JAMAICA BLUE (Chapter One)
I'm tellin' ya, Mick, this kid is like the second coming of Bob Marley." Bobby Vane waggled his fat index finger at a waitress as he stuffed another shrimp in his mouth. "We got him comin' over here to tour with Brandy this summer, but hell, if it goes good, we might just bolt the Brandy thing and take off on our own." He smiled at the waitress as she walked to the table. "Another Scotch, honey, the Glenlivit or whatever you got, okay?" He waved her away.
A smile played on Mick Sever's face. Bobby Vane always had a new artist, a new recording contract, a new tour to promote. And each one was guaranteed to be bigger than the one before.
"Were you a Marley fan, Mick? Huh? Were ya? Ya know, the kids today, they all got Marley in their CD collections, and hell, the guy died like in 1981, before most of 'em were even a gleam in their old man's eye. So I figure that this guy's gonna just be the hottest thing." He wiped his greasy fingers on the green linen napkin in his lap and scanned the table for any last bites of food he may have missed. "Ya want anything else, Mick? Just name it."
"No, I'm fine."
"Ya know, ya eat like a bird. Like a fuckin' bird. So, watcha think? You get a chance to see Jamaica, the sun, the sand, the honeys, and you get to see his concert."
"What's the name again?"
"Derrick Lyman." Vane put his meaty hand on Sever's and patted it. "Mick, if this isn't the biggest thing since grunge..."
"Bobby, I was never a real big fan of grunge."
Vane looked at him. "It's reggae and hip-hop. It's like dance hall, rock steady, and ska all wrapped up in one sound and it's just plain hot. I've got a rough mix right here." He reached down to a scuffed brown leather bag and pawed through the contents until he found the jewel case. "Here, this'll give you a little taste of what this guy does. Derrick Lyman and the Laments."
"Laments?"
"Well, we're still working with that. Marley had the Wailing Wailers, and they changed it to just the Wailers. We'll get it right before we go big-time. Right now I want you to see how electrifying this boy is with a crowd. He brings 'em to their feet and never lets 'em sit down, Mick. I'm tellin' ya, you're gonna want to do a story on him. And I'm willing to give you first crack."
"How many writers have turned you down?"
"You hurt me, Mr. Sever. I want you to follow this career. You're a powerful man. People believe what you say. Give me...give my boy a break. If I'm wrong, you still get a vacation in a tropical paradise."
"I get to spend three days in a Third World country where the white man is not only in the minority, but in many cases not too well liked."
"Come on. Rolling Stone already said they'd pick up the tab. I just gotta get you to do the article." He looked at Sever with his big brown eyes, much like a dog Sever had had in the sixth grade. The dog, Waddles, or something like that, had run away from home and was never seen again.
"All right, Vane, I'll go. We'll see what this Derrick and the Laments is all about. So what do we call this music? Reggae rap?"
"Well, you're the word man. Rasta rap, reggae rap..."
"So he's Rastafarian?"
"Hell, isn't everyone in Jamaica? He sprinkles the songs with some of that philosophy mumbo jumbo. Worked for Marley. It'll work for Derrick." Vane grabbed the Scotch as the waitress set it down and he took a gulp, pounding the glass back onto the table. "Here's to a new superstar. Here's to reggae rap." He raised the glass.
Sever picked up his water glass, glanced around at the other tables to be sure no one was staring, then softly clinked his glass with Vane's. "Bobby, no promises. If I don't like the kid or his music, that's the way the story will read."
"I know, I know. I'm not worried. The kid will bowl you over. We got a hit here, Mick, and you're gonna thank me for steering you in his direction." He finished his Scotch, pushed his corpulent body back from the table, and gave Sever a huge grin. "Damn, life is good! Life is good!"
JAMAICA BLUE Copyright © 2002 by Don Bruns.
