Rebbe of reggae provides a rollicking but raw show at Pompano Ampitheatre

By Sean Piccoli
Pop Music Writer

March 28, 2006

He looked more like a cantor than a reggae MC, with his long coat, beard and wide-brimmed hat. In fact, he was both, and the oddity of watching this cultural hybrid in motion didn't last long. Performing on Saturday night at the Pompano Beach Amphitheatre grounds, Matisyahu, a converted Orthodox Jew who rocks the Torah using chatterbox Jamaican lingo, showed enough skill and charisma to be taken seriously.

To the devout, he offered songs that warned against false pride and counseled humility before God. For the merely curious, he provided a sense of occasion: Ticket demand pushed this show out of the amphitheater's 3,000-seat bandshell and on to surrounding lawns, where 7,800 people were gathered on Saturday. For music buffs, Matisyahu's second performance in South Florida worked as a block-rocking reggae concert.

The trio backing him played bounding, reverb-soaked rhythms, and the Hasidic dancehaller responded with agile and melodic rhyming. He was energetic, but varied, and in control of dynamics that changed from song to song. The melancholy air of Late Night in Zion suited him as well as the righteous fury of Fire of Heaven/Altar of Earth.

No track combined the basic elements -- musical punch and spiritual zeal -- as effectively as the hit single King Without a Crown. The band and the front man had the song, and the crowd, all bouncing in happy unison.

Matisyahu displayed some of the shortcomings of a young performer on a rapid climb. The music had its share of dead spots and directionless jams. Some lyrics were blandly repetitive. A hip-hop beat-box routine, in which Matisyahu used his microphone and voice to simulate DJ skips and loops, felt like classroom show-and-tell. The 90-minute set didn't sound fully vetted for what works and what doesn't onstage.

The banter could use refining, too: Moved by the sight of a thousand upraised cellphones, Matisyahu ventured a long metaphor on the soul's inner light and the desire to connect to God, and got lost trying to finish the thought. At one point he stopped the show, calling an intermission to address a minor amplifier problem.

But spectators took the downtime in stride. Matisyahu is at a place where public affection, goodwill and curiosity are all breaking his way. It's not clear how deep the interest goes or how much the typical fan cares about the connections between Judaism and Rastafarianism. The lore of the lost tribe of Judah is not the stuff of popular discourse. Many in the youthful crowd of teens and twentysomethings surely knew something about the Torah, and something about reggae and dancehall -- enough at any rate to be generally intrigued by the music and the unusual personality behind it.

Stories about Matisyahu describe a runaway from suburban New York who smoked pot, followed his favorite band -- Phish -- around the country, burned out and had the kind of teenage existential crisis that seems to befall kids from privileged homes. Orthodox Judaism set him straight, the story goes, and reggae put him back on the road with a sense of purpose.

Conversion did not require him to give up a sense of humor. Spotting some familiar faces in the crowd, he said "White Plains" and, with a grin, poured his water bottle on to the stage like a gang soldier commemorating his homeboys. A little of that self-deprecating wit would go a long way in his music.

Sean Piccoli can be reached at spiccoli@sun-sentinel.com or 954-356-4832.

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