Chapter One
I'm tellin' ya, Mick, this kid is like the second coming ofBob Marley." Bobby Vane waggled his fat index finger at a waitressas he stuffed another shrimp in his mouth. "We got himcomin' over here to tour with Brandy this summer, but hell, if itgoes good, we might just bolt the Brandy thing and take off onour own." He smiled at the waitress as she walked to the table."Another Scotch, honey, the Glenlivit or whatever you got,okay?" He waved her away.
A smile played on Mick Sever's face. Bobby Vane always hada new artist, a new recording contract, a new tour to promote.And each one was guaranteed to be bigger than the one before.
"Were you a Marley fan, Mick? Huh? Were ya? Ya know, thekids today, they all got Marley in their CD collections, and hell,the guy died like in 1981, before most of 'em were even a gleamin their old man's eye. So I figure that this guy's gonna just bethe hottest thing." He wiped his greasy fingers on the green linennapkin in his lap and scanned the table for any last bites of foodhe may have missed. "Ya want anything else, Mick? Just name it."
"No, I'm fine."
"Ya know, ya eat like a bird. Like a fuckin' bird. So, watchathink? You get a chance to see Jamaica, the sun, the sand, thehoneys, and you get to see his concert."
"What's the name again?"
"Derrick Lyman." Vane put his meaty hand on Sever's andpatted it. "Milk, if this isn't the biggest thing since grunge ..."
"Bobby, I was never a real big fan of grunge."
Vane looked at him. "It's reggae and hip-hop. It's like dancehall, rock steady, and ska all wrapped up in one sound and it'sjust plain hot. I've got a rough mix right here." He reached downto a scuffed brown leather bag and pawed through the contentsuntil he found the jewel case. "Here, this'll give you a little tasteof what this guy does. Derrick Lyman and the Laments."
"Laments?"
"Well, we're still working with that. Marley had the WailingWailers, and they changed it to just the Wailers. We'll get it rightbefore we go big-time. Right now I want you to see how electrifyingthis boy is with a crowd. He brings 'em to their feet andnever lets 'em sit down, Mick. I'm tellin' ya, you're gonna wantto do a story on him. And I'm willing to give you first crack."
"How many writers have turned you down?"
"You hurt me, Mr. Sever. I want you to follow this careenYou're a powerful man. People believe what you say. Give me ...give my boy a break. If I'm wrong, you still get a vacation in atropical paradise."
"I get to spend three days in a Third World country wherethe white man is not only in the minority, but in many cases nottoo well liked."
"Come on. Rolling Stone already said they'd pick up the tab.I just gotta get you to do the article." He looked at Sever withhis big brown eyes, much like a dog Sever had had in the sixthgrade. The dog, Waddles, or something like that, had run awayfrom home and was never seen again.
"All right, Vane, I'll go. We'll see what this Derrick and theLaments is all about. So what do we call this music? Reggae rap?"
"Well, you're the word man. Rasta rap, reggae rap ..."
"So he's Rastafarian?"
"Hell, isn't everyone in Jamaica? He sprinkles the songs withsome of that philosophy mumbo jumbo. Worked for Marley. It'llwork for Derrick." Vane grabbed the Scotch as the waitress setit down and he took a gulp, pounding the glass back onto thetable. "Here's to a new superstar. Here's to reggae rap." He raisedthe glass.
Sever picked up his water glass, glanced around at the othertables to be sure no one was staring, then softly clinked his glasswith Vane's. "Bobby, no promises. If I don't like the kid or hismusic, that's the way the story will read."
"I know, I know. I'm not worried. The kid will bowl youover. We got a hit here, Mick, and you're gonna thank me forsteering you in his direction." He finished his Scotch, pushed hiscorpulent body back from the table, and gave Sever a huge grin."Damn, life is good! Life is good!"
Chapter Two
Mountains of moss green disappeared beneath themas the plane skirted the heights by what seemed only several hundredfeet. Forests of palm trees dotted the hills, and the lushgreen valleys, deep and wide, spread out in all directions.
"Fucking beautiful country, eh?" Bobby Vane spread his thickarms out, almost touching both sides of the Cessna. Sever nodded.The view was breathtaking. He wasn't a fan of flying injumbo jets, much less of the private two- and three-seaters, butthe scenery was beyond description at this low altitude. The entireview would have been lost in a commercial jet.
Five days had raced by as Sever canceled several meetings,obligations, and two book sighings. The latest book on the murderof rock star Job Jobiah was topping the charts, and his publisherwasn't happy about the lost opportunities. His book wasfront-page news and Mick Sever was the hottest literary propertyin the country. Still, there were new worlds to conquer, and Jamaicawas one of them.
The small plane swooped down into the valley, then climbedthe hillside, almost brushing the thick foliage of green and orange.
"Derrick?" Sever said the word as if to question its authenticity.
"Derrick," Bobby Vane repeated.
"Derek and the Dominoes was Eric Clapton's group, andClapton made a hit out of Bob Marley's `I Shot the Sheriff.' Anycoincidence?"
"Far as I know, Derrick Lyman is his real name. If it has alittle of Mr. Marley's mystique to it, then so be it. Ya gotta gowith the story, Mick. Once you hear this guy and his band, well,they'll knock you out. The product is what it's all about. You saidthat yourself in that article you did for Spin a couple of years ago.Shit, who cares if they make up a name or a background? If theproduct is good, then it's solid."
As the plane reached the top of the hill, it leveled out, thenstarted its descent to Montego Bay. Sever reviewed his notes.Jamaica, population 2.5 million, "discovered" in the late fifteenthcentury by Christopher Columbus and now populated primarilyby people of African descent.
"The venue ain't exactly Madison Square Garden. I mean,this is a poor country, and they haven't got all the amenities, ifya know what I mean." Vane handed Sever a small poster advertisingthe concert for that evening. A dark, blurred picture of sixpeople standing shoulder to shoulder appeared on the white card.It would have been impossible to identify any of them. Faded redlettering announced the band, appearing oceanside at the RoundHill Beach. "Should be a sellout by the time we land. Derrickwill be waitin' for us about now. We'll get a car to take us thereand you can do the interview before the concert. Gotta tell him.Reggae rap! He'll love it."
"But there's no recording contract yet?"
"You heard the rough mix? You tell me if they won't be beatin'down the doors. Shit, Island Records will be movin' in onthis kid so fast. They'll be there tonight."
Sever closed his eyes for a moment as the small aircraftbanked and the sharp turn over the crystal blue water put themdirectly above Montego Bay. The plane descended rapidly, andthe wheels hit the ground with a bounce.
Bright sunlight glared off the tarmac and Sever put his sunglasseson. Everything looked hot, waves of shimmering heatcausing distortions of distant views. They walked from the smallCessna to a waiting car. Sever looked over his shoulder to see anattendant struggling with their four bags, his soiled white short-sleevedshirt clinging damply to his glistening black skin. Severdropped back and took his travel bag and laptop from the youngman. The luggage handler smiled, teeth gleaming.
"Thank you, mon. This load be mighty heavy."
Vane stood impatiently by the small Toyota, glancing at hiswatch. Sever swung the smooth leather bag into the open trunk.The bag was a miracle: attractive, functional, and loaded withroom. He carried his sport coat, trousers, a couple of shirts, underwear,his toiletries, and everything else he needed in the maincompartment. The outside pockets were for passport, airline tickets,notebooks, pens, calculators, and an assortment of books thathe was reading. Traveling was a way of life, and the bag was animportant part of that life.
Vane waited until the attendant forced his three bags into themink, then he climbed in the passenger seat of the white car.Sever sat in the back, his long legs cramped from the tight quarters.He felt the familiar twinge in his left knee and massaged itas the car gathered speed.
"Like I told you, we're goin' to the Round Hill Hotel andVillas. We rented a little villa there for Derrick and the boys. AndMarna."
"Marna?"
"She sings sometimes, plays tambourine, and washes theirshirts. Kinda like a housemother to the Laments. Anyway, thisplace has an outdoor arena, and that's where the concert is. Thisis a nice place, Mick. Paul McCartney, he stays here, and theKennedys. Lots of high rollers."
Sever wiped the perspiration from his forehead. His deepblue cotton shirt was damp, and his khakis were in danger oflosing any crease they might have once had. The car swungaround partially paved roads, throwing loose stones into the dirtditches on either side, and the town fell behind them. As theyapproached the Villas, he could see the gleaming white homes,all trimmed with forest green, and nestled with hibiscus and bougainvillea.The scene was straight out of a Cary Grant movie.
Derrick and the Laments were housed in the seventh villaand were gathered in the back, around the crystal clear swimmingpool. Barefoot and shirtless, they casually lay back in chaiselounge chairs, all five of them dressed in cutoffs. Sever breatheddeeply, the smell of tropical flowers and ganja thick in the air.
"Mick, this is the band." Two of them nodded in acknowledgment.Vane pointed to the nearest chain "This is James, ourdrummer." James took a drag on a joint and gave Sever a faintsmile. He held the smoke in for a moment then slowly let itescape into the pungent air. "James is the newest member of ourlittle group, and over here is Ricky. Rick is our very talentedkeyboard player." Rick stood up, flashing Sever a bright smileand offering him his hand. "It's good to meet you, mon."
They shook hands and the young man walked to the smallservice bar and poured himself a glass of what appeared to beorange juice. "Sudahd, over there," Vane pointed to a short youngman, a Zapata-style mustache covering his lips, "he plays guitar.Man, does he play guitar. And here we have Flame. Flame playsa mean bass."
Flame smiled. "Hey, man. Whassup?" A light cocoa shade ofskin, and from just three words Sever had the feeling the kidwould feel right at home in the United States' hip-hop community.
"And finally, Mick Sever, meet Derrick. Derrick, this is MickSever."
The black singer glanced up with heavy green eyes, slowlystood up from his lounge chair, and waited for Sever to make thefirst move. Sever took two steps toward him and shook his hand.The musician was tall, maybe 6'3", and thin as a rail. His hairhung shoulder-length in dreadlocks. The hint of a mustache coloredhis lip and his stoic, level gaze surprised Sever. He'd expecteda more animated response. Musicians were usually onlytoo glad to meet him, and until he had either praised or pannedtheir work, they wanted to be his best friend. After Vane'sbuildup, Sever had expected a friendlier tone.
"So, Bobby thinks you're going to be the next Bob Marley."Sever brushed his damp hair from his forehead.
"There be nobody gonna be Bob Marley. Not Ziggy, his kid,not nobody. I be the next Derrick. Marley was who he was. I'mnow." His thick Jamaican accent seemed punctuated with icytones. Derrick glanced over his shoulder at the four young, bare-chestedmen gathered behind him. James and Sudahd were bothsucking on a reefer, but all four were watching intently. He returnedhis gaze to Sever. The deep green eyes were hypnotizing,like emeralds in a pool of white.
"I listened to the CD." Sever found himself avoiding thegaze, glancing around for his bag and his notebook. "I like mostof it. It's got some traditional themes, but it's fresh. And you'vegot some very powerful lyrics. I would say they were powerful ...and somewhat disturbing." He sat down on a padded lawn chairand waited for the singer to sit too. Instead, Derrick walked to asmall service bar and poured himself a glass of water. He returnedand sat down, squeezing a lime into the drink and glaring atSever.
Vane watched nervously, approaching Sever as he startedwriting. "How about a drink, Mick? We've got it all right here."
Sever ignored him. "Derrick, did we get off on the wrongfoot here? I made a change in my plans so I could come overhere and see your show. Bobby's gone to great lengths to makethis thing a success, and you act like you wish we'd just go away."
Derrick was silent. He studied Sever, holding his eyes. Hetook another sip of water and spoke. "Bobby done okay by us.But let me tell you one thing, mon. White man is no friend ofRasta. The white man is sometimes a necessary evil, and that isall he will ever be. To throw off his oppression, to break free ofhis tyranny; that's what I am about."
Sever smiled. "I don't mean to be rude, but isn't this kind ofold?"
"It may be old for you, but nothing changes. It is new toevery black baby born. It's truth I speak. My song is for the blackman and woman. Yet I need a white man to open my doors? Thisis not the Rasta way."
Vane poured himself a whiskey and Coke and walked over tothe young singer. He put his big hand on the man's shoulder."Derrick, we talked about this. Mick here is a friend. He's hereto write a story, hopefully a good story. If he likes what he sees,hell, we'll be as big in the States as, well, as big as Marley. Nowif you're gonna sit here and try to piss him off-"
"Write about the music. The mon means nothing. My wordsand my songs are what you must concern yourself with."
"Okay, let's talk about the music. The lyrics. `Living in theReal World'-is that a song about your faith?"
"The black man lives in a different world than you. He knowsthe world he lives in, and he only sees a glimpse of yours. Neitheris his world. He must live in a real world, with hope and opportunity,a world that for him does not yet exist."
Sever looked down at his notes where he'd jotted down somelyrics. "Okay, let's talk about the lyrics. Your lyrics. `Push awayhis real world, and leave your world behind, living in the realworld is more than state of mind. We'll crush his world, we'llstand up, we'll conquer and he'll fall, you'll find living in yourreal world is not so hard at all.'
Continues...
Excerpted from Jamaica Blueby Don Bruns Copyright © 2003 by Don Bruns. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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