The main points:
1. Music as a Narrative Force
Ryan Coogler and Jaymes Samuel use music not just as background but as a central narrative tool—driving emotion, storytelling, and cultural meaning in films like Black Panther, Sinners, and The Harder They Fall.
2. Soul and Blues as Cultural Lifelines
Soul and blues music are portrayed as emotional and historical archives, connecting the pain, joy, and resilience of African Americans and Caribbean people across time.
3. Caribbean Connection to Black American Music
Caribbean communities resonate deeply with soul and blues because of shared histories of colonization and resistance. Reggae, dancehall, and lovers rock echo the same spiritual and political power.
4. Representation Through Sound
Films like The Harder They Fall use Black music genres—reggae, hip hop, R&B—not just for aesthetics, but to reclaim space in historically white-dominated genres like the Western.
5. Music as Rebellion and Joy
Beyond resistance, the music celebrates Black joy, survival, and cultural pride. Voices like Beres Hammond, Barrington Levy, and Miles Canton serve as ancestral echoes and emotional guides in storytelling.
I’m a fierce believer in artistic disruption in music—the bigger, the messier, the better. I’m drawn to art that knocks me off balance, shakes my center of gravity, and forces me to reimagine the world around me. That’s why I love music and cinema at their boldest.
Director Ryan Coogler is a master at fusing image and sound with purpose. His work is never too abstract or self-important, but always daring and ambitious. That’s what allows him to create blockbuster films that still ask thoughtful questions—films that deliver the depth of arthouse cinema wrapped in mainstream appeal. What fascinates me most, though, is how he uses music—not just as background, but as a driving force that channels mood and meaning.
In Black Panther, the score and needle drops weren’t just cool additions—they were the pulse of the film’s rebellious energy. Through a rich blend of hip hop and Afrobeats, artists like Kendrick Lamar, Vince Staples, Jorja Smith, Anderson .Paak, and others infused the story with a sonic force that was both raw and celebratory. The music invited us to imagine an uncolonized Africa—a place where Black brilliance wasn’t just possible, but supreme. A hero richer, smarter, and more relentless than any before him.
In his latest film, Sinners, Coogler takes it even further. The soundtrack—rooted in the soul and grit of the blues—doesn’t just accompany the narrative; it propels it. The music bridges folklore and modern swagger, creating a soundscape that feels both ancient and current. It reminded me that music isn’t just entertainment—it’s a transmission of truth, a vessel for our deepest wounds and wildest hopes.
Watching Sinners brought me back to the roots of my love for soul music. Growing up Caribbean in America, our immigrant identity expressed itself in many ways—but soul music hit differently. It didn’t feel tied to a nation. It felt like emotion itself: pain, joy, love, the constant search for self. It moved through our bodies and pulled us into motion, into a kind of dance that expressed the way we cared for one another.
The film painted soul and blues not just as genres, but as lifelines. Old reliables. Coping mechanisms for those who’ve known brokenness. The struggles of colonized Caribbean nations mirrored those of the Jim Crow South. Soul music, born from that suffering, became a release—a cry from enslaved spirits refusing to be forgotten.
And it’s not just the instruments. It’s the voices—deep, textured, thunderous—that reach across time to reclaim our ancestors’ humanity. That’s why Caribbean people connect so deeply with soul music. It mirrors our own cry for freedom. You can feel that same yearning in our reggae. That deep southern blues carries the same fire as Tosh, Marley, Burning Spear. The film makes this connection clear—across scenes that stitch past, present, and future into one living, breathing story. The music doesn’t just remember the ancestors—it conjures them. It channels the fire, the same fire shouted by Sizzla and Capleton.
But beyond resistance, the music also unlocks our joy—our natural-born joy. The kind that survives even under the weight of oppression.
One standout was the character Sammie More, played by 21-year-old breakout star Miles Canton. His voice held an unshakable power—haunting, raw, with a sacred edge. Before the film, he had been touring with H.E.R. since he was 16. On screen, his singing didn’t just fill the silence—it filled the soul. It reminded me of Beres Hammond with a splash of Anthony Hamilton: ancestral, emotional, unforgettable. In his scenes, his voice conveyed the emotions the director needed you to feel—even when the dialogue didn’t.
As a Caribbean person, I saw myself in those moments. Our music—whether reggae, lovers rock, dancehall, or otherwise—has never been just about rhythm. It’s our archive. Our commentary. Our cultural scripture. It speaks for us when history books fail. Like the blues and soul of the Deep South, our music is a drumbeat echoing from African soil, reminding us of who we are and where we come from.
The Harder They Fall (Netflix), directed by Jeymes Samuel, is more than just a Western—it’s a reclamation. It rewrites the dusty mythologies of the American frontier by placing Black faces, voices, and rhythms at the center of the story. And at the heart of that reclamation is the music.
Samuel—also known as The Bullitts—is a British-Nigerian filmmaker and musician who understands that sound isn’t just an accessory to a scene; it’s the bloodstream of cinema. His soundtrack choices in The Harder They Fall reflect a global Black experience, with reggae, dancehall, hip hop, and R&B pulsing together to create something both modern and mythic. The music didn’t just support the action—it led it. It set the pace, carried the emotion, and brought ancestral flavor to a genre that had long excluded us.
As a Guyanese, I watched with sharpened attention. It wasn’t just representation—it was recognition. It was seasoning. Our spice in the pot. And it made the entire dish richer.
There was deep validation hearing Dennis Brown’s “Promised Land” echo over a wide, sweeping Western landscape. Then came the unmistakable voice of Barrington Levy—piercing, melodic, rebellious—dropped in the middle of shootouts and slow-motion hero shots. His vocals became a battle cry, the kind that dares you to unlearn the whitewashed version of these stories. The blend of classic reggae vocals over thumping club beats and hip-hop breaks created a sound that was at once rooted and radical, past and future.
Samuel’s decision to use music like this wasn’t aesthetic—it was political. It sent a clear message: Black stories don’t have to conform to white templates. We can tell our epics in our own language, in our own sound, with our own tempo. And when we do, the world watches differently.
In The Harder They Fall, Samuel doesn’t just remix a genre—he reclaims it. And for Caribbean people like me, that reclamation resonates deeply. Because it’s not just about seeing ourselves—it’s about hearing ourselves. Loud, proud, and unstoppable.
So, even as colonial vampires still hunt our spirits, the potency of our sound holds the code to our survival. It tells our story—of rebellion, of resilience, of joy. And that, to me, is the most powerful music of all.
