Pitchfork

How easy it must be for Greensleeves Records at this point? Compiling a greatest hits collection must be something to squeeze in on a lazy Wednesday between lunch and a maybe a sweet post-lunch nap. An institution with vaults that comprise hundreds of records from the past 30 years, Greensleeves might not be as immediately beloved as Studio One or Trojan, or have the current cool kid cache Blood and Fire or Wackies, but its commercial dominance is continually assured thanks to its unerring A&R ear and three decades' worth of Jamaica's biggest stars and their valuable back catalogs. And as From Dubplate to Download proves, the label's artistic dominance is inextricably tied up with its commercial acumen, presenting 30 sterling hits stretching from the fading cries and laments of the last days of roots reggae to the deviousness of the latest dancehall tune from the yard.

Even conceiving a one-stop introduction to Greensleeves would give anyone a migraine. Instead this is something even better: A greatest hits collection/label sampler without a single wack track and more than its share of entrants into the dancehall hall of fame. (Though there are at least a few problematic tunes, which we'll get to.) And if that seems improbable to you, or overstated, well, you'll just have to play it to be sure. The tracklist is a post-reggae marquee that's barely wide enough to hold all the lights: Beenie Man, Shabba Ranks, Gregory Issacs, Shaggy, Wayne Smith, Mr. Vegas, Yellowman. Listen start-to-finish and you find yourself inadvertently traversing many historical divides, from the bubbling analogue skank of the Wailing Souls' "War" to the bizarrely squished digital drum machine on Vybz Kartel's "Tekk", from Dr. Alimantado's quest for religious unity to Ward 21 and Bounty Killer's thrill-seeking lawlessness.

But the history lesson is almost incidental, a happy didactic byproduct of the record's organizing principle. "Learning value" be damned, From Dubplate is at heart a pure pop pleasure product to be replayed in full again and again, by turns robust and dashed off, rootsically warm and computer chilled, violent and mournful, hilarious and dead serious, sexy and secular, religious and righteous. It's a string of contradictions laid chronologically end to end and designed to play off dancehall's schizo style by placing a sweetly crooned love song that practically predicts the kind of sugary singjay territory Akon has made his own (Wayne Wonder's "No Letting Go") right next to a song that advocates bloody retribution as if it was a new dance craze (Elephant Man's "Log On"). Tippa Irie sounds like he should be sporting a white top hat and tails on the ersatz Broadway shuffle of "Hello Darling", a cheeky courting song that comes just before J.C. Lodge's panting and sweating lover's rock ode to the joys of phone sex. And then Gregory Issacs pleads his innocence to the Kingston police over the exact same riddim on the very next track. Needless to say I'd need another 600 words just to catalog the various shifts in vocal pitch, timbre, grain, and groove, from blackhearted and gruff to eyelash kiss gentle.

Despite the flip-flop between tempo and mood and all the contradictory talk of love of Jah and love of guns and sexual love and love of sweet smoke, the compilation works better as an end-to-end listening experience (and a great party mix for lazy selectors) than most other highly touted pop records I've heard this year. Points inevitably have to be deducted for including trash like "Log On", a call to anti-homosexual violence only made more indefensible by its great groove. (Just because homophobic tripe was a hit doesn't mean it needs to be enshrined.) But to overlook the collection as a whole because it contains occasionally offensive sentiments would be throwing the party out with the ignorant bathwater. This is one of the year's best unmixed corporate mixtapes, and those who claim the well-worn choices make the record a snore are being boorish. If you can deny the power of tunes like "Under Mi Sleng Teng", "Oh Carolina", and "Who Am I", even on the hundreth listen, I and I certainly won't be letting your non-irie ass DJ at my house any time soon.