As a member of Bob Marley and the Wailers, he was one of reggae’s original creators.
Bass is about connection—within the music, among the players, and between the musicians and the listener. Even if you can only hear a song’s bass line, say, in a noisy, crowded room, or through an adjoining wall, you might be able to recognize the song—and conjure up all the memories and emotions of how that song speaks to you. Simply through bass. In the musical conversation between rhythm and harmony, bass bridges the gap, gluing everything together. And chances are, as the bass player in your band, you’re not only providing that musical groove glue, but you may also be holding the band together practically and interpersonally. And the whole time, you’re making everyone and everything feel and sound good.
It’s hard to think of any player who embodied this idea of bass as connection more than Aston “Family Man” Barrett. Though (like most bass players) he’s not exactly a household name, he truly should be: As the long-time bassist, arranger, and coproducer of Bob Marley and the Wailers, his musical innovations and memorable lines are exceedingly familiar to anyone who has ever heard reggae music. “Fams,” as he was known, died in February of this year at 77, leaving a long legacy of reggae mastery.
Indeed, as Family Man was one of reggae’s original creators, he helped birth the bass-heavy Jamaican genre into existence from its stylistic precursors, ska and rocksteady. Together with his younger brother, drummer Carlton “Carly” Barrett, Fams created and established much of the hypnotic pulse and infectious vibe that characterizes reggae rhythms. Family Man’s feel was firm yet relaxed, his tone deep, dark, and plush. It was with these bottom-heavy colors, coaxed from a Höfner “Beatle” bass in his early years, then from his flatwound-strung Fender Jazz bass, that Aston Barrett crafted snaky, syncopated hooks and short melodic phrases that bolstered the vocal melodies while playing against the bouncing backbeats of the rhythm guitar and organ.
Before building his first bass from plywood and a length of 2“x4”, Barrett’s first musical love was singing along to American soul artists on Jamaican radio. “When I’m playing the bass, it’s like I’m singing,” Fams told music journalist Bill Murphy in a 2007 Bass Player magazine interview. “I compose a melodic line and see myself like I’m singing baritone.” You can hear his vocal-like bass stylings in songs like “Is This Love” and “Waiting in Vain.” These and many other Barrett bass lines serve as countermelodies, animated motifs that play against each song’s main vocal melody. Family Man’s parts are often easy to sing along to, so it’s easy to imagine Fams singing them in his head.
“Fams not only kept that intragroup connection strong, but he also went beyond the bass, creating and composing many of the intricate, interconnecting parts you can hear in any Bob Marley and the Wailers recording.”
The Barrett brothers played in several early reggae bands before joining the Wailers full-time in 1972, including famed producer Lee “Scratch” Perry’s house band, the Upsetters. In 1969, when the original Upsetters lineup couldn’t make a U.K. tour due to a scheduling conflict, Aston and Carlton’s band the Hippy Boys became the new Upsetters. In this group, they backed a pantheon of early reggae artists, including the Wailers, a vocal trio with Marley, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Wailer. The Upsetters eventually became the core of the Wailers’ rhythm section. Tosh and Bunny Wailer left the band in 1974.
It was years before, though, well before he had children (and he had a lot of children) that Aston Barrett began calling himself “Family Man.” This reflected how he saw it as his role to keep the band together. As the Wailers’ bandleader, arranger, and co-producer, Fams not only kept that intragroup connection strong, but he also went beyond the bass, creating and composing many of the intricate, interconnecting parts you can hear in any Bob Marley and the Wailers recording. But his primary musical connection was with his brother, Carly. Among other reggae conventions, the Barrett brothers pioneered the “one drop” rhythmic style, in which the bass and drums skip the downbeat—dropping the one—as you can hear in the bass and drum parts of songs like “Trenchtown Rock” and “One Drop.”
I met Family Man at the photo shoot for that 2007 Bass Player cover story, and again in 2012 when Phil Chen and I interviewed him onstage during the weekend he received his Bass Player Lifetime Achievement Award. During the photo shoot, we also shot a short video interview, which you can find on YouTube, where he demonstrates the “One Drop” bass line, plucking with his thumb between the end of the neck and the neck pickup. Even barely amplified, you can feel the depth that comes from Family Man’s bass approach. In the Marley years, that huge “earth sound” came from two Acoustic 18" speaker cabinets and two 4x15 cabinets. “You need them that big to get that sound,” Barrett told Murphy, “because reggae music is the heartbeat of the people. It’s the universal language what carry that heavy message of roots, culture, and reality. So the bass have to be heavy and the drums have to be steady.”Aston "Family Man" Barrett, Bob Marley & the Wailers bassist - 2007 Bass Player mag. interview 1/2
Here's the first part of Bill Leigh’s 2007 interview with Bob Marley & the Wailers' bassist Aston "Family Man" Barrett.
The death of Nashville’s Dave Roe is a reminder of the important connections we can make within the music we love, right where we live.
Last month the sound of hearts breaking reverberated across Nashville—from corporate offices to studios to indie venues—as word spread of the death of Dave Roe. Dave, who was featured on PG’s September cover, was an extraordinary artist, loved for his playing and his personality. He could be endearingly grumpy, but also had a marvelous sense of humor. And his generosity and welcoming nature were almost as well-known throughout Music City as his live and studio performances with Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakam, Loretta Lynn, Carrie Underwood, Tony Joe White, Early James, Bonnie Prince Billy, Marcus King, T Bone Burnett, Brandy Clark, Dan Auerbach, Chrissie Hynde, Sturgill Simpson, CeeLo Green, Brian Setzer, Faith Hill, John Mellencamp, Kurt Vile, Bahamas, and so many others. As we said on our cover: “You don't know Dave Roe, but you’ve heard him play.”
I did know Dave Roe. He was one of the first musicians I saw when I came to Nashville nearly 17 years ago, annihilating his upright bass in a trio with guitarist Kenny Vaughan and drummer Jeff Clemens, playing badass, rusty swamp blues in a little beer joint, for tips. It was only later I realized I’d seen him before, supporting Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash in a spectacular performance at a big Boston club called Avalon, on the night of a blizzard that kept all but about 150 of us from hearing the then-reigning king and queen of country music. I recall that the four-block walk in shin-deep snow from the subway took almost a half hour, but it was worth every minute spent slogging along through the face-stinging precipitation.
Over the years, I’ve seen Dave play in an amazing variety of configurations, from supporting singer-songwriters to regular country gigs on the Broadway strip to his recent rock band with Vaughan, the SloBeats, who have an unreleased album in the can. One of the most exciting performances was an all-improvised one-off with the Cure’s guitarist, Reeves Gabrels, and Dave’s drummer son, Jerry. I’d call it free rock, and, after the gig that night, Reeves told Dave I’d been a friend of the last free-jazz guitarist Sonny Sharrock. I think that cemented my friendship with Dave. Sure, Dave had played with Charlie Louvin, but he loved and played entirely unbridled music, too.
“I was onstage with Dave only once, when my regular bassist couldn’t make a gig and I got up the chutzpah to ask him if he’d sub.”
I was onstage with Dave only once, when my regular bassist couldn’t make a gig and I got up the chutzpah to ask him if he’d sub. Dave said yes immediately, and he slayed. Even without time for a rehearsal, he anticipated everything I played and elevated the gig with his fat, authoritative, bull moose tone … and his humor. Some players throw in quotes or tones or brief lines—the sonic equivalent of asides in the theater—that can evoke a smile, and Dave was a master at that, too. Afterwards I was embarrassed to hand him his cut—a mere $40—but I was in, shall we say, financial straits at the time—and he just handed it back, grabbed me around the shoulders, and told me to call him to sub anytime, and that he’d had a blast. His heart was every bit as big as his sound.
Early this year, I tried to talk Dave into writing a column for Premier Guitar. Dave was a masterful storyteller, with no shortage of tales to relate. His session experiences alone, not to mention his dealings with life—and a few mercurial stars—on the road, could fill a tome. But after a few months of occasional conversations, he passed on the idea. Writing, he decided, wasn’t his thing. So, for me, our cover feature on Dave was a consolation prize, a splendid way to frame our first bass-themed issue, and a fitting tribute to an under-sung hero of the strings. Dave was incredulous when I told him he’d be on the cover. And I’d been holding some print copies for him, waiting for a break in deadlines to call Dave to set up their delivery in-person. I still hadn’t made that call when the news of his death spread on September 16.
I’m sharing this because, after that cover story, you all know Dave. Or someone like him. His surprising departure is yet another reminder that we need to value our local heroes. Dave was more than that, of course, but in recent years he’d spent most of his time in Nashville’s studios and clubs, rather than on the road. At times, he seemed ubiquitous. Almost institutional. And now he isn't. Too often, it happens that fast.
We all need to treat people like Dave the way that Dave treated people. So do more than support your local musical heroes. Tell them you value what they do, that they make your life better, that you appreciate them for who they are. If the chance comes up, be a friend. If it doesn’t, be a fan. Pay the cover, feed the tip jar, buy the album, shake their hand. No one and nothing lasts forever … except maybe for the music—in recordings, in memories, in our hearts. And in its influence. And maybe even in the air, in those special places where it’s made. By musicians like Dave Roe.
The charitable arm of Gibson launches a program offering opioid emergency response kits—which contain two doses of the opioid reversal medication Naloxone—to 72-plus live music venues in the Nashville, Tennessee area.
The Music City program is in alliance with the Metro Nashville Police Department. The TEMPO program (Training and Empowering Musicians to Prevent Overdose) is a partnership of 12 music-industry related non-profits across the U.S.
Venues in the program will be provided with a ONEbox (Opioid Naloxone Emergency Box), which is a self-contained, video-enabled opioid overdose rescue response first aid kit that contains two doses of the opioid reversal medication along with personal protective equipment and video instruction in English and Spanish that is activated when ONEbox is opened. ONEbox was invented by West Virginia native, entrepreneur, and guitarist Joe Murphy.
More info at: gibsonfoundation.org.