named Wire entertains us, followed by a young woman in pink, Belinda Brady. Good variety—I like that. At 5 o’clock Cuban-American Johnny Dread comes on, all rootsy and Rasta. It seems that the whole city must be throbbing to the sound of reggae coming from this stage. I’m back out front with the audience to hear Eric Donaldson revisit his past with songs that all seem to run together, “Cherry Oh Baby” among them; thankfully “Love of the Common People” gets the attention it deserves.

I introduce myself to the man who I’ve decided has the longest dreads at the festival. He pretends to be surprised I would think so (hey, they do drag along the ground), then gives me a semi-mystical, semi-mocking interview, trying to keep track of his two lively kids as he talks. It’s time for Mikey Dread, and out he comes dressed in a jeans outfit befitting the hard worker he is. Following him in stark contrast is Rankin’ Scroo , nattily dressed in immaculate white and blue, including checkered hat.

It’s a cultural night, so Culture appears, Joseph Hill looking very much the senior reggae statesman in polished black shoes, dark leather slacks and jacket, the cuffs of a red shirt sticking out. “ Jah Rastafari !” he yells, launching into a song that leads to a mini-sermon into his second tune, and I manage some lucky shots as he starts flapping around like a madman. Huge applause. I understand why; I love him too.

At 10:15 it’s getting crowded in the fenced off area backstage, and I can’t get a single shot of Morgan Heritage performing; the pit is thick with bodies—are the security guys paying attention? I retreat to the media tent, where half a dozen kids parade about waving light sticks. Mikey Dread arrives, styrofoam food container in hand; Rankin’ Scroo holds it down with the journalists. “We also play jazz,” he tells us. It’s turning breezy; the canvas is billowing and fluttering to the music.

I retreat out of the tent, catching Mikey General in the middle of his act. Eventually Luciano arrives in a military uniform with bright and shiny buttons and badges and ribbons. “Man was made to serve Jah ,” he sings, setting the mood for a long set. I can hardly manoeuvre around the crowd with my backpack and camera, so back to the tent I go. The Morgan siblings troop in and sit at the head table; I try to record the media scrum, but can hardly hear a thing and my recorder fares no better. Someone asks if I had seen anyone taking Mikey Dread’s meal; it has disappeared.

Day two draws to a close.

Day Three

I sleep late and don’t arrive at the festival grounds until early evening, but fortunately I am in time to see Orthodox Issachar , animated and very colorful . Another artist, another contrast, as Carleton Livingston follows dressed in relatively drab street clothes, but after all, it’s the music that’s important here in Montreal, n’est-ce pas? Oui, absolument.

Schedules and timings and who follows whom were confused enough yesterday; it’s almost as chaotic today. I ask about interviewing the producer. Not very likely, I’m told; he hasn’t been seen yet today. I hear that Buju Banton will not appear as expected, and that Richie Stephens is to replace him. True? Who knows? There is no lack of other talent, though. A mischievous looking Jimmy Riley charms thoroughly as he entertains thoroughly, and then the obviously assured reggae stalwart Freddie McGregor appears in loose shirt and long, stringy dreadlocks for a nicely varied set. Meanwhile, back in the tent, a young Satta Fyah and his manager push a compilation dancehall CD on which he’s featured. He wants desperately to make it in the industry. Jimmy Riley saunters in and his wife hugs him as I snap my own great souvenir photo.

The Stephens rumour proves true, much to the delight of the crowd, and it seems that suddenly the whole front row features delighted women of various ages, pushing and screaming as he croons from the stage. How can Half Pint compete with that? Somehow he manages, and his spirited dancehall music closes the evening and the festival. On my way out, I ask for the attendance figures. “Fifteen thousand, conservative estimate,” I’m told.

Epilogue

Monday morning. My driving companion and I get out of the city quickly, and the weather is again perfect for driving. I hardly hear my cassettes playing this time; we hardly talk, I don’t need to.

My only regret is not having met the festival producer; all I’ve learned is that he’s “just a young guy” with the smarts and energy to pull it off. I have to agree that it was an amazing feat. A host of adoring fans have been exposed to the musical delights of dozens of reggae acts—famous, unknown and in-between. Although most of the spectators were likely from Montreal , I expect that many others came from miles beyond.

We don’t see reggae of this quality and this scope every day. Not every day, but maybe, in future, if we’re lucky, every year or so? How about a Second Annual Montreal International Reggae Festival? And a Third? For the music and maybe another mask or two, I’ll gladly make the trip.

Although the closest Ted Boothroyd has come to a personal association with the Caribbean was to have a Trinidadian grandfather, which Ted didn’t really have a lot to do with, he happily took in Harry Belafonte’s calypso hits in the ‘50s and became a huge reggae fan in 1969 when Desmond Dekker’s “Israelites” hit big in Canada. Ted has reviewed books on Caribbean music for The Beat, writes album reviews for other periodicals, and co-hosts a reggae and world music radio show in Fredericton, New Brunswick, on Canada’s east coast.