(originally published June 5, 2011)
A car salesman gave Matthew and me an exegesis on the origins of ska. Ska, he said, originated in Jamaica in the 1960s. This original wave of ska gave rise to rocksteady and, later, reggae. From reggae, Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, by cutting and looping master tapes, developed dub. The second wave of ska, also known as the Two Tone Revolution, came in the late 70s in the UK, and blended punk elements into ska. Dancing to ska was known as skanking. The third wave emerged in the US, during the 1980s and 90s. In Philadelphia, he said, there’s an annual Ska Blowout, which takes place at the Trocadero. Do you skank? I asked him. No, he said. Matthew listened quietly. All he wanted was a checkerboard front license plate for his new car, and I had said, Someone’s going to think you’re a rude boy.
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The Harder They Come suggests that two things keep the poor in Jamaica from breaking out in open rebellion: music and ganja. In one scene, people pick through the refuse at the dump, triumphantly holding up a carton of eggs; then, in another, they dance at a club, losing themselves amongst the rhythm. Still later, they smoke spliffs the size of a baby’s arm. But these trades are controlled by the police and the military, and when the police cut access to them, the tide turns against Ivan, singer-turned-criminal, the film’s hero.
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In Amsterdam, I was five miles into a 20-mile bike ride when I got a flat and had to walk my bike back to the rental station. Tired, frustrated, I decided to go to a coffee shop later that evening. There, I was presented with an extensive menu. Each item had an accompanying picture, the buds and leaves in infinite variations of green, from silver-tipped and sage-like to a dark, dusky green. I couldn’t decide: harsh, grassy, smooth, velvety, graceful. What was this, a wine bar? Not to mention, I was giggly: this was my first time! I decided on a brownie with whipped cream, whereupon Matthew had half, because, after all, it still was a brownie. We both fell asleep soon afterwards.
*
In a recent visit to Colorado, I noticed neon-green crosses advertising the dispensaries that had sprouted up across the state. Then I remembered: Oh, it’s medicinal now. Our close friends, H. & J., have a grower’s license and grow a small crop in their yard. J. didn’t sell but kept it for home use. The trick, she told us, was to continually prune so that buds emerge. Many people claim that cannabis elevates your consciousness, but I wonder: does it sharpen the mind or blunt it? Whom does it benefit in its structure of money and power? Does it foment revolution or mollify it? J. gave Matthew and me a Mason jar of homegrown—all-natural, organic—and a metal pipe with which to smoke it. I hid it in my parents’ house, behind some books, like a teenager, rebellious and wicked, as if this were really something to get excited about.