THE BEAT

Vol. 27 #2, 2008

Review by: Ted Boothroyd

It doesn't often happen in reggae that an artist's lyrics will develop noticeably from one album to the next. The devotion to Jah, the homages to love and ganga and the dance, the rantings against babylon - normally all these remain intact over the years, in intensity, vocabulary and point of view. Such consistency is the standard stuff of the genre. But Taj Weekes is different.

The initial Taj Weekes and Adowa disc, Hope and Doubt, was striking for its memorable tunes, rhythms and fragile-yet-husky tenor lead vocal. But the lyrics, despite a number of impressive images ("scream out mellow lullabies"), were by and large merely serviceable. Delivering the serious themes and emotional quotient we expect of roots-based reggae, they got the job done without demanding much of the listener or revealing anything unusual in the artist.

With Deidem, Weekes' second album, there's not only noticeable development in the lyrics, there's a fundamental struggle going on. Lined up on one side is the manner in which he regards the world when he examines it intellectually. On the other side stands the legacy of his religious convictions. Although at times he puts on a brave face, he seems to realize that those two sides are suddenly refusing to be reconciled. The various ways Weekes deals with these conflicts - along with the strong melodies and performances, as before - are what make this album a welcome addition to the world's supply of reggae.

Yes, something has happened between the first and second albums to change Weekes' outlook. If you investigate his Web site, you'll see that Weekes has indeed faced his share of traumatic events, including recently, so perhaps that's the key. In any case, what he once held certain is now less so; he's no longer sure he has all the answers; he's less dogmatic, more measured.

Which isn't to suggest he's coldly logical on Deidem, or that his views are immaculately argued. They're not. He's still a free-flow-of-ideas kind of guy. It's hard sometimes to decipher where one thought ends and another starts, and the minimal punctuation in the lyric sheet doesn't help. So while the choice of language ensures a strong emotional impact, the intellectual impact depends on the listener consciously making connections. But with Deidem that's part of the pleasure.

You need examples. Track one is "Angry Language." Over a powerful one-drop rhythm accompanied by wah-wah lead guitar, the singer expresses his fears: It seems I am slowly forgetting/all I learnt from a Bible page...I'm learning an angry language and I'm armed with the tools of rage...I'm afraid I might lose my composure/and destroy all the things I hold dear.

Already he's equivocating ("it seems" and "I might"). And the solution? It's more Zen-like than concrete and active: "I'm gonna seek the spaces in my thought/to unlearn what I've been taught." The yearning Clapton-inspired guitar solo is perfect accompaniment.

Track two is "Propaganda War." An organ drone leads the instrumentation, with call-and-response vocals between lead and backup singers. The lyrics at first talk of war, with its deceptions ("tailored lies") and arbitrariness ("freedom for some, captivity for the rest"), but then switch to the stark imagery that Billie Holiday made famous with Abel Meerpol's "Strange Fruit": "On a poplar tree they hanged me/strangest fruit to ever grow." The intellectual link between propaganda war and racial hatred is the listener's to make. Weekes leaves it open.

"Little Fire" uses a fussy rockers drumming style to carry along a complex metaphor about (I think) the U.S. abandoning its "polite" way and becoming the aggressor: it ends: "force rules with wrong/till right grows strong." "Since Cain" uses the Genesis story as starting point to deplore the cycle of violence; the conclusion is that "Peace can be gotten if sought." Important, difficult questions are being asked, but the only answers are meager ones, inadequate to the task. Hopeful is as strong as it gets.

And so it goes, for seven more thoughtful, memorable, tuneful songs. Weekes is concerned, involved, passionate, but without easy answers. In his first album, when what he observed simply didn't add up, he had an easy out: "Jah works in mysterious ways." But now, confronting the atrocities in Darfur or the chaos of Louisiana's floods (in a spare piano style, gorgeous melody and dry vocal manner that all channel Randy Newman), he struggles to understand and he strains to maintain his optimism, yet he doesn't evoke Jah. On a personal level, where he once wailed his self-pity for the miserable way his woman treated him, he now sings of his regret for his own role in the soured relationship.

Yes, Taj Weekes is different. As a reggae lyricist who is unafraid of  being undogmatic, he's certainly different from most of his peers, and even from the man he was in his own first album. He uses his unusual voice unusually well. His arrangements take great advantage of his fine backing vocalists and his crack team of musicians, including horn section. He writes beautiful tunes. Deidem has it all.

MALAGUETA MUSIC - Germany

You don't need extra luggage to listen to the latest Culture Taxi Records album: It will take you straight to the sunny Caribbean, for an encounter with Taj Weekes and his highly contagious reggae. Your luggage is in the trunk, your driver ready to take off, let's go for a ride!

Taj Weekes' high voice combined with his unusually enticing melodies provide the basis for his perfectly balanced reggae. With solid keyboards, the cunning wah-wah licks of his guitar, seductive female background singers, and his complex, yet straight-forward arrangements, it becomes obvious that we are in the company of a musician who is blessed by the West-Indian gods.

Taj Weekes grew up in St. Lucia and later moved to New York. This is where, together with his band, Adowa , he released his first album, "Hope and Doubt" in 2005, starting his live career and building a solid fan community. Today marks the release of his second album, "Deidem" ("All of us"). After losing both of his parents within the same year, Taj Weekes' lyrics dealt first and foremost with his mourning. But quite soon, he began writing about the suffering of mankind instead of dwelling in self-pity. His themes expanded to universal issues:  Right underneath the floating island melodies, his music addresses current problems ranging from the environment ("Dark Clouds"), to globalization, Hurricane Katrina, or the conflict in Darfur.

I find it difficult to emphasize one particular song. Each of the melodies grabs you rapidly and continues to linger in your mind – from the melancholic "Orphan's Cry" to the irresistible "Angry Language", from the upbeat (in spite of its somber theme of humans' inclination to violence) "Since Cain" to "Kink and Crinkle."  All eleven songs bring back the magic reggae sound of the seventies, without ever sounding old. The last song of the album, the ballad "Louisiana", with its sparse piano accompaniment, continues to resonate with you for quite a while after its last chords have faded.

REGGAE-REVIEWS.COM

 

 
After releasing perhaps the best reggae album of 2005, Taj Weekes returns with an early candidate for the best of '08 in DEIDEM. Although his unique vocals are the most immediately striking aspect of his work, Weekes remains one of the best lyricists in reggae today, reaching beyond typical reggae discourse to delve into abstract concepts, inner emotions, and new ways of delivering the same messages we've heard dozens of times before. To describe the cycle of global violence, for example, he traces it back to biblical times in Since Cain. In Kink and Crinkle, he relates the oppression of Rastas to the processing of hair, while Angry Language is an introspective journey into the battle to suppress one's rage, Dark Clouds laments global warming, and Propaganda War is a searing indictment of the press, proclaiming, "With no printing press, the lies we can't address. They steal away our joy and steal our happiness." Weekes' delivery is as heartfelt as his words, and his strong melodic structure ensures that listeners will stick around to appreciate the lyrics. Of course, the music from his band Adowa is a powerful complement. Aside from the Katrina-themed piano ballad Louisiana, it's chock-full of traditional '70s-style roots reggae, with a touch of folksy blues and a slinky electric guitar that creeps in every now and then. Weekes' is the sort of music I imagine Bob Marley singing if he were still alive today. It's smart, inspirational, musically vibrant, and just plain gorgeous. No reggae fan can afford not to know Taj Weekes.

BOBMARLEYMAGAZINE.COM

 

Album review by: Ian Camacho

UNITED REGGAE - Online Reggae Magazine, FRANCE

 
Album review by: Angus Taylor 

A new roots release straight from St. Lucia with DEIDEM, second album from soulful singer Taj Weekes and his band Adowa.

The picture postcard view of reggae from the mainstream is of a sunny, relentlessly upbeat genre, full of promises that everything will be “irie”. And like most clichés it contains more than an element of truth. But you’ll get no such assurance from the second full-length set by St. Lucian singer Taj Weekes and his group Adowa, who clearly inhabit a very different world.

There aren’t any laid-back island vibes to be found on DEIDEM, for it is no party album. From opener Angry Language (a chillingly honest account of the descent from high minded principle into rage) to Hurricane Katrina-inspired piano ballad Louisiana, this is melancholy soul-searching music, but the eerie detachment of Weekes' voice averts wounded sentimentality or depressing dirge. He has an ageless, genderless falsetto that could give depth to even the most trite lyrics, but this is matched by an originality and a poetic simplicity with words, an avoidance of stock terms and phrases and a tendency to deal in opposites, exemplified by his warning of impending apocalypse during For Today, where he tells us that, “The latter days have come, The ending has begun, Beginning’s on the way, Hold on for today”. Weekes is also a guitarist, and both clean melodic lead and percussive Tosh-style wah wah rhythm work (shared between him, Shelton Garner and Adoni Xavier) are at the forefront of many of the tracks, but never to the point of ill judged “rock reggae” fusion. Using his own band for the arrangements really pays off - yielding a unity that only the elite session players can attain.

Such is the sense of foreboding across most of this record - even the one lively ska type rhythm bears the chorus “since Cain slew Abel, misery and pain” - that the two major key compositions offer welcome relief. With its descending melody, clavinet and sweet vocal, first single Hollow Display sounds uncannily like The Royals’ ‘My Sweat Turns To Blood’, but Weekes’ stoical poignant description of relationship breakup deems it a worthy successor rather than a pale imitation, while Dark Clouds uses the changing seasons to give a critique of environmental destruction made palatable by its subtlety and artful turn of phrase.

In the interests of balance, it is worth mentioning that DEIDEM’s bleak mood and the primacy of the guitars in the mix may be too much for some people’s tastes. But, as a reggae artist, Taj Weekes has the full package – a strange haunting voice, deep and interesting lyrics, the ability to write songs (not just sing over rhythms) and an uncompromising view of what the music should entail. If you like old school roots the way it used to be but don’t like it to sound self consciously “retro”– this is your man. One of 2008’s best releases from outside Jamaica so far.