Picture the scene. Mavado, current ruling overlord of Jamaican Dancehall, he of the speaker rattling, mournful baritone, he of the bleak tales of gun man’s woe, lies dead in the street. Suddenly, with the horrible speed of a spider’s scuttle, Lucifer’s chittering, gleeful hell children rise up, grasp the decomposing body and drag Mavado’s cankered soul down down down (think of the bit where Willy Lopez gets his in Ghost if it helps). As they pull him deeper into the circles of the pit a slow hand clap applaudes the man, Hell’s own organ starts an ominous chord and Mavado has nothing to do but to deliver his final performance to Satan’s orchestra. His lyrics scale a crescendo and the orchestra come crashing in, rave stabs made from blasted hope and basslines that stink of sulphur.
Fortunately someone from Erba records was on hand to get all of this down on track and release it as a 12”. It’s maleficent. Oh, and there’s a jovial Afrikan Boy sampling funky track on the flip. A great record, which, superbly, isn’t available in digital format.