Review

A nostalgia night last Sunday in Paris: the Heptones and Johnny Clarke each, in their own way, recalled their contribution to the history of reggae by strings of hits on the stage of the Elysée-Montmartre. Report. View the photo album      Reactions (0)    That night at the Elysée-Montmartre, we were in good company. Because of the price, perhaps, few people had made the trip… Thanks to the price, in any case, you could be sure that nobody was there by chance. Besides, that night, whether there were many of us or not, nobody cared. The audience was there for one thing only: to prolong the weekend and sing along to the choruses of one of the most emblematic groups in the history of reggae, The Heptones. To prepare the entrance of Leroy Sibbles and Barry Llewellyn (the third man, Earl Morgan, left the group in 1995), the musicians whet our appetite and condense a good part of their show into two minutes. The horns roar while the drummer moves from one riddim to the next. The audience purrs with pleasure. And then here it is, Party Time, My guiding star… The duo strings together the songs that made the group’s success in the heart of the early reggae period. For soul fans, Barry takes on Book of rules, an enormous classic of the trio. For those who might have forgotten Mother’s Day, the group strikes up Mama say. And then, for the few who were not aware, Leroy uses a pull up to remind us that he is one of the fathers of reggae: ‘The basslines at Studio One were mine!’ He steps up to his bass player, takes the instrument and instantly proves it. Blissful, the hall takes up the chorus of Satta massa gana as one, a mystical, easy demonstration. What can you say, it is in the old pots that the best dishes are made. After the Heptones, the second part of the concert is handled by Johnny Clarke. In Jamaica, the man was nicknamed ‘studio idler’, literally a “studio loafer”. On stage, he is nothing of the sort. We are won over by the sheer outpouring of energy from the young lion. (Only) 55 years old, with a mane that reaches his knees. Musically, the night continues its tribute to the 1970s and the crowd leaps up for King in the arena, Every knee shall bow, Move out, and also for the cover of 54-46. None shall escape the judgment, cymbals at full tilt, recalls the genesis of the “flying cymbal” style with the producer Bunny Lee. It is also proof of Clarke’s influence on the international expansion of reggae. With the lament Waiting in vain, he varies the registers to the great delight of Norman Grant. The singer of the Twinkle Brothers, who has come as a tourist, starts applauding from the back of the hall. Finally, little by little, the miracle of electronics comes to echo those of nature, giving the sound an 1980s texture. Tweaking of every kind: echo, delay, reverb. The vocal interventions become rarer but, suspended from the hall’s metal framework, the squadron of speakers keeps beating out the rhythm. The night drifts into dub, the crowd slowly disperses. This is how Sundays should always end, the B-side of the weekend, in short. Report written by C.A. View the photo album      Reactions (0)

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