The central bank of Jamaica has called on reggae music stars to record upbeat songs explaining inflation targeting.
The Wall Street Journal
“F**king nature–I love it!”
As I entered the lodge at the Grand Teton National Park for the Federal Reserve Bank’s annual economic symposium in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I got the sense that change–in the form of heavy marijuana smoke and reggae music–was in the air.
“Hey Jay,” I called out to Jerome Powell, who was fiddling with his dreadlocks while passing a joint to Lisa Cook.
Powell: “How high was I? THIS high!”
“Whassup!” he replied, giving me a mile-wide grin that seemed out of place on the face of the central banker whose mere eyebrow twitches can send bond markets tumbling.
“Have a toke,” Cook said, passing me a huge joint, while simultaneously holding her breath. Not an easy feat, but we’re all going to have to exercise restraint in order to keep inflation at bay.
“What’s the deal with the, uh,” I began, but Powell cut me off.
“The change from the dreary, somber annual economic symposiums . . .”
“Symposia!” Cook squealed. Apparently whatever she was smoking had kicked in; she was giddy at the opportunity to correct Da Chairman’s Latin.
“Anyway,” Powell said with a smile and a genial roll of his eyes in Cook’s direction. “We’ve moved away from the old format to a new, relaxed, mellow atmosphere where with the help of psychoactive drugs our Board of Governors can free associate solutions to problems of price stability and promote maximum employment.”
“Which are the core mission of the Fed,” Christopher Waller said as he reached for the doobie. “Don’t Bogart that joint, man,” he said, then inhaled and held his breath like a blue whale on the run from a Japanese fishing boat.
“I ‘get’ that,” I said. “But why the sudden turn to what appears to be–at first glance– Rastafarian monetary policy?”
“Well,” Powell began, “we read in The Wall Street Journal . . .”
“The Daily Diary of the American Dream.” That was Lael Brainard, the smokin’ hot Vice Chair of the Fed. “Sorry, Jay–go on,” she said as she took the joint from Waller.
“That the central bank of Jamaica was using reggae music to fight inflation,” Powell continued. “We figured out that growing the money supply for loans that were never intended to be repaid . . .”
Lael Brainard, Anna Schwartz
“The ‘Paycheck Protection Act’!” Waller said, setting off a cascade of giggles from the rest.
“. . . and sending out stimulus checks to convicted felons to spend in jail was–in hindsight–probably not the best way to fight inflation.”
“Hindsight is always 20-20,” said Brainard. “How were we supposed to know . . .”
” . . . except by past experience and the overwhelming weight of economic scholarship”–that was Cook.
” . . . that what we were doing was entirely counterproductive!” At this last comment by Brainard the gang burst out laughing again. I didn’t see what was funny about economic policies that forced families to choose between groceries and gas, but people’s humor threshold drops precipitously when they’re high on pot.
“Well,” I began hesitantly, “you could have read A Monetary History of the United States 1867-1960 by Milton Friedman and Anna Schwartz.”
“Boring!” Waller said. “Give me a one-page memo with bullet points.”
“Hey everybody can I get some attention up here!” It was Philip N. Jefferson, who with footlong dreadlocks and a Haile Selassie t-shirt had commandeered the microphone in front of a three-piece combo of drums, guitar and electric bass. “Are you ready to rock the money supply!”
“Yes!” came the cries from the crowd of normally reserved Reserve employees.
“I can’t hear you!”
“YES!”
“All right then,” Jefferson said before turning to his band to say “Hit it!”
The musicians laid down a loose groove of funky stuff and Jefferson began to sing:
All the high prices that mean me harm
They can go back where they came from.
No inflation monster shall prosper!
The guys were all high but that didn’t stop them from ogling Brainard, who had closed her eyes and was swaying from side to side.
“Jay,” I said, trying to pull the Chairman aside.
“Don’t bring me down, man–I’m grooving.”
“Fine, but have you seen the latest economic numbers? We’re already in a recession.”
Powell glared at me with a look that could’ve defrosted a frozen burrito. “Why are you so negative, man?”
As has frequently been the case in my life, I was cast in the role of wet blanket, stick-in-the-mud, skunk-at-the-garden party. “I don’t mean to spoil the fun, but the inflation rate is the highest it’s been since November of 1981.”
“Man, I remember the 80s,” Powell said, growing wistful as he looked off into the distance. “The Golden Age of Ska. Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer.”
“Those guys were great,” I said. “But you’re forgetting somebody.”
“Who?”
“Paul Volcker.”
Paul Volcker: Currently spinning in his grave.
“Who?”
“The 12th Chair of the Federal Reserve, from 1979 to 1987. The guy widely credited with bringing the hyper-inflation of the 1970s and early 1980s to an end?”
Powell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think I have any of his albums.”
Text in italicized print is actual lyrics of a song by Jamaican pop star Tarrus Riley.
So, the economy’s going to pot.