Former corrections officer brings message of fun, inclusion through music
Baba Ras D new children’s favorite
WASHINGTON — Baba Ras D is banging a large West African drum, his long dreads hidden under a cap. Splotches of sweat are seeping through his yellow dashiki-style African T-shirt, which he designed himself. He wipes his forehead with a sweatband on his wrist patterned like the red, yellow and green Rastafarian flag.
He switches with ease from a funky rendition of "Wheels on the Bus," to a rather traditional rendition of Bob Marley's "One Love," to a Baba Ras D original that urges people to "pass the peace." As he sings, he encourages the squirmy crowd of toddlers and infants to be even more rambunctious. "Can you say, 'Love on the rise?' " he asks them. "We need it more than ever."
Some play along off-beat with drums and tambourines of their own. Some shove the tambourines into their mouths. Some whine and burrow their heads into their parents' shirts. But most of them are staring straight at Baba Ras D, babbling the lyrics, smiling back at him and cooing his name.
This is his second performance of the day. He always has an extra shirt or two with him because a full Baba Ras D concert experience means that he will definitely sweat through his first. And maybe shed tears as well, if he's feeling especially moved. "There may be better singers or drummers," he tells me later, "but no one has my energy."
Baba Ras D preaches empathy and community inclusiveness, a message he refers to as Harambee, the Kenyan philosophy of togetherness. (Baba is the Swahili word for father.) This has helped transform the former Division I basketball player and one-time corrections officer into one of the premier children's entertainers among a certain subset of affluent Washingtonians. (Or in the words of one dad of a Baba Ras D die-hard, the "liberal bourgeois.") The 6-foot-6 Rastafarian performs at birth- day parties, visits schools and plays six shows a week at BloomBars, a child-focused arts space in Washington.
The children who come to BloomBars idolize Baba Ras D. Some, as young as 2, can recite the definition of Harambee. One parent said their child's first word was not mama or dada, but baba. Another parent keeps a large photo of Baba Ras to pull out when he needs to remind his child to always do the right thing. Yet another father described Baba Ras as a sort of divine figure in their household.
Matthew Dull, a public policy professor who is part of a group that refers to themselves as Harambee Dads, has been taking his 2 1/2-year-old son, Max, to Baba Ras D concerts for more than a year. He bought a small djembe for Max to bang at home. When the toddler plays the drum, he insists on keeping a towel by his side to wipe the sweat from his forehead just like Baba Ras D. And when it's time for his son to go to bed, Dull invokes the help of a certain singer. "I try to convince him to go to sleep, and part of that ritual is telling him who is asleep," Dull told me. "Bubbe's asleep, Papa's asleep, Baba Ras D is asleep. He's always on that list."
Baba Ras D, whose given name is Darren Campbell, speaks with traces of a Caribbean accent, and his voice has the cadence and modulation of a preacher. The 52-year-old often talks in inspiring mantras, slipping sayings — like "higher education should be about higher elevation" and "the inner influence is stronger than the outward control" — into conversations.
It's evident why the children love him so much. He's calming, wise and knows how to write a catchy song to a drumbeat. Onstage, he respects each child, looking them in the eyes as he performs, allowing them to jump up and bang drums beside him. He hugs or high-fives each child after a performance. "Thank you, amigos. Thank you, my brother," he tells them. "You are all my paradise."
Offstage, separating Campbell from Baba Ras D proves difficult. He is not one to "break character." When I ask where he's from, he says that he "represents all the continents."
He explains that so many people who have entered his life are like family. Godparents, in-laws, mentors. He has Trinidadian, African and other influences. He grew up on reggae, go-go and gospel music. He's a man of the world, of humanity, he says.
To get technical for a second, Campbell was born in Washington, one of six siblings. After his father died when he was 10 years old, Campbell was raised by his grandparents, who ran a home day care, and by his mother, a government worker who now lives in Maryland. There was music all around him. He played piano and drums. His brother Wake Campbell is a professional saxophonist.