I remember asking my mother once, why so many white people were capitalizing off of the back of reggae music during the 80's. She explained it well. Reggae songs and the new incarnation of ska were huge in England at the same time that punk was. Punk was for the white kids, reggae was for the black kids, and at one of the most quintessential points in history, at the dawn of fascism and the rise of capitalism in Britain, those two sides came together.

The Sharks and the Jets of Thatcherism

In the 70s, gigs took place around London. In Brixton, in Hackney, on Portobello Road; with reggae songs and ska bands opening the show for punk rockers and the same in reverse. They called it ska punk. Ska itself took on new meaning and was re-branded as 2 Tone, where kids from all walks of the British life would sweat together on crowded dance floors, stepping from side to side while they listened to offerings from The Splits, The Specials, and The Selecter.

More than just uniting colors and creeds, the rise of reggae songs came on the back of the Northern Soul movement. These kids had things in common beyond enjoying the same kind of music; they knew how it was to be born at the bottom of the social pile, and it was the music” Northern Soul then reggae then 2 tone” that was their cultural uprising.

Such a strong part of London's history is swallowed by the older, the more ancient. When we speak of art in regards to any city, we speak of galleries and architecture; of landmarks and of statues. We speak of the kings and queens who ruled there. Sometimes, as the Dakota in New York City would back up were buildings able to sentiently speak, we even talk about who died.

The Oft-Forgotten Part of History

On the days I'm given the blessing of being able to walk the streets around Portobello Road and Ladbroke Grove, I'm connected. On the same land in which tourists clamor for selfies against the film Notting Hill's blue door and the streets of multi-colored housing, you'll find street art of the world's best musicians and artists.

Wander more and you'll find record stores dedicated to the sounds that return once a year with the Notting Hill Carnival, Caribbean grills, and in numerous characters that will leave an imprint on your soul deeper than any other spot in the City of London or any other city.

But reggae songs haven't disappeared, nor has the culture, nor the working class that the tragedy of the Grenfell Tower fire reminded the government of. For the third time.

Walk the market during the weekends and the anxiety you might feel from the masses of tourists walking seemingly side-by-side for a single piece of fruit each will be eased at the road connecting the famed market with its partner, Ladbroke Grove, and the sounds and the scents of the street food market will hit you like a ton of delicious, food-coated bricks.

That One Record Stall

There's one stall on the corner of the street where the food market begins. It used to be Falafel King. If you're walking this same walk and hear the heavy, womb-like bass beats of reggae emitted from a single speaker, it's coming from there.

Reggae songs haves that specific sound I describe as being womb-like because it's like becoming immersed in safe surroundings, or like sounds from the outside when you dunk your head under the water or swim underneath it. It pulses, creating a distinct contrast when the steel drums kick in hard.

I once attended a meditation class where the Guru played the sounds of a mother's womb. Relaxing is an understatement. It was as if I'd become swaddled by the sound that created a warmth I wondered if I somehow remembered. Makes sense that babies come out screaming.

I associate that sound with that junction, beyond the overpass, by the single speaker I swear thuds with every drop of the bass. The stall's owner is vibrant and beautiful. One day he had a Debbie Harry poster on the wall behind his stall. That same day, I was carrying a vinyl of Blondie's single, Sunday Girl (it has the French version as its B-side, too) and we smiled at each other. Strangers.

Every Little Thing is Gonna Be Alright

30 years after the marriage of punk and reggae songs, in the movie adaptation of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, there's a scene that sticks in my mind. I Am Legend is a film based in a post-apocalyptic world, wherein the protagonist is convinced he's the last man on an earth full of zombies.

The character lost his wife and his child, but he made his home his safe house, so his belongings, his memories, and his photographs are all there and present.

When he finds a girl wandering curiously and takes her there to ensure her safety, she asks who the little girl in the picture is. He tells her it's his daughter, and her name was Marley.

After complimenting the name, we find out this girl hasn't heard of Bob Marley, his daughter's namesake, and the script opens itself up for a monologue echoing the importance of Bob Marley, of Reggae; of what he and it represented the world over. Perseverance. He tells her that Bob Marley believed that the way to counter racism and anger and hate was with music and that after someone made an attempt of his life, he went on stage and played the next day to show that it could.

Slipping the CD out of its case and into the stereo, there's a brief moment of silence until Bob Marley's Stir it Up starts to play. She's moved. He turns the volume up, regardless of the threat that will be back at nightfall.

Bob had it right, you know.

Pop, jazz, ska, funk, punk, reggae, rock, ragga; music is the light in the darkness.

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