Luciano – Messenger

At every point in Reggae music's storied history, a single artist has risen to accept the mantle of standard-bearer for the entire genre. It is honor and responsibility that brings with it the expectation of greatness, and uneasy is the head that wears the crown. Comparisons to past standard-bearers are inevitable, and almost always unfavorable. It would seem that each successive Reggae monarch rules over a kingdom less glorious than his predecessor.

Enter Luciano.

The artist born Jepther McClymont stepped confidently out of the late Garnett Silk's shadow with Where There is Life, a soulful and profound album which cemented his place as Reggae royalty. Luciano's deeply held faith and spiritually charged stage shows further contributed to his growing legend. Almost overnight, young Jepther was anointed Reggae's new savior.

Luciano's hotly anticipated follow-up, Messenger, is a solid effort, but we expected more. The stunning growth that took place between his first album, One Way Ticket, and Where There is Life, is not duplicated here. Instead, Messenger is more of a lateral step than a move forward.

The message of the album's title track is directed squarely at the don-worshipping, woman-pursuing, gun-shooting youth inhabiting today's dancehalls. "I tell the massive fi remember Jah / that's all I ah deal with iyah." Luciano's straightforward earnestness makes his message more palatable than the sermons delivered by other artists.

The album's two gems appear back to back on Messenger, and they hint at the heights that Luciano may someday be able of attaining on a consistent basis. "Over The Hills" and "Never Give Up My Pride" are dancehall tours de force, timeless songs that only Luciano could bring to us. "Over The Hills," a mild-mannered variation of Marley's "Concrete Jungle" is a soaring ode to the beauty of Mother Nature and natural living. Written in the aftermath of his famed 1996 "disappearance" into Jamaica's mountains, "Over The Hills" offers a backhanded condemnation of city life and an affirmation of Luciano's favorite themes -- movement, freedom and life.

"Never Give Up My Pride" revisits the "One Drop"/ "Israel's King" rhythm to wonderful effect, becoming a stirring psalm to perseverance and strength. "Never Give Up My Pride" is already becoming a Dancehall staple, and it is destined to become one of those 'classics' that will get a response in any dancehall worldwide.

Unfortunately, the greatest crimes on Messenger are committed by Luciano's production team. Producer extraordinaire Phillip "Fattis" Burrell seems all too aware of Luciano's global appeal, and as a result, crafts cautious tracks in an attempt to be palatable for the international market. With the exception of the rhythm behind "Friend In Need," the best thing that you can say about the Fattis tracks is that they don't draw attention to themselves. And when you do notice them, as is the case in "Life" and "Feel Like Moving," you wish you hadn't. An artist of Luciano's stature and ability deserved more than the cookie-cutter beats employed by Burrell.

In spite of the production shortcomings, however, Luciano displays enough class to make the album worthwhile. "How Can You," 1995's smash hit is here, rescued from 45 single oblivion; "Carry Jah Load" may actually be better than Sanchez's "Just Take These Chains Away," which was recorded on the same rhythm; "Mama," while not as emotive as Garnett Silk's song of the same name, is a worthwhile addition to the love-your-mother trend sweeping today's Dancehall; and "Guess What's Happening*" is a powerful, hopeful ballad that you won't be able to get out of your head.

THE VERDICT: Frankly, Messenger is not as good as Where There is Life. But it's not that far off, either. Six of the 11 tracks on Messenger are great, and two of those six are timeless. If you like Luciano, you will not be disappointed with Messenger. Luciano is the singer who now wears the unofficial title of Reggae Royalty, and he wears it well. Pass the message along.