By Ian S. Port
By Tony Ware
By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
If any visual artist captured the ethos of the San Francisco house music scene during its '90s salad days, it would be Owen Maigret. As with hippies and their cherished Grateful Dead poster art, an aging raver need only glance at one of Maigret's expressionistic blue-green musclemen figures to be transported to a trippier time. First seen on party fliers and the Wicked crew's mixtape covers, Maigret's paintings favored organic shapes, purplish flowers, and pliable-looking king's crowns. Like the music they were inspired by, many of his images suggested a chemically enhanced openness and tranquility.
Some of his later work, however, took a grittier turn that would foreshadow Maigret's current project establishing a record label in Panama City devoted to the now sizzling reggaeton sound. An image on his Web site image entitled "The Knife" is the most telling in this respect. Three men, with faces reminiscent of the classical comedy/tragedy masks, loom over a drawn blade, its tip soaked in blood. It is this feeling of betrayal and outrage that dominates Maigret's recounting of his label Conquering Lion Soundz's brief history.
"We get mad respect here," he says over a crackly phone line from Panama, "but in the three years I've been operating my label, everyone except my business partner [the Panamanian DJ Fulo] has stolen from me. I've been involved in the music industry for a long time, but I am not used to meeting people and assuming they are a liar and a thief and then it turns out to be true." He then rattles off a long list of former associates, rival label owners, and dissatisfied artists who have attempted to bankrupt him by all manner of treachery. "Even my bank lies to me here."
Maigret is unapologetically bitter about his company's tenure in Central America, and it's not like he was naïve about the music industry's shadowy inner workings before starting. He moved south after a successful career in San Francisco's rave scene, which rarely operated aboveboard. During the '90s, he owned the prominent clothing and music retail shop Housewares on Haight Street, threw around 70 underground warehouse parties, and co-operated the house label Soulfood Recordings with noted local producer Rasoul.
What brought him to Panama initially was real estate where he "made a fortune," he says but along the way he fell in with some of the originators of the reggaeton phenomenon, which involves lusty Spanish rapping over one particular dancehall "riddim" from the '80s (Shabba Ranks' "Dem Bow"). Maigret discovered that reggaeton was much older than its U.S. fans would believe its rollicking, club-tailored beat seemed to come out of nowhere two or three years ago. With DJ Fulo's guidance, he traced its roots back to Panamanian reggae en espanol records that were at least 15 years old. And although the music's exact genesis remains murky, some accounts have it that reggae made its way to Latin America via the descendents of Jamaican immigrants who had come to work on the Panama Canal up until World War I.
The history Maigret uncovered was at odds with the claims by a recent crop of breakthrough Puerto Rican rapperos, who declared their island to be the music's birthplace. Today, many non-Panamanians are cashing in hugely on the sound, the most prominent being Puerto Rican Daddy Yankee, whose "Gasolina" has been inescapable on urban radio; his frequently underwear-clad countrywoman Ivy Queen; and U.S. rapper N.O.R.E., who managed a major rap-reggaeton crossover hit with "Oye Mi Canto." Meanwhile, the most prominent Panamanian artists have achieved only Third World fame their earnings meager and recognition concentrated around the equator.
Maigret decided to start a company so that overlooked Panamanian reggaeton rapperos, producers, and singers might gain recognition and start seeing a paycheck. "I came in and paid every artist every time," he says. "To the average Panamanian in the music business, that makes me a fool. Musicians never got paid anything, so because I'm paying people what they deserve, or almost what they deserve, people think I'm a moron."
Apparently, even his artists agreed. In a country with such a meager standard of living the CIA puts its per capita income at just under $7,000 a small payout can quickly turn into bigger demands.
"I have 23 signed artists, and all of them want a sports car immediately," he states. "I told them, 'You have to work,' so they worked. Two weeks later 'Where's my sports car?' I told them, 'No guys, this is the music industry, not the movies.'"
Despite his pessimism, Maigret might well be incubating something that could make him and his bling-dreaming stable quite an income one day. As CD sales sag worldwide, the Latin music category continues to be the industry's lone winning horse year after year shipments of Latin CDs increased by 13 percent in 2005, according to the Recording Industry Association of America, whose report cites the emergence of reggaeton as a reason for this. And at least three Conquering Lion artists have plausible crossover potential the bubbly rappero Harmony; the clarion-voiced singer Baby Karen; and Dante, a feisty, braggadocios emcee whose flow leans toward those popular in American hip hop.