The date is July 13,1995. Two thousand people are scattered loosely throughout the sprawling Sony Blockbuster Entertainment Center in Camden, NJ to witness the spectacle that is the American leg of Reggae Sunsplash.

Two thousand people, and no one is dancing. No one is singing along. Two thousand people, and nobody seems to be enjoying themselves. Two thousand people, rooted to their seats, waiting. There is a palpable, impatient, anticipation in the air, and it has nothing to do with whether or not your car will still be in the parking lot when the show is over.

Two thousand people are so impatient that their response to the opening acts range from polite tolerance to outright neglect.

Until Buju Banton emerges.

Two thousand people rush the stage, oblivious to the protests of VIPs who paid extra for the privilege of being trampled by the proletariat. Suddenly, the slumbering audience has become a vibrant passionate entity, brought to life simply by the sight of Buju Banton, the 22 year old heir apparent to Bob Marley's vacant throne.

The lanky entertainer with the unruly crown of dreadlocks and charisma to burn tears into his immense repertoire of hits and instantly makes you forget the parade of mediocrity that preceded him. You don't want a refund anymore, you think you'll frame the ticket stub.

"Yeah, I remember the show in Camden," says Buju in a recent interview. "The vibes was nice."

Buju Banton, aka Mark Myrie, is speaking from South Carolina, where he is touring to promote his new album, Til Shiloh. Despite the hectic pace of his promotional activities, ("I Move from here to there; trains boats and planes and railroads and tram cars,") Buju remains a lively, kinetic and good natured personality, with his newfound religion of Rastafarianism coloring his speech with biblical and spiritual references. His religion has also strongly influenced his music. Once an eclectic, contradictory mix of misogynistic "slackness," violent "gun talk" and positive messages, Buju's music has evolved into a focused, consistent voice in the ever changing realm of dancehall reggae.

Murderer/Blood is on you shoulder/ Kill I today, you cannot kill I tomorrow/ Murderer/ Your inside must be hollow/How does it feel to take the life of another?

Murderer, 1993's runaway dancehall smash, did more to crystallize the opposition to the violent subject matter that was permeating reggae than a thousand Bob Dolesque speeches ever could. Other DJs struggled to emulate Buju's heartfelt condemnation of violence, and dancehall music swung irrevocably back toward its long lost cultural center. Buju's exploration of his positive led to his conversion to Rastafarianism. The stylish fade hairstyle he wore was replaced by ever-growing dreadlocks, as per the biblical dictates of Numbers 6:5. But even as Rastafarianism was taking hold of his spirit, another famous Dreadlocked singer was influencing his music.

"My influence range from Bob Marley," says Buju. "Because I remember when Bob Marley dead, at 9 years old I was looking throug a shop window watching a televison, you know, of all his performance on that night, and that rivet in my mind."

On the subject of Marley's influence, Buju readily cites his own album. "Til Shiloh is different than anything I have ever ever done in my entire career," he says. "This album is reggae music, dancehall music; it is reminiscent of the 60s, the 70s, the 80s and present 90s. So youths who never have a chance to check out music from the 70s and 60s will listen to this and relate to it. Cause I cannot relate to Bob Marley in the full sense of seeing him and touching him, but the youths can relate to I and I and the music that I and I is putting out right now. And it's the same essence, it appeals to them just as Bob [would]. So give thanks."

Buju wears his Marley influence proudly. His haunting, acoustic "Untold Stories," the unexpected gem of the Til Shiloh album, is clearly reminiscent of Marley's "Redemption Song." Buju's music has also drifted from the topical to the philosophical, and his newfound global perspective is also multiplying his appeal internationally.

"I not intend to push anything down dem throat, because nobody is doing what I'm doing. I am trying to take it in a different aspect. To be more international, because when dem say Jamaica... Jamaica has no international artist right now! We have no one who is portraying our culture and showing the world who we are as Jamaicans! We have no one who the people can look at and emulate and say well that's a Jamaican. I have to make that possible, man."

Strange, this feeling I'm feeling/But Jah love we will always believe in/I know you may think my faith is in vain/Til Shiloh we chant Rastafari's name.

Buju's conversion to Rastafarianism sparked a number of similar actions throughout the Jamaican entertainment industry, and with them, cries of "exploitation" and "fashion dread" arose from some members of the public. Buju discounts the allegations that his faith may be a public relations ploy

"You will always have negativity," says Buju. "That is why my work is so important. I have to make sure you understand Til Shiloh and understand me. Cause I and I can't give an account to no one but me... We don't fret when we hear them condemn Rasta, you know, because they've been doing it since day one, and the same way they did not love our father is the same way they do not love us. They crucified our father, so they wil crucify us."

His faith, by all indications, is real. Buju has even gone as far as to no longer perform some of his biggest past hits, because their content may be considered contrary to his convictions. He impatiently dismisses fans who yearn to her him perform his past slackness and gun talk as "trapped it Babylon's system."

By you rise to see the sun/ Who you love a pull you down/ Trying to discredit the works you have done/ Some can't satisfy with the post of ally/ From the scribes and Pharisees/ you've got to stay wide.

Buju took a thrashing at the hands of the American news media two years ago for the lyrics of a song he had recorded when he was 15 years old. "Boom Bye Bye," its militant anti-homosexual messages oozing out of every verse with all the pent-up heterosexual machismo of an adolescent, was old news in Jamaica by the time its lyrics appeared on page 2 of the New York Post. Buju found himself defending his puerile poetry to an angry media at the height of the "political correctness" movement. He was depicted as a violent homophobe and he good-naturedly acknowledges that the backlash is still hurting his career.

"Nobody employs me to do a show every day," he says. "Remember to get into the working arena you have to link up with these guys who are controlled by the gay organizations, you know... Do not undermine those people! So right now we are just sucking salt out of a wooden spoon and being comfortable."

Buju doesn't address the conflict head on, but Til Shiloh's, brilliant track "Complaint," recorded with the late Garnett Silk, is a powerful, if oblique, response:
"Why should I change to gain acceptance/ can't tell a next man how to wear his pants/ Every single thing we do/ we are liable to get a sentence," growls Buju. Garnett Silk responds smoothly, his flawless falsetto reaching new heights "Rejoice I say/ and be exceedingly glad/ for great is your reward/ for so persecute they the prophets before you and me." It's strong stuff.

I wanna be loved/ Not for who you think I am/ Nor what you want me to be/ could you love me for me?

Many of Buju's early hits were gruff, yet sweetly sensitive odes to members of the opposite sex. The trend of the macho love song continues on Til Shiloh, but with an even deeper sense of openness and sensitivity. Even Buju's one concession to sexual braggadocio, the risque "Hush Baby Hush," is filled with a virile compassion ("Hush Baby Hush/ Girl I didn't know that it would hurt you so much")

"I just try to be versatile," says Buju.

It is a versatility that made some record execs uncomfortable when they first heard Shiloh.

"On delivering an album to a major record company you expect a lot of mixed reviews," says Buju. "You know, because people sit down at their desk and figure that they know everything that happen in the Dancehall and what happen in the studio. I must confess that it even gets me upset sometime, because you cannot sit in an office and tell me what is happening in the Dancehall or the studio, those are my territories... so they should just accept the music."

When the music is as good as Til Shiloh, it's not that hard to accept.