Attack and Release

On the unflashy-but-towering contributions of Aston “Familyman” Barrett

One music guru says musicians are thinking too much, deconstructing a phenomena that should be as natural as breathing.

Another one says we’re not thinking enough — that to evolve, the musician needs to analyze with vigilance, endeavoring to understand not just the structure of a song but the logic of each chord in a progression, every tick on the upbeats as well as the social riptides in which those upbeats occurred. Training the high-power microscope onto every measure, every beat, every breath.

Some pundits look at the Conde Nast machinations around Pitchfork — the publisher announced weeks ago that it will fold Pitchfork into the editorial operation of GQ magazine — and see the death of music criticism. Others regard it as natural churn, the result of market forces, a decision by executives who never spend a millisecond worrying if there’s a thriving critical discourse around music. (Do you need to read my exhaustive 20,000-word essay on music criticism? No, you do not. Not after all the crying in the cornflakes my esteemed colleagues have done….)

There is no resolving this. Balance helps in all things. And as the mental health tipsters remind us constantly, balance is elusive, a goal on the horizon.

Unless…..Unless it’s something we feel instantly when the bass lands in a particular way on the downbeat. Balance as in: The fat resounding root on the one, open space and hints of color after that. In this permutation, balance is inherent and instinctive and universally evident — an absolute that you feel, on a cellular level, when you hear it.

One bassist who epitomized (defined?) this last notion was Aston “Familyman” Barrett, who died on February 3 at age 77. It’s highly likely your hips recognize him: Barrett was the longtime bassist, producer and arranger in Bob Marley and the Wailers from 1969 until the leader’s death in 1981. That’s him on “Get Up, Stand Up” and “Three Little Birds” and so many others.

The recordings of Barrett and his brother, drummer Carlton Barrett, represent a pinnacle of rhythm section balance. Aston was the minimalist, adhering to essential fundamentals so that his brother could scatter syncopations via intricate triplet high-hat convulsions. Check any live Wailers recording to hear their delicate, always-there push/pull friction, the way the steadiness from the bass encouraged countless inventions above it.

Aston Barrett’s path began with the Hippie Boys, a studio outfit that later became Lee “Scratch” Perry’s Upsetters, in the late 1960s. This was one of the first reggae acts to tour internationally; its unshakable rhythmic distillations influenced countless other artists, and cleared the way for the reggae explosion of the early ‘70s in the UK and US. When he wasn’t on the road with Perry and then Marley, Barrett was recording: The tremendous Soul Constitution gathers instrumental tracks and dub experiments from 1971-1982 (including some evocative Perry-esque pieces built around early drum machines). Many of these were created in rehearsal rooms at the original Tuff Gong studio in Marley’s home, and have been available in other releases over the decades.

Being instrumentals, these offer room for dissection and all sorts of geeking-out possibilities: Those seeking to understand what made Barrett’s basslines so infectious will find much to scrutinize here.

Start with the attack: On the title track and horn-driven “Eastern Memphis,” which was recorded around the time of Natty Dread, Barrett is unerringly precise with the initial timing and placement of his bass notes. And then he’s equally careful about subsequent attacks when he’s repeating a note several times, one of his trademarks. The tone he gets, though, is rarely a pinpoint. When the guitar enters on “Eastern Memphis,” its knifing clarity contrasts with the bass, which has the slightest aura of fuzz around it. That slight difference in instrumental texture becomes a driver, integral to the track. The musicians lean into it, work with it, exploiting its tensions. Pick up on it here, and you may find yourself appreciating the interlock of the Wailers rhythm section at a different level.

Then there’s the release, because, hey, every note ends sometime. Barrett was extremely intentional about the way his downbeats dissolved — he let them decay somewhat slowly, often waiting a full measure or three before returning to add more bass information. But he managed the decay differently on more “active” basslines, often articulating in a way that magnified his clean intervals and wide octave-traversing leaps. His lines can seem simple until you focus on the other inflections and tactics that shape the phrases — nearly swallowed pickups and ghost notes, slight little "burbles” that wind up having propulsive impact.

The quintessential reggae bass line can (and has) been notated. But what Aston Barrett did — on literally every track — defies or at least confounds notation. He burrowed into the groove in ways that became addictive over time. He used fleeting little devices to create a feeling of endless bounce and possibility. By approaching the foundational elements with such control (and respect), he sent the music skyward.