Buju Banton

When he was 17, he penned and voiced "Boom Bye Bye"; two years later, thanks to that track, which advocates shooting gay men in the head, Buju Banton was the international poster boy for homophobia. No excuses, but "batty bwoy" lyrics are de rigueur for Jamaican MCs, yet today's Buju is the sole reggae artist to publicly acknowledge one's right to love whom one chooses.

Despite his grave juvenile error, Buju is the worthiest successor to the mantle of Bob Marley. "He's our sun," says the respected DJ (reggae rapper/producer) Tony Rebel. "Every other reggae artist revolves around him." Cleaving to Bob's implicit rule that yuh haffe sing rough for the sufferah and following the Gong's generous example of lyrical inclusiveness, Buju's coarse, resinous vocals are more compelling than just about anyone else's tones.

The 15th child of an inner-city Kingston family, Buju descends from Jamaica's Maroons -- fugitive slaves who tormented the British for nearly 100 years, until the colonial government was forced to sign a treaty that guaranteed Maroons perpetual freedom and self-government. Chubby baby cheeks earned Mark Myrie his first name -- buju is the Maroon term for "breadfruit" -- but soon after Buju passed through the gates of the fabled Penthouse Studio, he conquered Jamaica's dancehalls as a gangly, rail-thin, gravel-voiced teen, a.k.a. Mr. Mention.

That sobriquet became the title of his debut set, a collection of fifteen sizzling boomshots. Dropping his tightly coiled, percussive bass flow over relentless digital beats, Buju slugs rhymes fast, hard, and deep, like Ali at his prime. Even if non-Jamaicans sometimes can't penetrate his thick patois flow, like all reggae greats Buju draws listeners into his world. Tracks such as "Batty Rider," a bouncing hymn to scantily clad dancehall "models," evoke dancehall's escape from tropical ghetto pressures via blissful self-regard and sinewy hip grinds. Yet even then, Buju revealed a razor-keen social conscience in "How the World a Run," an incisive dissection of 20th-century postcolonialism.

In 1993, soon after NYC-based indie Loose Cannon released Buju's aptly titled Voice of Jamaica, "Boom Bye Bye" surfaced in a reggae compilation and Buju's crossover plans tanked. Two years later, though, he stunned the international reggae axis by regenerating roots-style reggae with 'Til Shiloh. Alternating his signature DJ bluster with a new Marley-esque yet quintessentially Buju singing style, Shiloh is powered by a shatteringly honest emotionalism and a soul guidance unmarred by the usual pieties.

Buju sings in "Prelude," "Though you may think my faith is in vain/'Til Shiloh we will chant Rastafari's name," then chuckles and muses, "All my days/seems they have been wasted, eh?" Buju had been down to the river and reborn as a Rasta man, but he hadn't wasted a day. Whether wringing every drop of emotion from the soaring title track or treading more familiar good-body-gal turf in the rough-riding "Champion," Buju proves that a reggae artist can praise Jah and Janet equally. With that release, dancehall and roots styles became simply opposite ends of reggae's wide-ranging territory. Follow-up albums Inna Heights (nearly as sublime as Shiloh), Unchained Spirit, and Friends for Life offer the same compelling blend of reggae's rowdy and rapturous. (ELENA OUMANO)

From 2004's The New Rolling Stone Album Guide