Reggae, Collard Greens and Jamaican Independence

Nocturnalist | Reggae, Collard Greens and Jamaican Independence

By SARAH MASLIN NIR

Béatrice de Géa for The New York Times Hanging out at the bar at St. Nick’s Jazz Pub, in Harlem.

It was midnight in the back garden of St. Nick’s Jazz Pub in Harlem, but the sea of dreadlocks and the murmur of patois over a backdrop of lilting Bob Marley made it seem more like midnight in Kingston, Jamaica.

Thursday night at the small subterranean club that has made music on the corner of 149th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue since the 1930s was a tribute to Lincoln “Sugar” Minott, a reggae and dancehall artist who died last month. One musician with fine, silver dreadlocks named Prince Aloysious likened Mr. Minott to a reggae John Lennon.

The evening was also a de facto celebration of Jamaican Independence Day, which falls on Aug. 6.

On the patio, musicians, some with their dreds piled under towering knit caps, discussed their craft. “You hear your mother’s heart beating before you hear your own heart beating,” said Lin Strong, 45, a singer from the Bronx. The reggae beat, he said, “is the first sound you hear in the womb.”

Inside the narrow club, under strands of Christmas lights, the band played Marley and even a reggae version of Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” singing on a stage littered with dollars.

Some snacked on soul food like spiced collard greens and chicken, prepared by James Glover Jr., 42, who runs “Da Hook Up” catering service. At St. Nick’s he is known only as “Chef.”

“The love here,” Mr. Glover said as guests walked by high-fiving him, “it’s like me going home, but I’m coming out.”

Dennis Davis, 60, a former drummer for David Bowie, seconded the chef. “It’s a spiritual place,” he said. “It’s a musical church.”

At 1 a.m., out front on the avenue, music and people spilled out into the night. Some guests were leaving, others just arriving.

Robbie Gordon, 40, an artist called Ghetto, did neither. He stood for hours on the pavement in front of a mottled canvas as the party twanged and thumped inside, painting a kaleidoscopic swirl of patrons and musicians. The brick wall of the club was his easel, a slice of cardboard his palette. 

COURTESY OF NY TIMES/CITY ROOM