In a world where the volume is always cranked to outrage, it’s easy to forget the quiet truths. The real stuff. The beat beneath the noise. While headlines scream scandal and the culture war has no intermission, I’ve been fortunate to live in a house that harmonizes—not always in unison, but in rhythm—with something far more profound than politics or posturing: family.
I’ve spent an extraordinary amount of time with my son. Not as some lofty ideal of fatherhood, but as two human beings sharing time, curiosity, and space. The way musicians share a groove. There was no blueprint: love, patience, and the unspoken agreement not to get in each other’s way.
People ask how we’ve managed it. No dramatic rifts? No sulking departures? I’d be lying if I said we floated on a cloud of Zen. There were no stomps out the front door, the odd slammed bedroom door. We left the door open—literally and metaphorically. That’s how it’s been for the past 53 years: learning when to lean in, when to lay back. Like a great bassline, it’s felt more than explained.
When Kristine and I found out she was pregnant, we lay back in bed and imagined the future. Not the career path, not the grades or universities, but the colour of the coming child’s days. Kristine said, “The house will be filled with art.” Sketchpads on the kitchen table, paint in the sink, music echoing off the walls. I said, “Let him mess with every knob and dial. Let him play with the gear, the piano, the cassettes, the reels. The studio is his playground.”
We let Jesse roam—but always with roots. Aebersold Jazz Camp one summer. Leo Rautins’ basketball clinic is next. T-ball in Georgia. Streetball at the Y. And the rule? Please call and let us know your location. We opened the house to every kid who needed refuge. Parents were chasing careers; we chose to stay in place, to be a lighthouse in the fog.
When CHUM renovated and stripped the sound baffling from its walls, Kristine swooped in like an angel of scavenging. We hauled it home and turned the basement into Jesse’s first studio. Suddenly, our home had a heartbeat—kick drum on concrete, synths on fire, teenage voices thick with ideas. That studio became our second living room.
Jesse left for Fanshawe College to study sound engineering/production and never looked back—except to collaborate. We’ve been working side by side ever since—radio, recordings, laughter, loops. We’ve read the same bios, dissected the duplicate records, chased the same frequencies. For the past twenty-five years, we’ve met at 9:30 a.m. to shoot hoops and shoot the breeze. It’s less about baskets and more about balance. Less about form and more about family.
In a world full of discord and daily grief, I count these moments like prayer beads. Each one is a reminder of what we got right.
And then came Substack. Jesse kicked me into gear. “Get writing, Dad. Share your stories. The world needs voices like yours.” I did. Then turned the tables and said, “Now it’s your turn.”
He did.
Bass Culture.
About Jesse King (aka Dubmatix)
Dubmatix doesn’t just drop beats—he builds sonic cities. A two-time Juno Award winner and nine-time nominee, Jesse King has carved his name deep into the global dub and reggae scene. Since lighting the fuse with Champion Sound Clash in 2004, he’s become Canada’s bass ambassador to the world.
With seismic low-end grooves, brass lines that soar, and riddims that ripple like heat waves on Kingston pavement, Dubmatix has earned the respect of reggae royalty: Rolling Stone, Billboard, The Wire UK, BBC legends Don Letts and David Rodigan, and XM’s own Dermott Hussey. Whether he’s producing in Toronto or performing in Europe, Jesse remains rooted in the message of unity, culture, and family.
Bass isn’t just sound. It’s spirit.
And family? That’s the deepest groove of all.
Catch the Bill & Jesse King Radio Show Saturdays at 10 a.m. on CIUT—FM 89.5 from the University of Toronto.
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Thanks for that Bill. It's what it's all about.
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