December 3, 2025 • 37 mins
Two Jamaican musicians are making a bold claim. They say they invented the now-ubiquitous reggaeton beat on a specific track in 1989. They're suing some of the genre's biggest stars for billions in royalties.
But we found someone who’s telling a very different origin story. Hold onto your headphones as we dive into the mystery behind one of the most influential beats in modern music.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:03):
I know you've heard this beat before. It's everywhere, and
don't lie. It makes you want to dance. This rhythm,
boom chick a boom chicka boom chick a boom chicka
boom chick a boom is the heartbeat of reggaetone, one
of the most successful musical genres on the planet right now.
Artists like Bad Bunny, Carol G and Daddy Yankee have
(00:24):
sold billions of records and play to pack stadiums worldwide.
But where did the reggaetone beat come from? And what
makes it so infectious?
Speaker 2 (00:34):
It gets people moving. There's something really fundamental to it
that makes us want to move, and I think as
a result, it's not too surprising that it has been
a huge part of dance music, from music that people
dance to for gosh, probably centuries, maybe millennia, right, we
don't really know.
Speaker 1 (00:53):
That's Wayne Marshall, a musicologist and co editor of a
book all about reggaetone. A rhythm has fund to mental
and primal and danceable as the reggaetone beat feels like
it's been around forever, and maybe it has variations on
the reggaeton beat can be traced back to Western African
drumming traditions that go back hundreds, if not thousands of years.
(01:16):
But now two Jamaican musicians are making a bold claim
that they invented the reggaetone beat on a specific track
they recorded in nineteen eighty nine, and more importantly, they
claim that they own this beat. The Jamaican musicians have
filed a copyright infringement lawsuits naming every major reggaetone artist
(01:37):
and they're asking for billions in royalties. But who really
invented the reggaetone beat? The Jamaicans have made their claims,
but we found someone who's telling a very different origin story.
Down in Mexico lives a man who claims that he
created this world changing beat a full decade before the Jamaicans.
(01:58):
Hold onto your headphone as we dive into the mystery
behind one of the most influential beats in modern music.
Welcome to very special episodes and iHeart original podcast. I'm
your host Saren Burnett and this is a fundamental magical element.
Speaker 3 (02:21):
Welcome back to very special episodes. She's Dana, Hey, he's Zarin,
I'm Jason and I'll tell you I have absolutely no rhythm.
If footage of me dancing were to get out, that
would be the end of this podcast. But I say
this because as this episode was coming together, we'd hear
early cuts, like I would just be here vibing in
(02:42):
my seat. I think I'm embarrassing myself right now, just
on the screen, but you can't not.
Speaker 4 (02:48):
One thing that really is embarrassing about me is I
just have famously terrible taste in music, and my husband
has been trying to broaden my horizon, and so I
do appreciate that this episode brings up some interesting history
about music, which I feel like is the thing that
I need to give me more interest in any subject.
Speaker 1 (03:08):
I loved also the whole history of the diaspora getting
disconnected and then reconnected through beat. It's just such thing
as something is so fundamental, obviously but so essential. I
thought that was just an awesome aspect of the story.
And you're right, Jason, this one had me chair dancing.
Like when I was listening to early Cuts, I was
like definitely bopping around. The history of pop music is
filled with stories of musicians borrowing material from other artists.
(03:32):
Remember Ice Ice Baby, when that earworm hit the radio
in nineteen ninety. Everyone and their mother knew that Vanilla
Ice ripped off the bassline from under pressure by Queen
and David Bowie, but Vanilla real name Robert van Winkle,
tried to deny it. He actually went on TV and said,
their bassline goes ding ding ding de d ding ding
(03:55):
ding ding ding de da ding ding, but ours goes
ding ding ding diga ding ding that ding ding ding
dinga ding ding. Come on, Robert. No one bought it.
That's why Queen and Bowie now have writing credits on
Ice Ized Baby, and why their estates have collected millions
in royalties. Of course, cases of musical copycatting aren't always
(04:16):
so cut and dried. For example, in twenty thirteen, Marvin
Gaye's family sued Pharrell Williams and Robin Thick over their
hit song Blurred Lines, claiming it was a direct ripoff
of Marvin's nineteen seventy seven classic Got to Give It Up.
No one thought Marvin's family had a chance. This wasn't
Ice Ice Baby, There was no obvious theft. If Pharrell
(04:40):
and Robin Thick were guilty of anything, it was stealing
Marvin's vibe. But you can't copyright a vibe?
Speaker 2 (04:47):
Can you?
Speaker 1 (04:48):
To the shock of the music world, a jury awarded
Marvin's family seven million dollars when expert witnesses broke down
the two songs and compared them instrument by instrument, note
by no, there were enough similarities to convince twelve people
that Pharrell and Robin Thick were more than inspired by Marvin.
(05:08):
They stole this sound, which brings us to twenty twenty one.
That's when two Jamaican musicians filed a lawsuit that doesn't
just target one song for a million dollars, but could
potentially take out a whole genre of music and rake
in billions in royalties. Back in nineteen eighty nine, a
Jamaican dancehall duo known as Steely and Clevie recorded a
(05:32):
hugely influential track called fish Market. Let's hear a clip.
Remember that beat boom chick, A boom chick, A boom chick,
A boom chick, A boom chick a boom that's the
(05:54):
heartbeat of our story. In the late eighties, Jamaican producers
in DJ's freely sampled and remixed each other's beats into
new songs. It was part of Jamaica's vibrant sound system culture.
In nineteen ninety, one of those fish Market remixes blew up.
The Jamaican artist Shaba Ranks released a track called dem Bo,
(06:16):
wrapping over the fish Market beat in his distinctive Jamaican
Patois demo. The song exploded on the dancehall reggae scene,
and the infectious rhythm got a name Dembo.
Speaker 2 (06:38):
Jamaican instrumentals at the time that were all of the
sort of part of this new stew that they were
creating by mixing them, oftentimes by sampling little pieces from
lots of them and then recombining them in to quote
unquote their own dembos, so it comes to be a
sort of more generic term for this rhythm.
Speaker 1 (06:54):
There's no doubt that the popularity of these dembos in
the nineteen nineties inspired rising generation of Latino producers and artists,
especially in New York and Puerto Rico, and gave birth
to an entirely new musical style, reggaetone.
Speaker 2 (07:10):
Reggaeton has made no secret of its relationship to reggae.
The two first and foremost influences on the sound are
hip hop and reggae, especially dance all reggae. I mean,
that's why it's called reggaetone, right. And I think one
of the reasons why that dance all reggae beat resonated
so powerfully for people in Puerto Rico was that it
also sounded like Puerto Rican music. It sounded like Caribbean music.
(07:31):
It had the same underlying rhythms that people had been
dancing to in salsa.
Speaker 1 (07:37):
There's no denying that the reggaetone beat as we know
it today is almost identical to dembo. But how much
of reggaeton's DNA can really be traced back to Phish
Market and does that make it a legal case for ownership.
In twenty twenty four, a federal judge in California said
Steely and Cleevie's case had enough merits to go to trial.
(07:57):
The lawsuit accuses more than one hundred and sixty reggaetone
artists of quote mathematically copying the Fish Market beat and
illegally using it in thousands of songs.
Speaker 2 (08:10):
When I first heard about the lawsuit three years ago, now,
I was both surprised and unsurprised. You know, I had
been waiting for this shoe to drop for a long
long time. It's been interesting to watch.
Speaker 1 (08:21):
Want to know what else is interesting about this case?
The judge, Andre Borotte Junior is the son of Haitian
immigrants and grew up vibing to Caribbean music. He even
worked as a party DJ in college. This dude might
be banging his gabble to the beat. Ultimately, a jury
will hear arguments from both sides and decide if the
(08:41):
entire genre of reggaetone owes Steely and cleviey billions of dollars.
But what's been missing from those arguments is the fact
that the entire lawsuit hinges on the claim the assumption
really that the reggaetone beat originated in Jamaica. Musicologist like
Wayne Marshall think it goes way back.
Speaker 2 (09:02):
The earliest reference I can think of, although even then
it's hard to date it exactly. But you know, Robert
Feris Thompson says it was known as the call to
dance back in Congo and Bila Almachino. So people, you know,
hundreds of years ago were thinking of this as that
type of beat. Not that much has changed, and I think,
even apart from the question of the reggae reggaetone dispute,
(09:22):
just the question of you know, when did drummers start
to play that beat? Is an interesting one. I think
is an unresolved one, and this is one that would
be fun to continue to sort of push out and
trag down.
Speaker 1 (09:34):
Every beat has a backstory, and there's a good chance
that reggaetone has more than one origin. Next, we're going
to meet a drummer who has a very different story
to tell about the invention of the world conquering reggaetone beat.
It didn't happen in Jamaica or in Puerto Rico, but
in Brooklyn. Nineteen eighty and nineteen year old drummer Elvis
(10:00):
Rose walked into a recording studio in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.
Elvis was from Saint Vincent, a small island in the Caribbean.
His friends called him Akiki. Akiki had no idea he'd
be recording anything that day. He was up practically the
whole night before, practicing the drums, a habit he picked
up in the Army Band. Here's Akiki.
Speaker 5 (10:21):
So I was practicing ohs and as you know, always
and ohs, and I didn't know what I was practicing
for I mean, I used to have to practice to play,
you know, in a military band with him guys. But
I was practicing somewhat that I mean, I never knew
what was going to happen.
Speaker 1 (10:37):
By the time Akiki woke up the next day, it
was late in the afternoon. He decided to go see
his friend Jan, another percussionist. Wan was loading some congas
in his truck and said he was on his way
over to Straker's music record store and recording studio in
Crown Heights. Akiki decided to tag along.
Speaker 5 (10:55):
If it reached five minutes after he had already gone.
He was putting is congress in the van to go
to the studio, so he said, let you go in
the studio. And they didn't know the audition.
Speaker 1 (11:06):
When Akiki walked into Straker's studio, he saw a waiting
room full of drummers, older, more experienced drummers.
Speaker 5 (11:15):
And these guys I was very young. I mean, I
would like think I was nineteen at that time, and
these guys were like big men, right, But it was
already like kind of watching me because I was very aggressive.
Like I said, I was practicing a lot, and I
could have read I could have read the drum parts
and everything.
Speaker 1 (11:35):
Akiki knew one of the producers at Straker's a talented
young arranger named Frankie McIntosh. When Frankie saw Akiki in
the studio, he assumed he was there for the audition,
so Frankie told ak to hop on the drums.
Speaker 5 (11:49):
I didn't know the audition for drummers, you know, So
while wing frank he said, let Elvis play for us.
That's me, right, So the producer said, no, he's a
little boy, you know what I mean. I have the
professional them all day and guy, he didn't really know me,
so but he and Frankie went back and forth for
a little while. God didn't have a drumstick, so there
(12:10):
was some drumstick in the studio. So by the time
he held me play like bro he said wow, and
you were like completely surprised, and he said, you know what,
let he play right. So the other drummers, whether they
were better on me or not, they didn't never get
a chance because every time Straighter held me play it,
(12:30):
that was it like it was like a destiny thing.
It was destined to be.
Speaker 1 (12:36):
That's right. Aki believes he was destined to be behind
the drums in Straker's studio that day because he was
about to change the course of music history. All that
practicing wasn't for nothing. It was preparing him for this moment.
Akiki had been playing music his whole life, starting on
Saint Vincent.
Speaker 5 (12:58):
I grew up on a hill in a village called Belmont.
It's really like a musical village. They have like the
traditional musicians where we used to call the boom jump band,
and then like on weekends, the guys, the elder guys
would get together and they would play go and drink
ram and play music.
Speaker 6 (13:17):
You know.
Speaker 5 (13:17):
It was like a natural form of improvisation. So I
grew up around that.
Speaker 1 (13:22):
A Kiki started playing drums in Calypso bands when he
was barely a teenager. When they played gigs out in
the country, the crowd would stand outside. They'd only come
in if the music made them dance.
Speaker 5 (13:34):
They wouldn't come inside until the band play one or
two songs, and if the band could make them move,
they are rush inside. So then my objective was just
to make them as a drummer had to make people move.
So that was always ingrained inside of me that when
you play, you got to make the people that move.
Speaker 1 (13:54):
When a Kiki moved to Brooklyn in the late nineteen seventies,
the borough was home to a vibrant Indian community. People
from all over the English speaking Caribbean settled in neighborhoods
like Flatbush, Prospect Heights, and Crown Heights, creating the area
known as Little Caribbean. Every Labor Day weekend, Brooklyn still
(14:14):
hosts one of the biggest Caribbean carnival parades in the country.
Dancers in elaborate feathered costumes filled the streets up and
down Eastern Parkway, and driving it all are the pulsing
rhythms of calypso and soca. Maybe we should pause here
for a quick music lesson. Soca is a style of
music from Trinidad that means soul of calypso. You've probably
(14:38):
heard some calypso songs before, maybe some Harry Belafonte. But
where Calypso had a slower tempo and is focused on
the singer, Soca is fast and mostly instrumental. The whole
point of soca is to get people dancing. By the
time a Kiki walked into Straker's Records in nineteen eighty
Soca was the sound brooks Not only was Soka an
(15:01):
established musical genre, but it had an established beat. Every
drummer in Brooklyn played soka the same way. Musicologist Wayne
Marshall calls it four on the floor, four pulsing quarter
notes played on the kick drum. The beat was popularized
in the disco era by drummer Earl Young from Philadelphia.
Speaker 2 (15:22):
And it's an interesting story because Earl Young, in his way,
a sort of singular drummer, who comes up with this
beat that becomes absolutely ubiquitous and influential. Right, It becomes
the disco beat by nineteen seventy five. And so you
start to hear a four on the floor kick drum,
you know, turning up in all kinds of dance music
across the Caribbean and dance music across Africa. I mean,
(15:44):
you name it, you find it.
Speaker 1 (15:45):
The four on the floor beat was the heartbeat of
Soca too, that is until a Kiki came along. If
there's one thing to know about Akiki is that he
hates playing the same thing twice. Improvisation is in his blood.
Speaker 5 (16:00):
Like I said, from a youth, I always liked to
play what you feel, you know, So I was always like,
you know, I don't like to be repetitive. So you
play something and then you yeah, so much thing. The
more you practice, he has so many things in your
head that you want to play.
Speaker 1 (16:15):
Akiki says he was never a fan of the straight
four on the floor beat that all the other Soca
drummers played.
Speaker 5 (16:22):
Like I said, I'd already liked to play something, you know,
be creative. I never really liked that don't Ping, don't.
It was a kind of lazy. So you know, if
you listen to that, it doesn't really make you move.
Speaker 1 (16:36):
So let's go back to the day in nineteen eighty
when a Kiki sat behind the drum set at Straker's Records.
After a Kiki nailed the audition that he didn't know about,
it was time to record some songs. Frankie McIntosh, the
arranger and producer, was running the recording session. As Frankie
counted into the first song, something came over a Kiki.
(16:59):
He can't explo what it was. Maybe it was all
the practicing he'd done the night before, hours and hours
of improvising new beats and patterns, or maybe it was
just the excitement of being there in Straker's Records, nineteen
year old kid playing for one of the biggest recording
studios in Brooklyn. When the band started playing, what came
out of Akiki's drum set wasn't dumb ping, dumb ping,
(17:23):
but something completely new.
Speaker 5 (17:26):
I can't really tell you where I hold the beat.
You can't never really heard it. It just came out
of my head and it was like it actually changed
the whole tra victoria of the Soca music. And basically
the beat is more magical, more it makes you want
to move.
Speaker 1 (17:45):
Akiki has a name for his new rhythmic creation. He
calls it the Fundamental Magical Element.
Speaker 5 (17:52):
Well that's the only name I can come up with
because it's actly where. It's fundamental in the terms of
like you know, well it's a basic beat right when
it's a basic is a beat that is, you know,
you could use in any kind of genre music. And
the magical part of it is that it makes you
want to move. But other matter where you're from what
(18:13):
either from the Caban or you're from Europe or you've
a ma Africa, it just makes you want to move.
Speaker 1 (18:18):
Only a mad musical genius would come up with a
name like Fundamental magical Element, It says it all, and
Akiki's right, there is something undeniably infectious about this beat.
Here's a Kiki playing the Fundamental Magical Element on a
track called Boogie Woman. Try not to nod your head
and wiggle in your seat. I dare you. The power
(18:54):
of the fundamental magical Element is not in question. What
might be questionable is what a kik he claims next.
Speaker 5 (19:01):
Right, So I just played something that was more live
led was much more live, learn more aggressive in terms
of rhedem and no, it's become one of the most
popular ridom on the planet.
Speaker 1 (19:15):
Did you catch that? Akiki believes that the drum beat
he improvised in Straker's studio in nineteen eighty wasn't just
a one off thing. Akiki is confident that his original creation,
the Fundamental Magical Element not only became the new sound
of soca, but eventually it became the most important new
beat in the world. It became reggaeton. How do you
(19:43):
trace the origins of a beat, especially one as fundamental and,
if we're being honest, as simple as reggaeton When you
strip it down, it's all about that boom chick a
boom chi ka boom chicka boom chick a boom chicka boom.
While Akiki was doing his thing and broke Glynn in
the early nineteen eighties, there were other musicians halfway around
(20:04):
the world playing with the same infectious rhythm. Here's a
guy named Jeff Luana from Congo playing a type of
dance music called soku, not soka soku boom chicka boom chicka,
boom chicka boom. There it is again our favorite beat.
(20:27):
Keep in mind this was recorded by French speaking Africans
in nineteen eighty one, just a year after Akiki says
he came up with the fundamental magical element. Could Jeff
Luana have copied Akiki's sound that fast? Wayne Marshall doesn't
think so.
Speaker 2 (20:44):
I find it hard to believe that this band from
Congo would have done this in nineteen eighty one based
on having heard a record made in Brooklyn in nineteen
eighty or eighty one.
Speaker 1 (20:54):
Like that, When musicologists like Wayne listen to these beats,
they don't see a clear progression from one musician to another.
Drummer A blayed it first, then drummer Bee copied it, etc. Instead,
they see musicians from all over the world drawing from
the same ancient well of rhythm and dance known as
African traditional music.
Speaker 6 (21:16):
To listen to a lot of African music, both traditional
and popular rhythm forms, a heavy bass is so much
the foundation of it, and that rhythm is tied to dance.
I mean, in traditional African cultures, the idea of music
and dance being separate. They don't see it that way.
That's my deal Western concept. But these things are tied together,
and so you have heavy rhythmic, syncopated music and that
(21:38):
just lends itself to dance. It's made to dance too.
Speaker 1 (21:42):
That's Ray Allen, another musicologist we called up Ray because
he wrote a book with none other than Frankie McIntosh. Frankie,
if you remember, was the Soka arranger who recorded Akiki
at Straker's Records. Frankie is such a legend in Brooklyn's
Caribbean music scene that his nickname is the Maestro. Frankie
(22:03):
and Akiki are still friends. They've stayed in touch over
all these years, but they've never talked about Akiki's claim
that he invented a brand new beat in nineteen eighty.
Frankie says that when he arranged Soka tracks at Strikers,
he wrote out all the parts brass, keyboards, bass, everything
except for the drum parts.
Speaker 7 (22:25):
Here's Frankie, Yeah, that'd be more impropositional. I never wrote
drum pots for dramas, added want to Sta Corsini and
Crumbrun saw hind of the spontaneity or what they heard,
so I just let the drummers play what they thoughts
in a Putnam. But Aikki, as you mentioned, he.
Speaker 8 (22:49):
Had a style of his own and he brought a
lot to the music in the area of drums.
Speaker 1 (22:57):
Frankie oversaw thousands of recording sessions as rakers. He doesn't
recall the day in nineteen eighty when Akiki says the
musical gods moved him to create the fundamental magical element.
Frankie doesn't doubt that Akiki came up with something innovative
and cool, but he's not willing to say that Akiki's
personal drumming style qualifies as something brand new musically.
Speaker 8 (23:22):
The top top top top rnom that goes after Africa.
Speaker 7 (23:25):
I mean that's I would say, much older than Nikiki,
of course, I.
Speaker 8 (23:30):
Mean every drama who plays Calypso plays some version of that,
some interpretation, some variation of that ralm. We find this
in Puerto Rico, we find in Brazil, find in New Orleans, we.
Speaker 7 (23:44):
Find in Trinidad, Caribbean islands.
Speaker 8 (23:47):
And it's important to note that it's fund primarily where
you had displaced Africans, there were slaves or you know,
and somehow that beat a state a live I mean,
it's still life today, and so I think that's important.
I mean, and then just happened.
Speaker 1 (24:06):
Ray Allen, the musicologist, has studied the history of Afro
Caribbean music. He says that syncopated rhythms similar to Akiki's
fundamental magical element are found throughout African diaspora communities created
by the Transatlantic slave trade Cuba, Haiti, Trinidad, Puerto Rico.
And it's nearly impossible to trace who influenced who.
Speaker 6 (24:29):
A lot of stuff kind of happens naturally organically. Somebody
hears somebody and they take it and they play something
like it or maybe it, you know, they'll do a
variation on it. And of course part of the African
and n Afro guy's for tradition is to improvise, is
to try to take something to make it a little
bit different, make it your own, you know. So that's
going on. But at the heart of it, a lot
of the rhythms and the basic forms are they're deep
(24:51):
in the culture, and I'm very reluctant to say that
someone really invented something like that.
Speaker 1 (24:57):
Akiki understands what Frankie and are saying about the long
history of Afro Caribbean rhythms, but he still thinks that
his beat, the fundamental magical element, qualifies as something original
and influential.
Speaker 5 (25:13):
I didn't really copy it from any other priece, and
I could honestly tell you that I didn't hear it before.
But like if they say, well, then I came from Africa,
you know, two thousand years ago, eight hundred years ago.
Speaker 6 (25:24):
You know.
Speaker 5 (25:25):
I mean, I can't know that, you know. But to
bring it into where the regaton came from, it came
from the soaka beat that I played.
Speaker 1 (25:35):
Here's where things get interesting, and here's where it ties
back to the copyright infringement lawsuit filed by Steelee and Kleevie.
In that billion dollar suit, two Jamaican musicians claim to
have invented a beat that was sampled without credit by
hundreds of reggaetone artists. But what if Steely and Kleevee
(25:55):
borrowed their beat from somebody else. According to Aikiki, that's
exactly what happened. Akiki claims that his fundamental magical element
fundamentally changed Soca drumming. After nineteen eighty one, Akiki's boom
chick a boom, chick a boom, chick a boom became
the new sound of Soca. Wayne Marshall, here's the same thing.
Speaker 2 (26:32):
When I listened to these recordings that Akiki was making
in the early nineteen eighties in Brooklyn, I do hear
that shift to the drum kit, and I hear you
know what becomes this this dominant beat starting to emerge.
There there are trecks like Boogie Woman, I believe, and
YouTube Fast, both of them going back to nineteen eighty one,
(26:52):
which to me, you know, very clearly have that kick snare, boom,
keep boom, get boom, keep boom, get boom, keep boom gey.
You know, based on these records, these definitely seem like
some of the first Soca style records that are really
doing this pattern on the drum kit and on the
kick and the snare in particular.
Speaker 1 (27:09):
Okay, okay, So maybe Akiki did create a new Soca beat,
But what does Soka have to do with Jamaican dance
hall reggae? Even if Akiki's fundamental magical element was all
over Brooklyn and Trinidad, would Steely and Cleevey have ever
heard it in Jamaica. Akiki has a theory about that too.
He says that a band named Byron Lee and the
(27:32):
Dragonaires brought Soka to Jamaica in the mid nineteen eighties.
Speaker 5 (27:37):
There's this guy in Jamaica called Barron Lee and he
plays Soca music right, So Barrone would do play over
the Soka hits, and anytime he put down a Soca
music using the beat that I created, people dance once again.
Speaker 1 (27:54):
Wayne Marshall thinks that Akiki might actually be onto something.
Byron Lee and the Dragonaire were big in Jamaica and
they definitely pre date Steelee and Kleevie. Here's a Soca
track by Byron Lee and the Dragonaires called Tiny Whiney,
which would have played all over Jamaica in nineteen eighty.
Speaker 2 (28:12):
Four, five years before Fish Market. You've got it there
in Jamaica by Byron Lee, So you know no doubt
Steely and Kleevee had heard it. Therefore, when you first
(28:33):
hear that arrangement showing up in Jamaica, it's not by
reggae artists, it's by soca artists and Soca influenced artists.
Speaker 1 (28:40):
Right, Wow, that's pretty cool the idea that soca may
have been the first musical style to introduce the boom
chicka boom beat to Jamaica, and therefore Soca could qualify
as an earlier rhythmic foundation for reggaetne. But now we're
back to playing that old game, trying to connect drummer
A to drummer B and somehow prove a direct line
(29:00):
of musical influence. Let's not forget what Frankie McIntosh said.
This rhythm belongs to everyone in the African diaspora. It
survived the trauma of slavery and became part of a
shared cultural heritage. Can anyone own the drumbeat of an
entire people? And let's be real, this isn't a court
(29:21):
of law, this is a podcast. We'll leave the quote
burden of proof to a bunch of overpaid lawyers. Twelve
jurors and a surprisingly cool judge slash DJ were storytellers,
and we think that if you're trying to tell the
whole twisting story of the long evolution of the reggaeton beat,
that one of the chapters should definitely be named Akiki's
(29:44):
fundamental magical element.
Speaker 2 (29:46):
You know. I do think that there's some glory there though,
and there are some untold stories there and unappreciated contributions there.
The fact that this beat, which is now so ubiquitous
in the twenty first century, especially just as a simple
kick snare the fact that that might first really come
to the fore in such a pronounced manner in Trinidadi
and Soca, never mind saying vincension soca right, and you know,
(30:09):
people from lesser known islands than Jamaica, that does seem
like it should be part of the story, you know,
if that's the case.
Speaker 1 (30:21):
Akiki was a professional musician for years. He toured with
some really big bands and got a taste of fame,
but ultimately the lifestyle wasn't for him, so he started
teaching music instead.
Speaker 5 (30:34):
I don't know, I find that teaching us filling me
more than actually plain you know, because when you go
and place people telling you how good you are, and
you know, and the girls then want to come with
you and all that, and I mean that's a good thing,
you know, but it's usually an ego thing, you know.
It was more something for your ego. It builds ego,
(30:57):
you know, people say how good you are and listen
that then you know, But then when you teach and
you transform a child life, it's more fulfilling to me,
right than somebody tell you how great you are.
Speaker 4 (31:10):
You know.
Speaker 1 (31:11):
Today, Akiki's life is about as far from the bright
lights of the music industry as possible. He lives in
Zihuata Nejo, Mexico, a quiet beach town on the Pacific coast.
A few years ago, he unexpectedly landed in Mexico after
losing his mother.
Speaker 5 (31:27):
So you know, that put me down in a slum,
you know, a kind of depression. But the thing is
the first time the people saw me play in Mexico
is what they were like, did you come from another planet?
Where did you come from?
Speaker 6 (31:42):
You know? Me?
Speaker 5 (31:43):
And then you know is what the new is a
small tongue, right, So everybody wanted me to teach the children,
and that's how that started. And then I love teaching again.
So they asked me to teach the children, teach them this,
and I started to do in that, and you know,
he has had success. Then the government gave me a
bunch of landlo to build a school and all of that,
(32:05):
and yeah, one thing lead to the next, so I'm
still here.
Speaker 1 (32:11):
Akiki has changed lives in ziahutan Nejo. Some of his students,
who all come from poor families, have earned spots in
the prestigious Bellas Artists in Mexico City, which is like
the Juilliard of Mexico. He's taught blind kids to play
the piano, as well as children with severe autism. They
all love Akiki and he loves them too. Now, could
(32:35):
Akiki use a few billion dollars, Sure, he'd use it
to build a real music school on the land the
Mexican government gave him, and he teach all of his
students for free. Heck, he doesn't really charge them very
much as it is. But instead of filing a lawsuit,
Akiki's going to keep spreading the magic of music in Mexico.
And something tells us he still knows how to make
(32:57):
people move.
Speaker 3 (33:01):
All right, Zaren, last year you brought us another courtroom thriller,
The Case of the Two Nancy drews. Oh yeah, we
figured out who actually created Nancy Drew and we're back
with another one this season. Tell us about how how
you and Dave came together on this one.
Speaker 1 (33:19):
Well, he did all the heavy lifting and brought this
amazing case, and I was just there for the courtroom drama.
I love the idea of stealing and Kleeviy being like,
we want to get paid for our beat. I just
like I loved that. And then any story that features
Shaba Ranks is doing something right in my mind. So
this one happened courtroom drama. And then obviously the judge
was just so incredible as a character I loved like
(33:39):
a former DJ it gets to be the judge of
this case. I mean, how perfect is that? So this
one I think just pretty much had to took care
of itself and all I had to do is just
make sure I pronounced everything correctly.
Speaker 3 (33:49):
So my very special moment has to be the ending
catching up with Akiki today and in Mexico, like what
happened to part gets in there, and I think was
very very satisfying, even though I kind of wish you'd
gotten you know, billions of dollars too. That would have
been nice.
Speaker 1 (34:05):
The moment where the people in Mexico in the small
town are like, did you come from another planet? I
just love this. It's coming together. This one had so
many great moments of cultural connections. That one is so
pure hearted. I just love the idea of these people
being blown away being can you teach our kids to
do that? This is amazing what you're doing? What about you, Dana?
Speaker 4 (34:22):
I think the very special moment for me is me
listening to it and trying not to dance and embarrass myself.
It moves through you.
Speaker 1 (34:30):
You can't resist, oh completely. But dancing should never be embarrassing.
Even like if you're the person at the wedding, everyone's
like you need to probably sit one out. You're still
not embarrassing, you know.
Speaker 4 (34:37):
I beg to differ. You have not seen me dance
and it is in fact embarrassing?
Speaker 1 (34:42):
Is it like like a Lane from Seinfeld levels of embarrassing?
Speaker 4 (34:45):
Like do you have the at least a lane has?
Like there's like some arm court Stenson. I just feel
like all of my limbs sort of take on a
life of their own. I need to work on it.
Speaker 3 (34:55):
Saren, is this going to be a presumed innocent season
three or a core room thriller at the box office?
Speaker 1 (35:02):
I think courtroom thriller, but with real touching moments away
from the courtroom. So like casting this one, I went
through and I was having a lot of fun with this.
Like for a Keiki aka Elvis Rose, the drummer at
the heart of this, the man with the fundamental magical element,
I wanted Caleb McLaughlin from Stranger Things. I thought he
just has a great smile and great energy. And then
for the Jamaican dancehall duo Steely and Clevie, I went
(35:24):
out on a limb with this one. I went John
Boyjega and la Keith Stanfield, just having fun with it,
just let the two of them just do their thing. Basically,
both of them are fun actors. I think together they
try to like live in that with each other. And
for the judge, Andre Barrotte Junior, I went with Daniel
Khluia from Get Out and from Nope. I thought he's
just a fantastic choice. I mean, he's got both the
gravitas his eyes, but he also can be fun and
(35:46):
I would believe him as a DJ. I'm like that
guy could be a DJ and a judge. And for
Wayne Marshall musicologist the DJ, I went with Jeffrey Wright.
I thought that he would be like the right level
of like, oh yes, I believe he's a musicologist. He's
got like the elbow patches on his blazer. And then
for producer at Strakers, the Frankie McIntosh, a wom with
Brian Tyree Henry. I'm not sure if you guys watched Atlanta,
(36:07):
but Paperboy from Atlanta. I thought he would be just
amazing at that one. So there you go. There's my cast.
Speaker 4 (36:13):
I love it.
Speaker 3 (36:16):
Very special episodes is made by some very special people.
The show's hosted by Zaren Burnett, Danish Swartz, and Jason English.
Today's episode was written by Dave Rouse. Our senior producer
is Josh Fisher. Editing and sound designed by Jonathan Washington,
Mixing and mastering by Beheid Frazier. Original music by Elise
(36:37):
McCoy and Jonathan Washington. Research and fact checking by Austin Thompson,
Zaren Burnett and Dave Roos. Show logo by Lucy Quintonia,
Social clips by Yarberry. Media Executive producer is Jason English
Very Special Episodes is a production of iHeart podcasts.
I know you've heard this beat before. It's everywhere, and
don't lie. It makes you want to dance. This rhythm,
boom chick a boom chicka boom chick a boom chicka
boom chick a boom is the heartbeat of reggaetone, one
of the most successful musical genres on the planet right now.
Artists like Bad Bunny, Carol G and Daddy Yankee have
(00:24):
sold billions of records and play to pack stadiums worldwide.
But where did the reggaetone beat come from? And what
makes it so infectious?
Speaker 2 (00:34):
It gets people moving. There's something really fundamental to it
that makes us want to move, and I think as
a result, it's not too surprising that it has been
a huge part of dance music, from music that people
dance to for gosh, probably centuries, maybe millennia, right, we
don't really know.
Speaker 1 (00:53):
That's Wayne Marshall, a musicologist and co editor of a
book all about reggaetone. A rhythm has fund to mental
and primal and danceable as the reggaetone beat feels like
it's been around forever, and maybe it has variations on
the reggaeton beat can be traced back to Western African
drumming traditions that go back hundreds, if not thousands of years.
(01:16):
But now two Jamaican musicians are making a bold claim
that they invented the reggaetone beat on a specific track
they recorded in nineteen eighty nine, and more importantly, they
claim that they own this beat. The Jamaican musicians have
filed a copyright infringement lawsuits naming every major reggaetone artist
(01:37):
and they're asking for billions in royalties. But who really
invented the reggaetone beat? The Jamaicans have made their claims,
but we found someone who's telling a very different origin story.
Down in Mexico lives a man who claims that he
created this world changing beat a full decade before the Jamaicans.
(01:58):
Hold onto your headphone as we dive into the mystery
behind one of the most influential beats in modern music.
Welcome to very special episodes and iHeart original podcast. I'm
your host Saren Burnett and this is a fundamental magical element.
Speaker 3 (02:21):
Welcome back to very special episodes. She's Dana, Hey, he's Zarin,
I'm Jason and I'll tell you I have absolutely no rhythm.
If footage of me dancing were to get out, that
would be the end of this podcast. But I say
this because as this episode was coming together, we'd hear
early cuts, like I would just be here vibing in
(02:42):
my seat. I think I'm embarrassing myself right now, just
on the screen, but you can't not.
Speaker 4 (02:48):
One thing that really is embarrassing about me is I
just have famously terrible taste in music, and my husband
has been trying to broaden my horizon, and so I
do appreciate that this episode brings up some interesting history
about music, which I feel like is the thing that
I need to give me more interest in any subject.
Speaker 1 (03:08):
I loved also the whole history of the diaspora getting
disconnected and then reconnected through beat. It's just such thing
as something is so fundamental, obviously but so essential. I
thought that was just an awesome aspect of the story.
And you're right, Jason, this one had me chair dancing.
Like when I was listening to early Cuts, I was
like definitely bopping around. The history of pop music is
filled with stories of musicians borrowing material from other artists.
(03:32):
Remember Ice Ice Baby, when that earworm hit the radio
in nineteen ninety. Everyone and their mother knew that Vanilla
Ice ripped off the bassline from under pressure by Queen
and David Bowie, but Vanilla real name Robert van Winkle,
tried to deny it. He actually went on TV and said,
their bassline goes ding ding ding de d ding ding
(03:55):
ding ding ding de da ding ding, but ours goes
ding ding ding diga ding ding that ding ding ding
dinga ding ding. Come on, Robert. No one bought it.
That's why Queen and Bowie now have writing credits on
Ice Ized Baby, and why their estates have collected millions
in royalties. Of course, cases of musical copycatting aren't always
(04:16):
so cut and dried. For example, in twenty thirteen, Marvin
Gaye's family sued Pharrell Williams and Robin Thick over their
hit song Blurred Lines, claiming it was a direct ripoff
of Marvin's nineteen seventy seven classic Got to Give It Up.
No one thought Marvin's family had a chance. This wasn't
Ice Ice Baby, There was no obvious theft. If Pharrell
(04:40):
and Robin Thick were guilty of anything, it was stealing
Marvin's vibe. But you can't copyright a vibe?
Speaker 2 (04:47):
Can you?
Speaker 1 (04:48):
To the shock of the music world, a jury awarded
Marvin's family seven million dollars when expert witnesses broke down
the two songs and compared them instrument by instrument, note
by no, there were enough similarities to convince twelve people
that Pharrell and Robin Thick were more than inspired by Marvin.
(05:08):
They stole this sound, which brings us to twenty twenty one.
That's when two Jamaican musicians filed a lawsuit that doesn't
just target one song for a million dollars, but could
potentially take out a whole genre of music and rake
in billions in royalties. Back in nineteen eighty nine, a
Jamaican dancehall duo known as Steely and Clevie recorded a
(05:32):
hugely influential track called fish Market. Let's hear a clip.
Remember that beat boom chick, A boom chick, A boom chick,
A boom chick, A boom chick a boom that's the
(05:54):
heartbeat of our story. In the late eighties, Jamaican producers
in DJ's freely sampled and remixed each other's beats into
new songs. It was part of Jamaica's vibrant sound system culture.
In nineteen ninety, one of those fish Market remixes blew up.
The Jamaican artist Shaba Ranks released a track called dem Bo,
(06:16):
wrapping over the fish Market beat in his distinctive Jamaican
Patois demo. The song exploded on the dancehall reggae scene,
and the infectious rhythm got a name Dembo.
Speaker 2 (06:38):
Jamaican instrumentals at the time that were all of the
sort of part of this new stew that they were
creating by mixing them, oftentimes by sampling little pieces from
lots of them and then recombining them in to quote
unquote their own dembos, so it comes to be a
sort of more generic term for this rhythm.
Speaker 1 (06:54):
There's no doubt that the popularity of these dembos in
the nineteen nineties inspired rising generation of Latino producers and artists,
especially in New York and Puerto Rico, and gave birth
to an entirely new musical style, reggaetone.
Speaker 2 (07:10):
Reggaeton has made no secret of its relationship to reggae.
The two first and foremost influences on the sound are
hip hop and reggae, especially dance all reggae. I mean,
that's why it's called reggaetone, right. And I think one
of the reasons why that dance all reggae beat resonated
so powerfully for people in Puerto Rico was that it
also sounded like Puerto Rican music. It sounded like Caribbean music.
(07:31):
It had the same underlying rhythms that people had been
dancing to in salsa.
Speaker 1 (07:37):
There's no denying that the reggaetone beat as we know
it today is almost identical to dembo. But how much
of reggaeton's DNA can really be traced back to Phish
Market and does that make it a legal case for ownership.
In twenty twenty four, a federal judge in California said
Steely and Cleevie's case had enough merits to go to trial.
(07:57):
The lawsuit accuses more than one hundred and sixty reggaetone
artists of quote mathematically copying the Fish Market beat and
illegally using it in thousands of songs.
Speaker 2 (08:10):
When I first heard about the lawsuit three years ago, now,
I was both surprised and unsurprised. You know, I had
been waiting for this shoe to drop for a long
long time. It's been interesting to watch.
Speaker 1 (08:21):
Want to know what else is interesting about this case?
The judge, Andre Borotte Junior is the son of Haitian
immigrants and grew up vibing to Caribbean music. He even
worked as a party DJ in college. This dude might
be banging his gabble to the beat. Ultimately, a jury
will hear arguments from both sides and decide if the
(08:41):
entire genre of reggaetone owes Steely and cleviey billions of dollars.
But what's been missing from those arguments is the fact
that the entire lawsuit hinges on the claim the assumption
really that the reggaetone beat originated in Jamaica. Musicologist like
Wayne Marshall think it goes way back.
Speaker 2 (09:02):
The earliest reference I can think of, although even then
it's hard to date it exactly. But you know, Robert
Feris Thompson says it was known as the call to
dance back in Congo and Bila Almachino. So people, you know,
hundreds of years ago were thinking of this as that
type of beat. Not that much has changed, and I think,
even apart from the question of the reggae reggaetone dispute,
(09:22):
just the question of you know, when did drummers start
to play that beat? Is an interesting one. I think
is an unresolved one, and this is one that would
be fun to continue to sort of push out and
trag down.
Speaker 1 (09:34):
Every beat has a backstory, and there's a good chance
that reggaetone has more than one origin. Next, we're going
to meet a drummer who has a very different story
to tell about the invention of the world conquering reggaetone beat.
It didn't happen in Jamaica or in Puerto Rico, but
in Brooklyn. Nineteen eighty and nineteen year old drummer Elvis
(10:00):
Rose walked into a recording studio in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.
Elvis was from Saint Vincent, a small island in the Caribbean.
His friends called him Akiki. Akiki had no idea he'd
be recording anything that day. He was up practically the
whole night before, practicing the drums, a habit he picked
up in the Army Band. Here's Akiki.
Speaker 5 (10:21):
So I was practicing ohs and as you know, always
and ohs, and I didn't know what I was practicing
for I mean, I used to have to practice to play,
you know, in a military band with him guys. But
I was practicing somewhat that I mean, I never knew
what was going to happen.
Speaker 1 (10:37):
By the time Akiki woke up the next day, it
was late in the afternoon. He decided to go see
his friend Jan, another percussionist. Wan was loading some congas
in his truck and said he was on his way
over to Straker's music record store and recording studio in
Crown Heights. Akiki decided to tag along.
Speaker 5 (10:55):
If it reached five minutes after he had already gone.
He was putting is congress in the van to go
to the studio, so he said, let you go in
the studio. And they didn't know the audition.
Speaker 1 (11:06):
When Akiki walked into Straker's studio, he saw a waiting
room full of drummers, older, more experienced drummers.
Speaker 5 (11:15):
And these guys I was very young. I mean, I
would like think I was nineteen at that time, and
these guys were like big men, right, But it was
already like kind of watching me because I was very aggressive.
Like I said, I was practicing a lot, and I
could have read I could have read the drum parts
and everything.
Speaker 1 (11:35):
Akiki knew one of the producers at Straker's a talented
young arranger named Frankie McIntosh. When Frankie saw Akiki in
the studio, he assumed he was there for the audition,
so Frankie told ak to hop on the drums.
Speaker 5 (11:49):
I didn't know the audition for drummers, you know, So
while wing frank he said, let Elvis play for us.
That's me, right, So the producer said, no, he's a
little boy, you know what I mean. I have the
professional them all day and guy, he didn't really know me,
so but he and Frankie went back and forth for
a little while. God didn't have a drumstick, so there
(12:10):
was some drumstick in the studio. So by the time
he held me play like bro he said wow, and
you were like completely surprised, and he said, you know what,
let he play right. So the other drummers, whether they
were better on me or not, they didn't never get
a chance because every time Straighter held me play it,
(12:30):
that was it like it was like a destiny thing.
It was destined to be.
Speaker 1 (12:36):
That's right. Aki believes he was destined to be behind
the drums in Straker's studio that day because he was
about to change the course of music history. All that
practicing wasn't for nothing. It was preparing him for this moment.
Akiki had been playing music his whole life, starting on
Saint Vincent.
Speaker 5 (12:58):
I grew up on a hill in a village called Belmont.
It's really like a musical village. They have like the
traditional musicians where we used to call the boom jump band,
and then like on weekends, the guys, the elder guys
would get together and they would play go and drink
ram and play music.
Speaker 6 (13:17):
You know.
Speaker 5 (13:17):
It was like a natural form of improvisation. So I
grew up around that.
Speaker 1 (13:22):
A Kiki started playing drums in Calypso bands when he
was barely a teenager. When they played gigs out in
the country, the crowd would stand outside. They'd only come
in if the music made them dance.
Speaker 5 (13:34):
They wouldn't come inside until the band play one or
two songs, and if the band could make them move,
they are rush inside. So then my objective was just
to make them as a drummer had to make people move.
So that was always ingrained inside of me that when
you play, you got to make the people that move.
Speaker 1 (13:54):
When a Kiki moved to Brooklyn in the late nineteen seventies,
the borough was home to a vibrant Indian community. People
from all over the English speaking Caribbean settled in neighborhoods
like Flatbush, Prospect Heights, and Crown Heights, creating the area
known as Little Caribbean. Every Labor Day weekend, Brooklyn still
(14:14):
hosts one of the biggest Caribbean carnival parades in the country.
Dancers in elaborate feathered costumes filled the streets up and
down Eastern Parkway, and driving it all are the pulsing
rhythms of calypso and soca. Maybe we should pause here
for a quick music lesson. Soca is a style of
music from Trinidad that means soul of calypso. You've probably
(14:38):
heard some calypso songs before, maybe some Harry Belafonte. But
where Calypso had a slower tempo and is focused on
the singer, Soca is fast and mostly instrumental. The whole
point of soca is to get people dancing. By the
time a Kiki walked into Straker's Records in nineteen eighty
Soca was the sound brooks Not only was Soka an
(15:01):
established musical genre, but it had an established beat. Every
drummer in Brooklyn played soka the same way. Musicologist Wayne
Marshall calls it four on the floor, four pulsing quarter
notes played on the kick drum. The beat was popularized
in the disco era by drummer Earl Young from Philadelphia.
Speaker 2 (15:22):
And it's an interesting story because Earl Young, in his way,
a sort of singular drummer, who comes up with this
beat that becomes absolutely ubiquitous and influential. Right, It becomes
the disco beat by nineteen seventy five. And so you
start to hear a four on the floor kick drum,
you know, turning up in all kinds of dance music
across the Caribbean and dance music across Africa. I mean,
(15:44):
you name it, you find it.
Speaker 1 (15:45):
The four on the floor beat was the heartbeat of
Soca too, that is until a Kiki came along. If
there's one thing to know about Akiki is that he
hates playing the same thing twice. Improvisation is in his blood.
Speaker 5 (16:00):
Like I said, from a youth, I always liked to
play what you feel, you know, So I was always like,
you know, I don't like to be repetitive. So you
play something and then you yeah, so much thing. The
more you practice, he has so many things in your
head that you want to play.
Speaker 1 (16:15):
Akiki says he was never a fan of the straight
four on the floor beat that all the other Soca
drummers played.
Speaker 5 (16:22):
Like I said, I'd already liked to play something, you know,
be creative. I never really liked that don't Ping, don't.
It was a kind of lazy. So you know, if
you listen to that, it doesn't really make you move.
Speaker 1 (16:36):
So let's go back to the day in nineteen eighty
when a Kiki sat behind the drum set at Straker's Records.
After a Kiki nailed the audition that he didn't know about,
it was time to record some songs. Frankie McIntosh, the
arranger and producer, was running the recording session. As Frankie
counted into the first song, something came over a Kiki.
(16:59):
He can't explo what it was. Maybe it was all
the practicing he'd done the night before, hours and hours
of improvising new beats and patterns, or maybe it was
just the excitement of being there in Straker's Records, nineteen
year old kid playing for one of the biggest recording
studios in Brooklyn. When the band started playing, what came
out of Akiki's drum set wasn't dumb ping, dumb ping,
(17:23):
but something completely new.
Speaker 5 (17:26):
I can't really tell you where I hold the beat.
You can't never really heard it. It just came out
of my head and it was like it actually changed
the whole tra victoria of the Soca music. And basically
the beat is more magical, more it makes you want
to move.
Speaker 1 (17:45):
Akiki has a name for his new rhythmic creation. He
calls it the Fundamental Magical Element.
Speaker 5 (17:52):
Well that's the only name I can come up with
because it's actly where. It's fundamental in the terms of
like you know, well it's a basic beat right when
it's a basic is a beat that is, you know,
you could use in any kind of genre music. And
the magical part of it is that it makes you
want to move. But other matter where you're from what
(18:13):
either from the Caban or you're from Europe or you've
a ma Africa, it just makes you want to move.
Speaker 1 (18:18):
Only a mad musical genius would come up with a
name like Fundamental magical Element, It says it all, and
Akiki's right, there is something undeniably infectious about this beat.
Here's a Kiki playing the Fundamental Magical Element on a
track called Boogie Woman. Try not to nod your head
and wiggle in your seat. I dare you. The power
(18:54):
of the fundamental magical Element is not in question. What
might be questionable is what a kik he claims next.
Speaker 5 (19:01):
Right, So I just played something that was more live
led was much more live, learn more aggressive in terms
of rhedem and no, it's become one of the most
popular ridom on the planet.
Speaker 1 (19:15):
Did you catch that? Akiki believes that the drum beat
he improvised in Straker's studio in nineteen eighty wasn't just
a one off thing. Akiki is confident that his original creation,
the Fundamental Magical Element not only became the new sound
of soca, but eventually it became the most important new
beat in the world. It became reggaeton. How do you
(19:43):
trace the origins of a beat, especially one as fundamental and,
if we're being honest, as simple as reggaeton When you
strip it down, it's all about that boom chick a
boom chi ka boom chicka boom chick a boom chicka boom.
While Akiki was doing his thing and broke Glynn in
the early nineteen eighties, there were other musicians halfway around
(20:04):
the world playing with the same infectious rhythm. Here's a
guy named Jeff Luana from Congo playing a type of
dance music called soku, not soka soku boom chicka boom chicka,
boom chicka boom. There it is again our favorite beat.
(20:27):
Keep in mind this was recorded by French speaking Africans
in nineteen eighty one, just a year after Akiki says
he came up with the fundamental magical element. Could Jeff
Luana have copied Akiki's sound that fast? Wayne Marshall doesn't
think so.
Speaker 2 (20:44):
I find it hard to believe that this band from
Congo would have done this in nineteen eighty one based
on having heard a record made in Brooklyn in nineteen
eighty or eighty one.
Speaker 1 (20:54):
Like that, When musicologists like Wayne listen to these beats,
they don't see a clear progression from one musician to another.
Drummer A blayed it first, then drummer Bee copied it, etc. Instead,
they see musicians from all over the world drawing from
the same ancient well of rhythm and dance known as
African traditional music.
Speaker 6 (21:16):
To listen to a lot of African music, both traditional
and popular rhythm forms, a heavy bass is so much
the foundation of it, and that rhythm is tied to dance.
I mean, in traditional African cultures, the idea of music
and dance being separate. They don't see it that way.
That's my deal Western concept. But these things are tied together,
and so you have heavy rhythmic, syncopated music and that
(21:38):
just lends itself to dance. It's made to dance too.
Speaker 1 (21:42):
That's Ray Allen, another musicologist we called up Ray because
he wrote a book with none other than Frankie McIntosh. Frankie,
if you remember, was the Soka arranger who recorded Akiki
at Straker's Records. Frankie is such a legend in Brooklyn's
Caribbean music scene that his nickname is the Maestro. Frankie
(22:03):
and Akiki are still friends. They've stayed in touch over
all these years, but they've never talked about Akiki's claim
that he invented a brand new beat in nineteen eighty.
Frankie says that when he arranged Soka tracks at Strikers,
he wrote out all the parts brass, keyboards, bass, everything
except for the drum parts.
Speaker 7 (22:25):
Here's Frankie, Yeah, that'd be more impropositional. I never wrote
drum pots for dramas, added want to Sta Corsini and
Crumbrun saw hind of the spontaneity or what they heard,
so I just let the drummers play what they thoughts
in a Putnam. But Aikki, as you mentioned, he.
Speaker 8 (22:49):
Had a style of his own and he brought a
lot to the music in the area of drums.
Speaker 1 (22:57):
Frankie oversaw thousands of recording sessions as rakers. He doesn't
recall the day in nineteen eighty when Akiki says the
musical gods moved him to create the fundamental magical element.
Frankie doesn't doubt that Akiki came up with something innovative
and cool, but he's not willing to say that Akiki's
personal drumming style qualifies as something brand new musically.
Speaker 8 (23:22):
The top top top top rnom that goes after Africa.
Speaker 7 (23:25):
I mean that's I would say, much older than Nikiki,
of course, I.
Speaker 8 (23:30):
Mean every drama who plays Calypso plays some version of that,
some interpretation, some variation of that ralm. We find this
in Puerto Rico, we find in Brazil, find in New Orleans, we.
Speaker 7 (23:44):
Find in Trinidad, Caribbean islands.
Speaker 8 (23:47):
And it's important to note that it's fund primarily where
you had displaced Africans, there were slaves or you know,
and somehow that beat a state a live I mean,
it's still life today, and so I think that's important.
I mean, and then just happened.
Speaker 1 (24:06):
Ray Allen, the musicologist, has studied the history of Afro
Caribbean music. He says that syncopated rhythms similar to Akiki's
fundamental magical element are found throughout African diaspora communities created
by the Transatlantic slave trade Cuba, Haiti, Trinidad, Puerto Rico.
And it's nearly impossible to trace who influenced who.
Speaker 6 (24:29):
A lot of stuff kind of happens naturally organically. Somebody
hears somebody and they take it and they play something
like it or maybe it, you know, they'll do a
variation on it. And of course part of the African
and n Afro guy's for tradition is to improvise, is
to try to take something to make it a little
bit different, make it your own, you know. So that's
going on. But at the heart of it, a lot
of the rhythms and the basic forms are they're deep
(24:51):
in the culture, and I'm very reluctant to say that
someone really invented something like that.
Speaker 1 (24:57):
Akiki understands what Frankie and are saying about the long
history of Afro Caribbean rhythms, but he still thinks that
his beat, the fundamental magical element, qualifies as something original
and influential.
Speaker 5 (25:13):
I didn't really copy it from any other priece, and
I could honestly tell you that I didn't hear it before.
But like if they say, well, then I came from Africa,
you know, two thousand years ago, eight hundred years ago.
Speaker 6 (25:24):
You know.
Speaker 5 (25:25):
I mean, I can't know that, you know. But to
bring it into where the regaton came from, it came
from the soaka beat that I played.
Speaker 1 (25:35):
Here's where things get interesting, and here's where it ties
back to the copyright infringement lawsuit filed by Steelee and Kleevie.
In that billion dollar suit, two Jamaican musicians claim to
have invented a beat that was sampled without credit by
hundreds of reggaetone artists. But what if Steely and Kleevee
(25:55):
borrowed their beat from somebody else. According to Aikiki, that's
exactly what happened. Akiki claims that his fundamental magical element
fundamentally changed Soca drumming. After nineteen eighty one, Akiki's boom
chick a boom, chick a boom, chick a boom became
the new sound of Soca. Wayne Marshall, here's the same thing.
Speaker 2 (26:32):
When I listened to these recordings that Akiki was making
in the early nineteen eighties in Brooklyn, I do hear
that shift to the drum kit, and I hear you
know what becomes this this dominant beat starting to emerge.
There there are trecks like Boogie Woman, I believe, and
YouTube Fast, both of them going back to nineteen eighty one,
(26:52):
which to me, you know, very clearly have that kick snare, boom,
keep boom, get boom, keep boom, get boom, keep boom gey.
You know, based on these records, these definitely seem like
some of the first Soca style records that are really
doing this pattern on the drum kit and on the
kick and the snare in particular.
Speaker 1 (27:09):
Okay, okay, So maybe Akiki did create a new Soca beat,
But what does Soka have to do with Jamaican dance
hall reggae? Even if Akiki's fundamental magical element was all
over Brooklyn and Trinidad, would Steely and Cleevey have ever
heard it in Jamaica. Akiki has a theory about that too.
He says that a band named Byron Lee and the
(27:32):
Dragonaires brought Soka to Jamaica in the mid nineteen eighties.
Speaker 5 (27:37):
There's this guy in Jamaica called Barron Lee and he
plays Soca music right, So Barrone would do play over
the Soka hits, and anytime he put down a Soca
music using the beat that I created, people dance once again.
Speaker 1 (27:54):
Wayne Marshall thinks that Akiki might actually be onto something.
Byron Lee and the Dragonaire were big in Jamaica and
they definitely pre date Steelee and Kleevie. Here's a Soca
track by Byron Lee and the Dragonaires called Tiny Whiney,
which would have played all over Jamaica in nineteen eighty.
Speaker 2 (28:12):
Four, five years before Fish Market. You've got it there
in Jamaica by Byron Lee, So you know no doubt
Steely and Kleevee had heard it. Therefore, when you first
(28:33):
hear that arrangement showing up in Jamaica, it's not by
reggae artists, it's by soca artists and Soca influenced artists.
Speaker 1 (28:40):
Right, Wow, that's pretty cool the idea that soca may
have been the first musical style to introduce the boom
chicka boom beat to Jamaica, and therefore Soca could qualify
as an earlier rhythmic foundation for reggaetne. But now we're
back to playing that old game, trying to connect drummer
A to drummer B and somehow prove a direct line
(29:00):
of musical influence. Let's not forget what Frankie McIntosh said.
This rhythm belongs to everyone in the African diaspora. It
survived the trauma of slavery and became part of a
shared cultural heritage. Can anyone own the drumbeat of an
entire people? And let's be real, this isn't a court
(29:21):
of law, this is a podcast. We'll leave the quote
burden of proof to a bunch of overpaid lawyers. Twelve
jurors and a surprisingly cool judge slash DJ were storytellers,
and we think that if you're trying to tell the
whole twisting story of the long evolution of the reggaeton beat,
that one of the chapters should definitely be named Akiki's
(29:44):
fundamental magical element.
Speaker 2 (29:46):
You know. I do think that there's some glory there though,
and there are some untold stories there and unappreciated contributions there.
The fact that this beat, which is now so ubiquitous
in the twenty first century, especially just as a simple
kick snare the fact that that might first really come
to the fore in such a pronounced manner in Trinidadi
and Soca, never mind saying vincension soca right, and you know,
(30:09):
people from lesser known islands than Jamaica, that does seem
like it should be part of the story, you know,
if that's the case.
Speaker 1 (30:21):
Akiki was a professional musician for years. He toured with
some really big bands and got a taste of fame,
but ultimately the lifestyle wasn't for him, so he started
teaching music instead.
Speaker 5 (30:34):
I don't know, I find that teaching us filling me
more than actually plain you know, because when you go
and place people telling you how good you are, and
you know, and the girls then want to come with
you and all that, and I mean that's a good thing,
you know, but it's usually an ego thing, you know.
It was more something for your ego. It builds ego,
(30:57):
you know, people say how good you are and listen
that then you know, But then when you teach and
you transform a child life, it's more fulfilling to me,
right than somebody tell you how great you are.
Speaker 4 (31:10):
You know.
Speaker 1 (31:11):
Today, Akiki's life is about as far from the bright
lights of the music industry as possible. He lives in
Zihuata Nejo, Mexico, a quiet beach town on the Pacific coast.
A few years ago, he unexpectedly landed in Mexico after
losing his mother.
Speaker 5 (31:27):
So you know, that put me down in a slum,
you know, a kind of depression. But the thing is
the first time the people saw me play in Mexico
is what they were like, did you come from another planet?
Where did you come from?
Speaker 6 (31:42):
You know? Me?
Speaker 5 (31:43):
And then you know is what the new is a
small tongue, right, So everybody wanted me to teach the children,
and that's how that started. And then I love teaching again.
So they asked me to teach the children, teach them this,
and I started to do in that, and you know,
he has had success. Then the government gave me a
bunch of landlo to build a school and all of that,
(32:05):
and yeah, one thing lead to the next, so I'm
still here.
Speaker 1 (32:11):
Akiki has changed lives in ziahutan Nejo. Some of his students,
who all come from poor families, have earned spots in
the prestigious Bellas Artists in Mexico City, which is like
the Juilliard of Mexico. He's taught blind kids to play
the piano, as well as children with severe autism. They
all love Akiki and he loves them too. Now, could
(32:35):
Akiki use a few billion dollars, Sure, he'd use it
to build a real music school on the land the
Mexican government gave him, and he teach all of his
students for free. Heck, he doesn't really charge them very
much as it is. But instead of filing a lawsuit,
Akiki's going to keep spreading the magic of music in Mexico.
And something tells us he still knows how to make
(32:57):
people move.
Speaker 3 (33:01):
All right, Zaren, last year you brought us another courtroom thriller,
The Case of the Two Nancy drews. Oh yeah, we
figured out who actually created Nancy Drew and we're back
with another one this season. Tell us about how how
you and Dave came together on this one.
Speaker 1 (33:19):
Well, he did all the heavy lifting and brought this
amazing case, and I was just there for the courtroom drama.
I love the idea of stealing and Kleeviy being like,
we want to get paid for our beat. I just
like I loved that. And then any story that features
Shaba Ranks is doing something right in my mind. So
this one happened courtroom drama. And then obviously the judge
was just so incredible as a character I loved like
(33:39):
a former DJ it gets to be the judge of
this case. I mean, how perfect is that? So this
one I think just pretty much had to took care
of itself and all I had to do is just
make sure I pronounced everything correctly.
Speaker 3 (33:49):
So my very special moment has to be the ending
catching up with Akiki today and in Mexico, like what
happened to part gets in there, and I think was
very very satisfying, even though I kind of wish you'd
gotten you know, billions of dollars too. That would have
been nice.
Speaker 1 (34:05):
The moment where the people in Mexico in the small
town are like, did you come from another planet? I
just love this. It's coming together. This one had so
many great moments of cultural connections. That one is so
pure hearted. I just love the idea of these people
being blown away being can you teach our kids to
do that? This is amazing what you're doing? What about you, Dana?
Speaker 4 (34:22):
I think the very special moment for me is me
listening to it and trying not to dance and embarrass myself.
It moves through you.
Speaker 1 (34:30):
You can't resist, oh completely. But dancing should never be embarrassing.
Even like if you're the person at the wedding, everyone's
like you need to probably sit one out. You're still
not embarrassing, you know.
Speaker 4 (34:37):
I beg to differ. You have not seen me dance
and it is in fact embarrassing?
Speaker 1 (34:42):
Is it like like a Lane from Seinfeld levels of embarrassing?
Speaker 4 (34:45):
Like do you have the at least a lane has?
Like there's like some arm court Stenson. I just feel
like all of my limbs sort of take on a
life of their own. I need to work on it.
Speaker 3 (34:55):
Saren, is this going to be a presumed innocent season
three or a core room thriller at the box office?
Speaker 1 (35:02):
I think courtroom thriller, but with real touching moments away
from the courtroom. So like casting this one, I went
through and I was having a lot of fun with this.
Like for a Keiki aka Elvis Rose, the drummer at
the heart of this, the man with the fundamental magical element,
I wanted Caleb McLaughlin from Stranger Things. I thought he
just has a great smile and great energy. And then
for the Jamaican dancehall duo Steely and Clevie, I went
(35:24):
out on a limb with this one. I went John
Boyjega and la Keith Stanfield, just having fun with it,
just let the two of them just do their thing. Basically,
both of them are fun actors. I think together they
try to like live in that with each other. And
for the judge, Andre Barrotte Junior, I went with Daniel
Khluia from Get Out and from Nope. I thought he's
just a fantastic choice. I mean, he's got both the
gravitas his eyes, but he also can be fun and
(35:46):
I would believe him as a DJ. I'm like that
guy could be a DJ and a judge. And for
Wayne Marshall musicologist the DJ, I went with Jeffrey Wright.
I thought that he would be like the right level
of like, oh yes, I believe he's a musicologist. He's
got like the elbow patches on his blazer. And then
for producer at Strakers, the Frankie McIntosh, a wom with
Brian Tyree Henry. I'm not sure if you guys watched Atlanta,
(36:07):
but Paperboy from Atlanta. I thought he would be just
amazing at that one. So there you go. There's my cast.
Speaker 4 (36:13):
I love it.
Speaker 3 (36:16):
Very special episodes is made by some very special people.
The show's hosted by Zaren Burnett, Danish Swartz, and Jason English.
Today's episode was written by Dave Rouse. Our senior producer
is Josh Fisher. Editing and sound designed by Jonathan Washington,
Mixing and mastering by Beheid Frazier. Original music by Elise
(36:37):
McCoy and Jonathan Washington. Research and fact checking by Austin Thompson,
Zaren Burnett and Dave Roos. Show logo by Lucy Quintonia,
Social clips by Yarberry. Media Executive producer is Jason English
Very Special Episodes is a production of iHeart podcasts.
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