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His long-awaited release

Jamaican Jah Cure became a reggae star while behind bars for rape. Now he's out, planning his future and trying to escape his past.

September 30, 2007|Baz Dreisinger | Special to The Times

KINGSTON, JAMAICA — The Hilton Hotel here is the reggae scene's version of L.A.'s the Ivy: a place where celebrity sightings are a dime a dozen, and the staff is indifferent to fame. Until, that is, one day in July, when Jah Cure ambled freely into the lobby.

Flanked by a small entourage, the diminutive, dreadlocked Jamaican singer was showered with attention -- not all of it the rock-star variety. Some rushed forward to offer smiles and greetings; others stood agape, in half-shock.

"Me can't believe him here," a woman behind the coffee counter muttered in Jamaican patois, shaking her head. "After what him did, and now him go free. Terrible."

The mixed response is not surprising; Cure, as he's known, is vastly popular for being two very incongruous things: a brilliant crooner of Bob Marley-esque love-and-peace reggae -- and a convicted rapist. July 28, the day he walked into the Hilton, was the day he was paroled from Tower Street Adult Correctional Centre after nearly eight years in prison.

For much of that time he was debated, beloved, reviled. He had an unofficial lobby group -- the "Free Jah Cure" movement was behind MySpace sites, T-shirts, even license-plate frames -- and the support of a slew of reggae artists who asserted his innocence at show after show. He was Jamaica's first incarcerated musical icon, and the days surrounding his release were suffused with the sort of buzz befitting a freshly freed political prisoner: His photo was on newspaper covers, his name on the lips of media folk and taxi drivers alike.

"People in the street, they point and jump and scream. I never expected so many people to recognize me," Cure, 28, said in an interview in a Kingston studio, three days after his release. Sporting True Religion Jeans, multicolored Adidas sneakers and a gleaming diamond chain with matching bracelet, he seemed shy, distracted and nervous: a man beleaguered by the limelight.

"I haven't been able to eat, barely at all, since getting out," he admitted, pausing from the interview to take several bites of a fish sandwich and fries. "I was so anxious to get here."

His freedom is feted by promotional events: the release of his fourth album, "True Reflections . . . A New Beginning," a stellar retrospective of tracks recorded and released while he was behind bars; and, from Oct. 12 to 14, Curefest -- a music festival climaxing in Cure's first Jamaican stage performance since his release.

He is already a star in the international reggae world -- his only show since his release, at a reggae festival in Holland, was attended by nearly 20,000 fans -- and his newfound freedom could catapult Cure and the genre to new heights of success. Reggaeton has found its overseas niche, after all, but no reggae act other than Sean Paul has lately achieved crossover success on mainstream U.S. charts.

But while plenty of artists, from Merle Haggard to James Brown, have spent time behind bars, rape is a conviction with pungent staying power, especially for a singer of love songs. And while there was cachet in being an incarcerated artist asserting innocence -- a spiritual martyr, a casualty of injustice -- can Jah Cure retain his allure as a free man?

Celebrity in the cell

Cure's celebrity, after all, was nourished by prison walls. At the time of his trial and conviction, he was an up-and-comer with promising connections: Born Siccaturie Alcock in a depressed area of Montego Bay, he left for Kingston at 13 and caught the ear of reggae star Capleton, who introduced him to Rastafarianism and dubbed him "Jah Cure," in honor of the Rasta god and the "healing" marijuana he smoked.

He recorded a spiritual duet with popular artist Sizzla and toured Europe with Lover's Rock legend Beres Hammond. Then, as he put it, "I come back and get into this mess and go inside."

Both Cure and the unnamed victim have, in earlier interviews, presented versions of "this mess." According to her, in November 1998, she and her aunt were raped and robbed at gunpoint in Montego Bay by two men in a car. She noted the car's license plate and reported it to the police; one week later, Cure -- whose vehicle allegedly bore that license plate -- was detained by police and his accuser outside a nightclub, where the victim identified him based on his voice. Cure pleaded innocent, but before a Gun Court magistrate in 1999, the singer -- 19 at the time -- was given 15 years in prison, reduced to 12 years after an appeal.

Rumors about the case abound: claims that Cure was discriminated against because he is a Rastafarian, that DNA evidence was never obtained, that the aunt's rapist -- alleged to be Cure's companion -- was never caught, that the victim was contacted by phone by Cure's celebrity supporters and offered money to retract her accusation but nonetheless held to her story.

Those hoping for conclusive answers now that Jah Cure is a free man will be sorely disappointed.

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