John Brown's Body

@

The Justice League

Sex, Falafel, and Religion on Divisadero An evening with Kevin Kinsella and his band: John Brown's Body Across Divisidero from the Justice League is a new Mediterranean food place. Nothing special, it looks like your average neighborhood falafel stand except for one of those cheap, red disco-lights hanging from the awning. Not something I normally associate with haute cuisine.

Against my better judgement, I decide to grab a bite to eat while waiting for the doors to open at the JL. I 'm there to see Ithaca-based reggae group John Brown's Body and speak with the band's lead singer and guiding spirit Kevin Kinsella.

My food comes but rather than the expected pita, the falafel comes wrapped in a dry tortilla that's about as tasty as a cocktail napkin.

When I see signs of life at the JL's door, I hurry across the street. Inside, tonight's headliners, the Abysinians, are finishing up their sound check. A short guy in a Kermit-the-frog green tracksuit wanders up and introduces himself. "Hi, I'm Kevin," he smiles. "Let's go in back where we can talk."

He leads me back past the bathrooms and out onto a cement patio where the club puts its garbage cans. I ask him how the tour is going. "We're opening up for the Abysinians," he says, frowning. "They're doing strictly god's works, trying to make it in this thing called 'show business'." He bends two fingers up and down to make quotation marks. "That hurts a man who's trying to just sing praises."

I ask him what he means. "These people, the Abysinians, Bob Marley, Burning Spear, they're all prophets in dis time," he says with a slight patois inflection. "Like Daniel, Moses and others around the world, they just speak because god tells them too, not to make money."

Kinsella drops his voice in a serious tone, as if he's sharing important wisdom with some Rasta brethren. "Jesus was in a band," he says. "He gave free concerts and fed the people."

This takes a moment or two to digest.

Tonight's appearance, as Kinsella explains, is more than a just show. To Kinsella, his and other reggae bands are vehicles through which they transmit their observations of the world. In a self-consciously humble sort of way, he sees himself as a messenger of god.

JBB's music is deep and soulful. It soars and rumbles like good reggae is supposed to. A horn section and echoy dub effects fill out the baseline and two part harmonizing of Kinsella and backup singer Elliot Martin. The music has that loose and funky sound that's so rare in domestic reggae acts and the band manages to be energetic without seeming cheesy.

Kinsella talks earnestly to me about his beliefs as I sit listening on a bucket. He outlines his views on racism, war, god and biblical history. They're views that are familiar to me, mostly generic phrases and buzzwords I've heard over the years at various reggae concerts, Bay Area political gatherings and late night spliff sessions in college. Still, the eagerness with which he describes his ideas and the urgency of his words is disarming. He strikes me as a person trying very hard to find his way.

As we talk I struggle to get a word in, let alone a prepared question. When I ask him about his musical influences in a lame attempt to gain control of the interview, he whips out his guitar and strums out a catchy country tune he's written. It's very good and I sit in the dark listening too him play, wondering what to make of all this.

"I want to make music that makes people think a little bit," Kinsella says when I point out the commercially difficult path he's chosen as a musician. "Trying to please people in this country is foolishness because that's been the downfall of a lot of great reggae artists," he adds. "People here are too simple minded because they've been fed McDonalds and bullshit for so long."

When I ask him about his religious beliefs he's quick to point out that he's a catholic, not a wannabe Rastafarian. "The name of my band isn't Irie Bob and the Palm Trees," he says angrily. "I come from a strong catholic background and I never pretend to be anything else."

There's awkward silence but then a stray cat howls nearby the seriousness disappears from his face for a minute. "I'm not perfect," he says. "I've had sex with a lot of women."

That's not very catholic, I tell him. He laughs. After that, Kinsella relaxes a bit and I feel like I've gotten somewhere. We talk a bit more but then he abruptly excuses himself. "It was great meeting you, but I think it's time for our sound check." We shake hands and he leaves me standing there next to the broken bottles and piles of used plastic beer cups. Later on, when I'm watching Kinsella perform to the semi-interested crowd, I can see that he is both JBB's strength and it's weakness. His obsessive desire to be musically authentic and true to reggae's spirit makes for excellent listening but the lyrics, shot through with biblical references and pleas for love, seem out of date and are ultimately hard to swallow.

It's always been easy to dismiss an American reggae band without ever seeing them play. There's a huge credibility gap to overcome and something off-putting about privileged first world inhabitants who sing about injustice when they can easily walk to the local 7-11 for a hot pocket and a pack of smokes. The crowd is polite, but it's clear whom they're here to see.

"I came to see the Abysinians," says a girl with waist length hair sitting next to me. "I kinda have a problem with bands who sing with a fake accent."

"What about the music?" I ask, fishing for a usable quote, "did you like it?"

"I guess," she answers, suddenly distracted by her companion who's waving a joint in her face.

I sip my beer and suddenly hit on a bad food metaphor to capsulize my impressions of the evening. Like my initial reaction to the falafel, most people don't have the patience to get past the plain white wrapping of JBB. We'd all like to think we're not shallow or prejudiced when it comes to art, but when we go to a reggae show we want to see the real thing. In "Babylon," it doesn't matter how authentic you are if you haven't got the right packaging.

On my way home after the show, I think about the pains that Kinsella takes to convince himself and others that he doesn't care about 'show business', the mostly ignorant fans, or his undeserved status as a poseur. Still, compared to the ease and spontaneity of his country tune, it seems like the answer might be right there in front of him.

As he disappeared back into the club for his sound check, I asked about the possibility of his doing a country album.

"That's next," he said, looking over his shoulder with a smile. "Definitely."

Matt Fisher

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