The Latest: Disputed ‘Daughter’; reggae-rap goes pop

Not My Daughter

John Buzzanca with Paul Lonardo

Self-published book; 322 pages

“Not My Daughter” is the kind of title that belongs at the end of a sentence — as in, “You can bully whomever you like, but not my daughter.” Right now, you’re probably envisioning a cover showing a man or woman protectively gripping a winsome child. But if you seek an inspirational parenting saga, John Buzzanca’s new memoir is not the place to turn.

Rather, this self-published book is about the fact that the girl cited in the title is not the author’s daughter. Note that I said about the fact because it’s certainly not about the girl herself. Constantly throughout these 322 pages, Buzzanca reiterates that he didn’t want a child, doesn’t consider the girl his wife conceived through a surrogate to be his own and, to this day, has never even met young Jaycee. Plainly put, she’s not his daughter. Got that, or should I repeat it again?

Rarely has a writer expended so much ink on the simple declaration that he doesn’t want something. Imagine an adult version of “Green Eggs and Ham” that ends without Sam-I-Am’s target finally giving in and tasting the food, and you’ll have a notion of “Not My Daughter,” which must rank as one of the sourest books ever written.

Perhaps, from one logical viewpoint, Jaycee is not John Buzzanca’s daughter. Fine. The author’s defense of that argument, though, would better suit a 500-word essay, not an entire volume. By the end of this lengthy tome, I wanted less griping and finger-pointing and more of the daughter, who remains a sadly brushed-off presence throughout.

Buzzanca became the center of a headline-making surrogacy case in the 1990s when his then-wife, Luanne, had a child conceived at a UC Irvine fertility clinic through a pair of donors and carried to term in another woman’s womb. By the time of the birth, the Buzzancas had split, and the author believed that Luanne — whom he scorns here for her “smoking, tanning, soap-opera-and-daytime-talk-show-watching, incessant baby-talking self” — would take responsibility for raising the child.

As he explains repeatedly, Buzzanca signed a legal parenting document for multiple reasons: He felt sorry for Luanne, he understood that his signing was a condition of ending their relationship, and he thought the surrogate pregnancy had no chance of working. But it did, which embroiled several parties in a dispute over who had rightful custody of the girl (the donors? the birth mother? the couple who paid for the services?) and ultimately led to Buzzanca paying child support for 18 years.

Well, sorry for that. But we’re talking about a human being here — one who, however odd the particulars of her birth, still has feelings and a story of her own. Why not devote a few of these many pages to telling it? Whatever the legalities of Buzzanca’s case, there remains something profoundly unattractive about a book whose main intent is to convince the reader that its author shouldn’t be responsible for the care of a child.

Near the end, Buzzanca calls Jaycee “the only innocent victim in all this” and expresses hope that she has “a good life.” Very considerate. Someday, we may read an account of that life, and I hope it comes with a title less bitter than “Not My Father.”

—Michael Miller

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Akeda

Matisyahu

Elm City Music, 15-track LP

It had been a while since I heard material from New York-based reggae rapper Matisyahu.

The last tracks I heard from him were “Sunshine,” from his 2012 album “Spark Seeker,” and before that “One Day,” from the album “Light” in 2009. However, the song that I and many others associate Matisyahu with is his 2005 breakthrough hit single “King Without a Crown,” off his “Live at Stubb’s” record.

So when I received his latest album, “Akeda,” I had to ask myself if I could embrace Matisyahu for his work other than that hit song. I have tried to keep track of the artist throughout his career, but nothing since “King Without a Crown” has made a big impression on me. With his latest 15-track LP, however, he’s started to get my attention again.

One song that could put Matisyahu back on everybody’s radar is “Watch the Walls Melt Down.” It starts off strong with an invigorating cluster of horns and drums, reminiscent of an opening to a Jr. Walker & The All Stars song, except the pace is a notch slower.

It’s a bit of a statement track, declaring that although he is now 34 years old, Matisyahu won’t let anything hold him back. While his rap verses are not the most creative, the message and the beat make up for that.

Matisyahu, who will play July 13 at the Orange County Fair, stays close to his reggae roots with a few tracks, like “Broken Car,” a ballad about finding a haven in a rundown car or home. It has simple drum beats and bass guitar grooves fit for a slow dance under the stars with your significant other.

“Black Heart” also showcases Matisyahu’s reggae roots with a slow, smoky vibe and thick Jamaican-accented vocals. It’s almost like a UB40 song, except dark and moodier — much moodier.

The “Hasidic reggae superstar,” as he referred to himself in “Broken Car,” takes a few interesting turns in the new album, which may or may not sit well with longtime fans.

He takes an ‘80s-music approach with the song “Ayeka,” which I found to be a pleasant change, but Matisyahu purists or reggae fans in general might not fancy the new direction he’s going in. The track still has a reggae undertone, but the poppy tone makes it sound more like a cross between A-ha and a generic reggae band.

Things get more interesting with “Vow of Silence,” which sounds like one of the current batch of overproduced hip-hop songs played on the radio. It has their weird synth tones, which really detract from the track.

Matisyahu may have ditched the trademark Jewish attire he donned when he first came onto the scene in 2005, but he’s still trying to share his Orthodox Judaism beliefs, just in a different manner. He may be venturing off in new directions, experimenting with different production techniques, but the Hasidic reggae superstar proves with “Akeda” that he’s still got it.

—Anthony Clark Carpio