Podbit · Call Her Daddy
Chloe posted a rough beat on Instagram for fun. Timbaland commented 'this is hard,' then DMed her. Two months of trading beats remotely later, they had a full project. The mixer turned out to be the same man who mixed both Timbaland's catalog and Chloe's first album.
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At 1:01:40 · chapter starts 1:00:40
The Resurrection collaboration is a masterclass in how the modern music industry works — and how posting your process can change your career. [1] — Chloe Bailey "Chloe posted a rough beat on Instagram for fun. Timbaland commented 'this is hard,' then DMed her. Two months of trading beats remotely lat…" 1:01:40 Timbaland commented 'this is hard' on one of Chloe's Instagram production videos, then slid into her DMs asking if she was doing anything with the beat. She wasn't — it was just Instagram content. But he proposed a beat video, then a full project. They worked entirely remotely over two months, never in the same room, trading stems and ideas. The project came together so naturally that they made roughly ten more songs than made the final cut. The detail that ties it all together: the mixing engineer turned out to be the same person who had mixed Chloe's very first solo album — and all of Timbaland's catalog. Everything, sonically, came back to the same source.
Chloe and Timbaland created the mixtape Resurrection entirely remotely over two months by sending beats back and forth without ever meeting in person.
Reggae didn't emerge from thin air — it was built layer by layer from mento in the 1940s, ska in the late 1950s, and rocksteady in the mid-1960s. Each stage absorbed new influences, from transistor radios picking up Miami R&B to the distinctive 2-and-4 rhythmic accent that defines the genre.
Before hip-hop existed, Jamaican DJs were already doing it. Electricity spreading across Jamaica enabled mobile 'sound systems,' and DJs developed toasting — speaking and singing over recorded music — a tradition that DJ Kool Herc brought from Kingston to the Bronx at age 12.
Joe Higgs is reggae's great unsung hero. This Kingston musician took teenage Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Wailer under his wing and taught them how to sing, write songs, and make music — at a time when most artists would have focused on their own careers. Without him, the Wailers probably just would have sucked.
Reggae archivist Roger Steffens' analogy says it all: Bob Marley was reggae's Martin Luther King Jr., making the music universally palatable; Peter Tosh was its Malcolm X, inserting fierce militant political energy. Together, they gave the Wailers a depth no single voice could achieve alone.
King Tubby built his own hardware from cast-off recording gear to strip vocals and create dubbed-out instrumental reggae — essentially inventing electronic music in Kingston before Kraftwerk did it in Germany. The dubplate he created became the raw material for DJs to toast over, seeding hip-hop.
Two days before the 1976 Smile Jamaica anti-violence concert, gunmen shot Bob Marley in the chest and shoulder, shot Rita Marley, and wounded two others. He showed up and played anyway. The concert had already drawn accusations that Marley was a tool of the PNP government — a charge that frustrated him deeply.
Peter Tosh's killer was a man Tosh had taken in after prison, giving him shelter and food. The man repaid that generosity by holding Tosh hostage, torturing him for money, and shooting him in the head. It is one of the most brutal betrayals in music history.
The Windrush Generation brought Caribbean music to London after World War II, and reggae's 2-and-4 rhythm lodged itself deep in British culture — giving birth to ska bands like The Specials, pop acts like UB40, and even punk. Johnny Rotten was a reggae fan, and Public Image Limited has the dub influence to prove it.
Reggaetón didn't come from nowhere. It emerged from underground Spanish-language reggae-rap scenes in Panama and Puerto Rico, drawing directly on Jamaican reggae's rhythms and attitude. The line from Kingston to Bad Bunny's Super Bowl performance is a straight one.
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