A-I illustration of Joseph and Kenyata Hills
The world of music was struck by a profound loss with the
passing of Joseph Hills, the iconic voice and spiritual anchor of the reggae
band Culture. His death while on tour in Germany was a tragedy that echoed
across the globe, leaving a void in the hearts of reggae lovers. In that moment
of crisis, a figure stepped from the shadows into an almost impossible
spotlight: his son, Kenyata Hills. Taking the microphone, he helped steer the
grieving tour to its completion, a move seen by many as an act of profound
courage and filial duty.
Yet, recently, a harsher, more dismissive label has been
hurled at Kenyata: "deadbeat." The accusation, often reserved for
those who shirk parental or financial responsibilities, seems jarringly out of
place when applied to a musician carrying his father's torch. This provokes a
necessary debate: what exactly do we owe our parents' legacies, and by what
measure do we judge a son like Kenyata?
Those who level the "deadbeat" criticism, while
perhaps using inflammatory language, are likely speaking to a deeper, more
nuanced disappointment. Their argument hinges on a specific definition of
respect for a legacy: preservation, not evolution.
From this perspective, Joseph Hills was not just a singer;
he was a vessel for a message. His songs, like "Two Sevens Clash" and
"International Herb," were anthems of Rastafari, social justice, and
spiritual awakening. The fear is that by simply performing these songs, Kenyata
risks reducing a sacred canon to a cover act. Is he interpreting the message
with the same lived experience and revolutionary fire? Or is he trading on his
father's name, commercializing a legacy that was built on anti-commercial
principles?
The term "deadbeat" here is a crude shorthand for
the accusation that he is failing in his duty to be a true *custodian*—that he
is benefiting from the inheritance without adding the sweat equity of original
creativity that made that inheritance valuable in the first place.
To dismiss Kenyata Hills as a "deadbeat" is to
ignore the immense weight of the responsibility he shouldered at his father's
lowest moment. When Joseph Hills passed, the tour—and the livelihoods tied to
it—faced collapse. Kenyata did not run from this crisis; he embraced it. His
decision to continue was not an act of opportunism, but one of necessity and respect
for the band, the crew, and the fans who had traveled to see Culture.
Furthermore, what is the alternative? Should the music of
Joseph Hills fall silent? For countless fans, Kenyata’s performances are a
living memorial, a chance to experience the power of his father's words in a
live setting, delivered by the one person with a biological and spiritual claim
to them. He is not merely a tribute act; he is a direct lineage, a thread
connecting the past to the present.
In many cultures, particularly those with strong oral
traditions, it is the duty of the child to preserve and share the stories and
wisdom of their ancestors. By keeping these songs alive, Kenyata is fulfilling
a sacred filial role. He is ensuring that new generations can discover the message
of Culture, a service far from the idleness implied by "deadbeat."
The accusation of being a "deadbeat" is not just
harsh; it is fundamentally misplaced. It conflates financial or parental
neglect with a complex artistic and filial dilemma. Kenyata Hills is
demonstrably not idle; he is working, touring, and performing under the immense
pressure of a legendary name.
However, the sentiment behind the criticism should not be
entirely dismissed. It speaks to a fanbase’s deep love for Joseph Hills and a
protective fear that his message might be diluted. The challenge for Kenyata is
not to prove he isn't a "deadbeat"—a task he has already accomplished
through his actions—but to navigate the delicate balance between preservation
and personal expression.
Perhaps the path forward is one of gradual evolution. Maybe
his ultimate tribute will be to use the platform his father built to eventually
weave his own voice and his own messages into the fabric of the performance,
honoring the past while proving he has his own unique contribution to make.
In the end, Kenyata Hills is not a deadbeat. He is a son who
answered the call in a moment of tragedy and continues to serve as a keeper of
the flame. The debate around him is less about his work ethic and more about
the eternal question that haunts all children of icons: How do you walk in a giant's
shadow without disappearing into it? That is a journey he is still on, and one
he deserves to undertake without the burden of a deeply unfair and simplistic
label.
Check out my book, How to Become a Music Maestro: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004H4XQAQ
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