Samory I

“The word is the word, and great is them that publish it,” he says. “Love and truth, and rights to the people.”

Reggae has been pulled in different directions over the past two decades. Dancehall and roots went their separate ways. Artists like Chronixx and Protoje carved something in the middle. Samory’s sympathies are with the purists who think roots music should remain as it is, but he’s pragmatic about reaching a younger audience.

“The reason why we sing the type of music we sing sometimes is because we try to appeal to a younger audience,” he says. “So I mix the roots with the hip hop or the dancehall or even soul music.” But the substance stays the same. “The message is still the message just because we mix the music with other things. The message is, and will always be, the message.”

The Jamaican scene specifically? He’s less upbeat. Dancehall dominates radio. Roots music gets played at dances, but not enough. A track like Victory, his collaboration with Chronic Law, gets play partly because it sits on dancehall-adjacent production, and that’s one reason artists like him make music on those kinds of beats.

It’s how you get the message heard. The music is in good hands, he says, but the audience has a part to play. “The people need to open their hearts to receive the music. It comes from a powerful place, a place of hardship and strain. And we are sometimes barely rewarded for the work we do.”

The broader picture isn’t much brighter. “Old people try to stay in the job 100 years, waiting for their family to come take their positions,” he says. “There’s no opportunity for the youth because the government creates opportunity for other government parties and the rich people, not for the poor people.” The same people control the music and the government. “These people put these people in power because it benefits them.”

He’s not convinced change is coming either. “There’ll never be a change. Once the government puts food in certain people’s mouths while certain people are hungry, and it benefits the government to do so, it won’t change. Unless the people themselves make a change.”

He’s less concerned about the industry side of things. When I ask about the politics of music distribution in Jamaica, he steps around it. “My message have to be heard,” he says. “I will never fight to be the one in the spotlight or to be the one up front. I will be great.” He frames it in biblical terms: “The Bible say all singers and players of instruments will be there. So I don’t worry about what is going on now.”

His creative process is simple. He prays before the session. The producer plays a beat. He catches the melody, goes home, writes the song, comes back the next day and sings it. Sometimes he writes in the studio, particularly when he’s working through something difficult. “I know people would feel the music.”

Performing is both love and business. “Get the praise and get the raise,” he says. Touring gives him space. “I meditate, not by sitting in a corner doing anything, but just chilling in the space, reminiscing. And then work to do, and the opportunity to do the work again.”

Looking ahead, there’s unreleased material from the Revelation sessions that will come out as singles first, then a mixtape around late December or early January, followed by another album by next June. The direction? “A straight roots album.”

When asked to pick one track that defines him, one that defines another artist, and one he’d delete forever, he declines the last option. “I don’t want to be the man to take away anybody’s music.” For himself, he picks There’s a Spirit and Zion from Revelation. For another artist, Saviour by Chronixx.

Before we hang up, I ask what he’s doing with the rest of his day. “Picking up my son from school.” And then, as a sign-off: “My name is Samory I of Revelation.”