Why I Love Dancehall
To quote a great man, Adidja Palmer “Vybz Kartel”, “Dancehall a mi everything”. Those words describe my relationship with this genre, with the culture, with the lifestyle, my lifestyle. As a child, the man who I would eventually call dad did his best raising an unusually shy bright eye girl. My dad was a fan of Hip Hop, RnB, and Dancehall. I remember growing up and him driving playing mixes from Stone Love [Stone Love Movement] dances, him and his friends debating the lyrics of artists clashing Sting or watching dancers dancing at Passa Passa.
For years, all I did was observe, take it in. But this was me, a small London born black girl hearing indulging from the views of grown Jamaican men. When I moved to Jamaica at 11, I unknowingly began a crash course in Jamaican culture, more specifically Dancehall culture. As I entered my teens and an all-girl high school in Jamaica, I found my friends were putting me onto Dancehall even more. The Gaza and Gully debacle had us all choosing sides. A UK-based friend of mine joked about how I could claim Gaza when I was not from Portmore, but the country parish of St Elizabeth. That did not matter, Kartel was my idol and #GazaMiSeh. I was a fan of his music, of his personality and intellect. But it was not just the men of Dancehall that entertained us, the ladies of Dancehall brought a whole different element of appeal. My friends and I would sing the lyrics of any song from Lady Saw owning her sexual satisfaction and women independence songs as much as we would Kartel’s raw and unfiltered lyrics.
I found myself in the middle of young lovers of Dancehall (my fellow schoolmates) giving our own two cents on what was happening in Dancehall, clashes, who sent for who better and who served the best looks. I had found my tribe, other young women of colour, mainly young Black women enjoying Dancehall. I never thought that this love for culture was not one I would be free to enjoy. At home, my relationship with my dad grew because I could now hold my own in a conversation on Dancehall, to this day, the few words we do exchange are in the culture.
Embarrassment and Negative Responses
I also remember growing up and being utterly embarrassed by Dancehall at times. Seeing a Jamaican woman set out with a vibrant coloured wig, say royal blue with matching makeup, outfit, shoes, and nails to match was something I considered completely ridiculous. This look is not limited to Dancehall culture, but it was where it took commonplace. At times, even my mother would wear some questionable outfits which a reminder that Dancehall was once a familiar scene. My mum once had me follow her to the bank, she wore a purple wig, with matching nails and a floral dress.
When it came to diaspora wars in the primary school playground (before the years of insulting and disrespecting a person’s culture) I would stand proud in being Jamaican. But when it came to the Dancehall, I was not too sure how to explain to someone who was not born into it like me.
As I fought to overcome my embarrassment of the culture. One would assume that it was non-Caribbean people who led me to think this way. To think Dancehall was not culture but vulgarity at its finest. European people, Asian or even African. Yet, I was very often around mainly Caribbean people. Once in a while, Jamaican politicians and the like will blame Dancehall for violence or degrading Jamaican culture. These beliefs conveniently go away when it’s election time and they need artists to provide dubs to advocate for people to vote for them.
Being around my dad and high school friends changed this for me. There was something else that pushed me to change my perception of the culture. In recent times, on Twitter common statements of “Jamaica isn’t a real place” or “Jamos explain” accompanied videos of Jamaican dancers daggering in a tree or diving off a speaker. I found myself second-guessing my love of Dancehall. As a Jamaican talking about the culture, I would receive negative responses for my love of what others saw as “degrading” and “vulgarity”. I think back to what I deemed as the unfounded backlash around the law students who donned Dancehall attire for the Mr. and Miss Law 2019 competition. I agreed with Dr Sonjah Stanley Niaah, senior lecturer in cultural studies at the UWI Mona, who disagreed with the negative backlash, saying “I am really appalled [that] in Jamaica today, we still have a negative response to anything related to dancehall,”. The Jamaica Gleaner referenced her saying that misconceptions surrounding dancehall must be challenged. They should.
The more I got into the scene, the more I uncovered the cultural appropriation of it all. There is an abundance of European and Asian people who like me, fell madly in love with Dancehall. They travel to Jamaica, take dance classes from the creators of the great dances, and return home to becoming respected dancers and Dancehall culture participants. They enter international Dancehall competitions and win; they start their own classes and gain large social media followings. Now, I can acknowledge that they put money into the pockets of people in the scene and they bring a new audience to the culture, but I found it odd they can enjoy this culture in a way I never could with negative backlash. People be able to enjoy things, right? They can enjoy Dancehall, why can’t I?
Wannabe Dancehall Queen
When I started university, I remember when I was asked if I could dance. I was completely honest in saying no. Because I never really danced before. For years growing up in Jamaica, the dancehall scene was the only one I was exposed to. Between the identity issues of “am I Jamaican or am I British?” and being raised in a conservative Christian environment (Jamaica has the most “churches” per square mile of any country in the world according to the Guinness Book of World Records).
A substantial amount of the population of the country is Christian and I can safely say many of them are conservatively so. I often recall the times my friends made fun of the fact I did not attend church. For which, I was deemed weird. I can recall a running joke for the fact that I was one of two girls who did not attend church every week in my class. I would question my right to indulge in my own culture and if it were acceptable on a religious level. Tommy Lee Sparta’s Shook (Uncle Demon) was a particular song that I had a lot of conflict in enjoying. Fast forward to me attending university club nights and hearing one or two dancehall songs. At that moment I felt so free. As time went by, I realised that the lover in Dancehall in me did not match the rest of me. Studying politics and sociology, being an activist and feminist, yes but whining to Spice songs, no. Everyone around me found the fact I loved this culture in contradiction to myself.
To make them feel comfortable and to because I felt I needed to justify myself, I even started a joke about calling me “DHQ Susan” [DanceHall Queen -D.H. Q]. DHQ Susan is who you would see on a night out. She would dance without care and serving body. But Jemmar? She enjoys reading, talking about social justice issues and politics. There was no in-between, no intersection where I could be found.
I must confess I am a wannabe dancehall queen. I spent hours in a day looking up dancers, studying their movement and style. I developed a newfound respect for Dancehall Queens because of this. To do what these dancers do requires flexibility, stamina, and confidence. It is not easy to do. Watching their Onstage Interview, my respect and understanding of DHQ HeadTop, Renee Six Thirty, DHQ Sher and Chinny Unique and the like grew.
I recently had a conversation with a Trinidadian friend who is doing her PhD in law, she said that to get her in the zone, she had to listen to Soca and Dancehall. I found her sharing this with me, reaffirming but I hate that I needed that validation. Indulging in Dancehall is a form of self-care for me. From listening to the aggressive gun man tunes to get me into the zone especially after feeling sad or angry. Or bruk out tunes that I can whine to which remind me that I can be a sexy Black woman and that is okay. Even the dancing Dancehall songs because it keeps me fit and I feel so satisfied mastering a new dance (I am convinced Ding Dong makes them more complex every time.
I hope that one day, that Susan dies a peaceful death, that I can be Jemmar, some who can talk UK politics, campaign for social justice but also dissect why and how Spice is a feminist icon and the current queen of Dancehall.
Watch Bruk Out! A Dancehall Queen Documentary here.
Watch Bad Girls of Dancehall here.
