From the park I hear rhythms, Marley’s hot on the box,
Tonight there’s gonna be a party, on the corner at the end of the block,
Didn’t know you, would be jammin’ until the break of dawn
Nobody ever told you, that you would be jammin’ until the break of dawn
Be jammin’ and jammin’ and jammin’
Stevie Wonder
Bob Marley, had he lived, would’ve turned 80 last Friday. And this, to me, is something.
Marley didn’t make it, probably, like the rest of them dudes, never had a chance. But God o Mighty, when he was here…
I had the great fortune of encountering him early and seeing him live – all of which I attribute to my head banging adolescence in the Chicago of the 1970s.
For true rockers, there was arguably, at the time, no better place to be than the Midwest, where we had our own versions of Haight Street and Cheyne Walk. Many, with I believe some justification, attribute this to the absence of other means to amuse, divert, and otherwise absorb ourselves, in the Heartland. We had no mountains or ocean beaches, but we did have rock and roll (and blues and jazz and REGGAE). There were tons of clubs, many more than in cities such as New York, because the rent was cheap and it didn’t take much to build a stage at one end of a tavern and start booking bands (and this is still true today). Major label acts loved us because we bought all their records and frenzily attended all their shows.
It was also, I believe, cheaper to run a radio station there, and Chicago in particular, had several amazing underground stations, including Triad Radio and the now-mainstream WXRT.
It was through the latter that I discovered Marley. The year was 1976, and he was only beginning to cultivate the global following he ultimately achieved and (perhaps more importantly) retains. XRT played a lot of his tunes, and, when I learned that he was doing a couple of nights at the Auditorium Theater (the City’s answer to Carnegie Hall), I copped tickets, grabbed a couple of my buddies, and headed down. I was not disappointed. He had this grand but staid venue, built for the likes of The Chicago Symphony and Lyric Opera Company, shaking from sub-basement to 4th balcony.
Before long, he was filling much bigger venues and selling records by the bushel basket, getting boosts from luminaries such as Eric Clapton (who recorded a passable cover of the expendable Marley song I Shot the Sheriff, and made it into a hit). And Stevie Wonder. Who booked his band as an opening act for his 1977 tour – the one that supported his own elevation into the commercial stratosphere with the release of Songs in the Key of Life.
Marley and his mates in the Wailers had just released what I consider to be their best album: Exodus, the first song of the second side of which is a fantastic tune called Jammin’. So apparently impressed was Stevie with Bob (and perhaps the song) that he wrote the tribute tune which I have purloined for this week’s title. In the autumn of 1980, crushed the Billboard 100 charts and all associated sub-categories.
In May of the following year, Marley left us, succumbing to a cancer, which, in part due to religious considerations, he refused to properly treat. Instead, post-diagnosis, he went on a two-year world tour. He came back little more than a corpse, but went out, as Stevie had prophesied he would — jammin’ until the break of dawn.
His music, his legend, and, of course, his brand, remains. I’m not sure that any but the first of these would have pleased him. But I can’t think of a single musical artist who so thoroughly dominates awareness in their sub-genre – not classical, not jazz, not country, not folk, not classic rock, or heavy metal, or punk, or new wave, as much as Marley does with reggae. Mark it as yet another sign of our ADD. And our ignorance.
But winding the clock forward to the present day, it is an open question whether we are jammin’ until the break of dawn, and if so, if anybody bothered to tell us.
I will, as a risk manager, cop to being confused as hell about what’s goin’ on. I hear rhythms of factor movement all across the heatmap and cannot make heads or tails of them. The tape felt heavy all week, until Friday’s session, when the cavalry came charging in, causing the Dow Jones Industrial Average to close above 50,000 for the first time in its long and storied history. When I got into this here biz, General Dow, still wet behind the ears, was trading at quaint all-time highs of under 3,000. So, I have lived through many round number milestones.
But I cannot remember one that felt as tepid and uninspiring as DJIA50K.
As indicated, not everyone views the achievement as the yawner I described. But then again, not every would use the modifier GREAT to describe our wandering, idiosyncratic tariff constructs.
The Big Dog is now predicting a double — to 100K by the end of his tiresome-already second term. And we know this to be a certainty, because, as he himself points out, he is right about everything.
Still and all, and again as a risk manager, I am predisposed to warn my politician clients about taking credit for market gains, lest they be held accountable for the reversals which must come, sooner or later.
But The Dog didn’t ask me. And probably wouldn’t listen if I told him. Because I might also advise him to ease back on his Truth Social Imaging, which, based upon this picture, is nothing short of Orwellian.
Meantime, we’re stuck, in many ways, in Market Limbo Land. We’re more than halfway through earnings, and of the results we’ve on balance little to complain. Of course, NVDA’s drop – the only thing that matters in these realms – is still two weeks away. But historically acknowledged field marshals of our equity hosts, the likes of Gooooog, MSFT, AMZN, etc. all did just fine. And expressed enough confidence in their futures to up their capital spendings, causing their stocks to sell off based upon decisions, which, had they not made them were likely to draw the ire of investors in the opposite directions.
Meantime, there’s new sheriffs in town. But so help me, I can’t work up much enthusiasm for a tape within which the likes of Mickey D’s, Proctor and Johnny John are designated to be the new leadership.
Results will continue to roll in, along with the January Jobs Report (on a delayed basis), CPI, and Retail Sales. I salute any of you who believe that these tidings will bring more clarity to the proceedings.
I don’t.
And, furthermore, the news flow is making me cranky. Particularly as we endure yet another arctic onslaught, all we have to divert us (post Super Bowl that is) is the for me unwatchable Winter Olympics, the saga of the kidnapping of the news lady’s poor mother, and, of course, Epstein, Epstein and Epstein.
With respect to the last of this, it sounds like an impressive law firm, but I’d caution against going to them for legal advice – particularly given that not only Epstein, but Epstein AND Epstein are all nearly six years dead.
I reckon the good news is that Winter is more than half over, and, for me, its successor season cannot come too soon. So eager am I for spring that I am almost gleeful about Pitchers and Catchers reporting this week – even though I can barely watch an inning of baseball without yearning to stick a pair of tweezers in my eye.
With the warmer weather also will come a heating of the political season, a prospect which I anticipate with a combination of nausea and dread. It’s gonna be ugly out there, and there’s no Marley out there to stage a One Love Peace Concert, as he did in 1978 in an effort to bring the warring factions together:
On the other hand, the episode didn’t work out too well – for Marley, or Jamaica in general. The opposing parties remained at odds, with the Conservatives, with whom he was not aligned, running the table, as did Ronald Reagan in 1980.
The violence continued in the streets, and six months after the election, Marley was dead.
They still run political concerts these days, but only one side shows up. Which is probably a good thing, because the sides disagree not only on policy but on music as well.
Jammin though? That’s something we all can do. Come fair market winds or foul. Till the break of dawn. One option is to roll with Stevie’s tune, then Bobs. And, by doing so, you might just come to understand.
So says the Master Risk Blaster. And on this one matter, you should take me at my word.
TIMSHEL