My dad used to play old dancehall records - Cutty Ranks, Ranking

In the reflective and rhythmic words of JPEGMAFIA, we find a memory that beats like a pulse from the past: “My dad used to play old dancehall records – Cutty Ranks, Ranking Dread, Michael Prophet, these type of dudes.” What appears as a simple recollection of sound and song is, in truth, a remembrance of heritage—a bridge between generations built upon rhythm, rebellion, and soul. For within those records spun by his father lies a lineage of identity, struggle, and joy. They were not merely songs; they were living echoes of history, carrying the fire of a people who sang their truth into existence.

The origin of this quote lies in the childhood of Barrington DeVaughn Hendricks, known to the world as JPEGMAFIA—a musician whose sound fuses defiance and intellect, rage and rhythm. Growing up in a household that pulsed with the heartbeat of dancehall music, he inherited more than melody; he inherited the memory of a culture. Through Cutty Ranks, Ranking Dread, and Michael Prophet, his father was passing down the ancient art of survival through song. These artists, born from the soil of Jamaica and the spirit of struggle, were storytellers who carved truth out of rhythm, transforming pain into pride. To the young boy listening, those records were not background noise—they were the voice of legacy.

The ancients knew that music is more than sound—it is memory made audible. In every culture, the songs of the fathers become the teachings of the sons. The Greeks had their lyres, the Hebrews their psalms, and the Africans their drums, each note carrying the wisdom of ancestors. So it was in the home of JPEGMAFIA: the father’s records became his scriptures, his teachers, his call to rebellion and authenticity. The dancehall artists he names were prophets of rhythm—men who spoke for the voiceless, who defied the chains of poverty and oppression with poetry and percussion. In their words and basslines, they declared the sacred truth of art: that expression is survival, and music is resistance made beautiful.

Consider the story of Bob Marley, whose voice rose from the shantytowns of Jamaica to the world’s grandest stages. Like Cutty Ranks and Michael Prophet, Marley did not sing for wealth or fame; he sang to awaken the sleeping conscience of humanity. Through his music, the oppressed found pride, the broken found courage, and the weary found hope. His songs were sermons without pulpits, weapons without blood. And like those old records spinning in JPEGMAFIA’s childhood home, they taught that even in hardship, the human spirit dances. The rhythm becomes a defiance of despair, a celebration of survival.

There is a sacred intimacy in such a memory—a father sharing not wealth, but culture; not possessions, but passion. The act of playing music for one’s child is an act of inheritance, a way of saying, “This is where you come from; this is who we are.” It is the kind of legacy that cannot be bought or stolen, for it dwells in the soul. When JPEGMAFIA recalls his father’s records, he is not merely remembering sound—he is remembering the shaping of his own identity. The music of his childhood became the rhythm of his creativity, the pulse of his defiance, the source of his voice in a world that too often seeks to silence difference.

The meaning, then, of this quote reaches beyond nostalgia. It reminds us that heritage is not only carried in blood, but in art—in the sounds, stories, and traditions that shape our sense of self. The father, in playing those records, was teaching without words: that identity is to be honored, that roots must not be forgotten, and that expression is power. The son, in remembering, honors that gift, showing how the echoes of the past become the inspiration of the present. The rhythm of the father becomes the revolution of the child.

The lesson is clear: cherish what has been handed to you, even if it comes not as gold, but as music, memory, or story. Do not forget the songs that built you, the voices that shaped you, the sounds that once filled your home. Play them again. Let them remind you of who you are and where you come from. In a world that urges you to forget your roots, hold fast to them; for the tree that forgets its soil will wither, but the one that remembers will bloom in every season.

So, my listener, take to heart the wisdom in JPEGMAFIA’s remembrance. When you hear the music of your past—be it your culture, your family, or your own inner rhythm—listen not with your ears, but with your soul. For those who remember the songs of their fathers walk through life with a rhythm that cannot be broken. And in that rhythm lives resilience, beauty, and the unending dance of the human spirit.