Put the needle on Jimmy Cliff's Unlimited, and the grooves writhe like a poised snake, the record grows hot with anger, and the air fills with the pungent smell of despair. But it's OK, there's a way to hear it: Pay a pilot to fly over Jimmy's flat in Earl's Court, London, towing a banner that says I'm Sorry, and while you're playing the record keep writing checks made out to Jimmy Cliff.

The songs are almost all about exploitation, of Jamaica, its music and Jimmy himself. "You stole my history, destroyed my culture," he accuses in "The Price of Peace," you "cut off my tongue so I can't communicate ... hide my whole of life so myself I should hate." The slightly stilted language and the righteous indignation are reminiscent of Curtis Mayfield's songwriting style, although the music is less claustrophobic and mechanical than Mayfield's, more immediately accessible to an uncommitted listener. By the end of the second side the listener might accept Jimmy's arguments and feel contrite, but might also feel little inclination to play the record again: Too much condemnation is eventually intolerable, even when justified by strong evidence.

And there is plenty of justice to Jimmy's case. Jamaican music has been scandalously ignored by the American music business, which provides access to more than half of the market for English-speaking musicians. Since the mid-Sixties, a large proportion of the most infectious records have come from Jamaica, driven by rhythms which evolved and changed their forms and names while always compelling dance. While most of the best musicians in America and Britain harnessed themselves to beats that bullied their audiences, Jamaicans relied on subtlety and melody to weave their insidious way into their listeners. But not only were the musicians wonderful, so were the singers, who took advantage of the freedom a reggae rhythm offered by improvising melodies and lyrics. And Jimmy Cliff was one of the best, as the re-issued album, Wonderful World, Beautiful People, proves.

Almost every track on that LP could have been a hit single, if there had been the appropriate push behind reggae at the time. But in 1969 reggae lacked the backing of people in positions of power. There was no one to cajole and convince the music business and its audience that this was the music. So these songs—"Time Will Tell," "Hard Road to Travel" and the startling "Vietnam"—got lost, leaving Jimmy to be judged by history for his sole hit "Wonderful World, Beautiful People," whose lyrics hardly reflected his conclusions about life.

Jimmy started making records when he was 14, and his subsequent experience with people in the Jamaican record business led him to mistrust most people who offered to "help" him. So if he was ready to be for reggae what Elvis had been for rock 'n' roll, and what Hendrix was for rock, he couldn't find an American to entrust with his destiny. The chance was lost, and now he seems to be pissed off that Johnny Nash and Paul Simon borrowed those same musicians who played on "Wonderful World," maybe took a little of Jimmy's voice too, and hit the jackpot with their "derivations."

Hence, Unlimited, with song titles like "Commercialization" and "Rip Off." But reggae seems incapable of infectiously conveying a down mood, the words sound harsh, even Jimmy's voice loses its charm. When he turns the ideas around, though, and sings with hope and promise, the magic is still there, and "Born To Win" and "Oh Jamaica" represent everything that reggae music in general and Jimmy Cliff in particular can do. But Wonderful World is the LP that everyone should have. (RS 144)

CHARLIE GILLETT