circumstances. Ras Michael sang songs like “None a Jah Jah Children No Cry,” “In Zion,” and “Glory Dawn,” alternating cooking reggae with gospel chants as the drummers smoked spliff after spliff, some of them sitting there in total trance never removing the things from their mouths, sucking the smoke like air, cooking up an enormously complex rhythm conversation which was pure Africa. Killy had sat down at one of the congas, lit up two spliffs, and handed them to me and Gonzo. I smoked and tried to lose myself in the rhythm, as Ras Michael sang of flying away home to Zion and Gonzo screamed in my ear “Right! Right! Fly away home tomorrow!” One particularly driving chantlike number (number?) which sounded like a basal link between African reggae roots and Elvin Jones caught the whole room up and in that moment alone, perhaps, we all were united, flying through the rhythm. The end of each song was signalled by Ras Michael, who would intone loudly into the mike “Jah Rastafari!” to which the little children, women and men present would shout back “Rastafari!” I remember particularly one tot behind me, screaming “Migh-ty God!” It was like a cross between a Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting and a very local garage gig by a band which was itself the link between the tribal fires of prehistory, American black Revivalist Christianity, and rock ‘n’ roll electricity. The guitarist would get into riffs that occasionally suggested that he had been listening to Keith Richards, Duane Allman, maybe even Jerry Garcia, but this was a religious service and nobody clapped. Except Peter Simon, who kept leaning over and cooing in my ear, “Isn’t this great? I just love it, don’t you?” He had begun dancing in a manner that I can only compare to Joan Baez doing the Funky Chicken at the Big Sur Folk Festival, and little kids in front of him, shifting out of awesomely intricate boogaloos of their own, began laughingly to imitate him. He thought they were all getting together in One World brotherhood, laughed back and did what he was doing with more fervor; what he didn’t see was that they were having a laugh over his performance with other children behind him. At the end of the set (set?) I saw him in the center aisle, palms together and head bowed in prayerful attitude. Meanwhile, the grass was wearing off, the bench was hard, and, as at many concerts, I was ready to go home before the music was over.
I don’t mean to sound jaded. It had been intense, both musically and situationally; it was a capital-E experience, and, as Gonzo said, “Take a good look, Lester—this is as close as we’re ever gonna get to Africa.” But there was a pervasive irony to the Experience which could not be escaped. It was in seeing Peter Simon, after Ras Michael and the band had left the room as the hand-drummers and congregation kept shouting and chanting, mount the stage and stand there behind the table with the Bible and candle, smiling and clapping his hands as if leading the faithful.
And there was irony a few minutes later, as we were led out of the chapel into a space behind the house next door, where we were given herb soup (“As an offering,” I was informed) and tokes off the chalice, a ceremonial, elaborately carved pipe. Ras Michael stood outside; I shook hands with him and told him, “I really dig your music, and I’m going to buy your album tomorrow.” We both laughed, there may have been a moment of mutual recognition, and then he launched into the gospel of Rastafari, quoting extensively from the Bible and prophesying Armageddon. It was boring, and after a few minutes I edged politely away, after which it seemed each of our party took his turn at the same course, until Ras Michael got to Peter Simon, whose name he delighted in transposing into Simon Peter, laughing and shaking Simon's hand vigorously. (Upon this rock I will build my church in … Martha's Vineyard?) We all laughed at this, and a few minutes later I saw Peter Simon inside the house where the Rastas stood smoking herb and testifying to Jah. I could see him, through the smoke, first in the main room, then