STORY · GLOBAL
A French reggae life, in his own words
Probable
From a Marley 7-inch on a reggae-starved island in 1977 to four decades inside France's sound systems and music press -- one correspondent's account, written directly to the Atlas, of a scene this archive had barely reached.
Published 19 August 2026 · Jamaican Music Atlas editorial · 5 reads
A French JA-music journalist and sound-system veteran writes his own account of the scene most of this archive still hadn't reached: fanzines in the 1980s, a magazine that once sold around 35,500 copies an issue, and a Paris sound-system era built on dubplates nobody outside France had heard.
He bought his first record at the end of 1977: a Bob Marley 7-inch, on a small island in western France where, as he put it, that was "probably one of the only reggae stuff you could find." There was no web, and as a young teenager he was still "grasping the rudiments of English" -- so what he calls his real discovery, in the summer of 1979, was a slow and solitary one: a revelation that grew, over years rather than months, into a lasting attachment to ska, rocksteady and original reggae, which he still names as his favourite eras of the music.
The patient discovery
He grew out of the mainstream JA hits that reached French radio between 1977 and 1980 -- names like BM, Third World, Inner Circle and Dillinger -- quickly, turning instead to Trojan-label compilations of 1960s and early-1970s material. Delroy Wilson is, by his own account, his all-time favourite -- "not meeting DW is one of my biggest musical regrets" -- but it is Dennis Brown who has followed him longest, from those early years to a memory he still returns to: seeing Brown live on a bill that also carried Half Pint, Frankie Paul and Beres Hammond.
England, then Paris
Around 1986, living in England, he heard how far JA music had moved on: digital reggae, and the Jammy's camp above all, hit him as "a real revelation." Back in France he settled in Paris and fell into its sound-system scene, which he names as his other favourite era of the music -- the start of a run of dances that would define the 1990s for him.
The sound system years
He became a regular at dances held by King Dragon, the Paris sound led by selector Zeljko, whom he calls "some sort of legend" -- an early continental cutter of dubplates whose sound reportedly beat Black Scorpio at an all-night Paris clash and held its own against the UK's Saxon Sound and a Jammy's-affiliated team, before losing to David Rodigan later in the decade. He is candid that Zeljko's role has gone under-recognised since; he no longer performs. The clash torch, in his account, has passed to Heartical Sound and selector Sergio -- a friend and former colleague of his at the magazine -- known for unusual dubplate combinations and a 2023 clash against Legal Shot Sound System at Dub Camp Festival, the annual gathering he calls the country's flagship sound-system event. He is less taken with Dub Camp's more techno-leaning bookings, which he says "need more groove" for his ears, and notes that Black audiences have largely receded from a scene Blackboard Jungle and OBF still anchor internationally.
Four decades at the writing desk
His writing runs parallel to his listening: fanzines from the mid-1980s, pieces for California's The Beat, then Ragga from its launch in late 1997, which ran to 84 issues and at its peak sold around 35,500 copies an issue before the web reshaped music journalism -- by his account, France's first large-scale JA-music publication on the continent, and possibly an influence on Germany's Riddim. He now writes for Reggae Vibes, which went digital-only earlier in 2026 as paper costs and a shrinking sponsor base made print unsustainable; its current issue, #92, carries Sly Dunbar on the cover.
French hands behind Jamaican records
He points to a thread of French involvement behind the scenes of current Jamaican releases: an unnamed French producer he stays in touch with, whose credits include Kenny Smyth's "What a Fire" and Luciano's "True To The Music" -- the latter's video filmed by Sherkan, a French producer based in Jamaica and married to singer Diana Rutherford. The producer, he notes, has struggled to promote himself despite the work, and was seriously ill for a period before recovering.
Two French acts he won't let go of
His favourite French artist, without qualification, is Puppa Leslie -- a unique digital-era voice and, in his words, "a real firebrand live," an unflinching "reality" DJ who wrote about French society and the reggae scene itself rather than avoiding it. Leslie, born Jean Claude Bitye Mvondo in Cameroon, was among those who brought sound-system practice to France in the early 1980s and adapted deejaying into French; he died in Paris in May 1999, aged 33, after a fall from his apartment that was never explained. His favourite French band is ASPO, an all-star lineup he saw back a Jamaican veteran in front of some 1,500 people; a later ASPO show, he recalls, featured a very young singer known only as "Christopher," since signed to a label associated with the Marley family.
A blunt verdict on now
He calls himself "an old fart now" when it comes to current JA music, and it shows in his verdicts: Dancehall proper, ceded ground in France to shatta, the Martinique-born style he describes as "a monotonous vibe" built on simplified mid-90s-to-2000s Dave Kelly-style rhythms; touring veterans performing under legacy names like The Gladiators, The Skatalites, The Abyssinians and Culture with few or no originators left in the lineup; and a newer generation of French artists toasting in "pseudo-patwa" that, in his view, shows little "reality" and a reluctance to engage with local subject matter in their own language. He is not without contemporary favourites, though -- he names, among others, Kabaka Pyramid, Lila Iké, Iba Mahr, Samory I and Christopher Ellis, alongside less-documented names including Aza Lineage, Dahvid Slur, Yeza, Roe Summerz, Nadia McAnuff and J Written.
His closing judgement reaches past France entirely: the JA-influenced music he rates most highly right now comes out of Spain and Switzerland, late starters who caught up, in his words, with "humbleness, curiosity, a thirst for learning and a constant nod to the originators" -- a dedication he says has rarely marked France's own, better-known scene.
The magazines, counted out
Asked what the magazines actually were, he answers in numbers. Ragga ran to 84 paper issues, Reggae Vibes to 91, and he puts their golden age between the late 1990s and about 2007. At the peak, around 35,500 copies an issue; about 8,500 by the time the presses stopped. Just under ten euros each. They went out through newsstands across France and reached francophone Canada, Belgium and Switzerland and the overseas territories in the West Indies, the Indian Ocean and the Pacific, plus bookshops, mail order and subscriptions. A website was attempted and abandoned -- "possibly because of a general lack of motivation in our camp," he says, with characteristic bluntness about his own side. What finally ended the paper run was not readers but sponsors: "the main problem is now finding sponsors who would buy ad spaces because the commercial side of things has totally changed."
And the detail an outsider would never think to ask about: every issue came with a free CD, ten to twelve tracks, drawn from several countries and heavily Jamaican -- and, as he notes almost in passing, "many tunes weren't released elsewhere on solid format." For well over a decade, a French magazine was the only place some Jamaican records existed on disc at all.
Why the touring thinned
His explanation for why fewer Jamaican artists play France now is economic before it is musical, and he puts it in terms of his own country rather than theirs. Reggae is no longer a hype; money is tighter; a substantial part of the old audience, which he reckons was at least half Black, has moved to other genres -- a shift he is quick to note is happening in Jamaica too. Promoters, faced with that, book well-known French acts rather than gambling on breaking a current Jamaican one, and booking agencies have grown more cautious in general. Germany and Switzerland, on higher living standards, fare somewhat better.
Underneath that he sets a wider argument, and it is the frame he puts everything else inside. Many fans, he insists, are working people: "despite the fact that France or other European countries are definitely richer than JA, many people now have more limited funds, so they have to cut down on what isn't essential." Rents rise, food and electricity rise, wages do not. He is blunt about the cause as he sees it -- forty years of a neo-liberal turn that dismantled a welfare state France once had, with inequality and racism widening behind it. Whether or not a reader shares the politics, it is worth registering what he is doing with it: explaining a music scene's contraction by the household budgets of the people who used to buy the tickets.
The way that does still work
He is markedly more cheerful about the answer than the diagnosis, and he has watched it work for forty years. A Jamaican artist can tour France with local musicians, or with a mix of Jamaican and local ones, and a good number of French players are now more than good enough. "Such strategies work and have worked through the years," he writes -- but they need a willingness to learn how things actually work here, to seek out collaborations, and to understand what these musicians are: for them "it will always be a labour of love they will never get rich with," several holding side jobs to keep playing at all.
He cites Johnny Osbourne as the model case. Osbourne's early French visits were in a sound-system format; then he met the musicians, and the French label Baco put them in a studio together. The band, he explains, is a fluid all-star pool whose members have played with and recorded alongside touring Jamaican veterans for years -- among them the saxophonist Guillaume "Stepper", who he says played in Sly & Robbie's Taxi Gang and had earlier toured with Justin Hinds, Stranger Cole and Scully Simms, alongside Alpha Boys School alumni and the school's head director. The sessions led to what he rates as Osbourne's best album in years, and one that sold well on physical format by current standards -- "over 10,000 copies, it seems."
He offers Nadia McAnuff as the same thing happening now, and he was in the room: she started with small venues and is gradually being booked at larger festivals, "the way things happened way back then, in the 70's up to the 90's." He reads Lila Iké's recent choices the same way and approves -- performing in a sound-system format alongside a selector, playing smaller rooms, taking it a step at a time. He is candid that he prefers those rooms himself: "many reggae fans prefer [them] than the big summer festivals. I don't like such huge events myself." And he thinks the patience pays here in particular, because of what he takes to be a trait of his own audiences: "fans tend to be really loyal here once they have endorsed an artist for good."
A riddim in a nightclub
His last example is the one he is most ambivalent about, and it is a useful measure of reach. Two French DJs, he says, patched Sister Nancy's "Bam Bam" (1981) over Scatta Burrell's Coolie Dance riddim from 2003 -- itself patterned after an old Punjabi song -- and the result took millions of views and became a club hit "for people who have mostly never bothered with JA music," with dance schools teaching choreographies to it. He notes drily that many of those listeners will file the sound under "Afro-house, whatever that means," and that Jamaican artists tend not to see much reward from it: "as most of the time." Two borrowings deep and still travelling, whoever gets paid.
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