![]() I never knew when he would erupt, leaving me running for cover. The mood in the house during those years was dreadful. In those years, he had just returned from a job in the Gulf and lost a lot of money in a ponzi scheme. My father was a man nursing his own grouse with how life had let him down. I’ve always had a rocky relationship with my father. I didn’t bother to find out, all I knew was that this music was mellow, soothing and seemed to relax my perpetually on-edge father, whose cigarettes sometimes smelled funny. Often I misheard lyrics, at times I wondered what “Babylon”, or “I and I” meant. I would listen to my dad’s cassettes on my walkman and try to figure out the words, using a pencil at times to manually rewind to specific parts. ![]() I’d audition for singing competitions in school with bad, off-key renditions of “No Woman No Cry” or “Could You Be Loved”, devoid of the typical Jamaican patois. I didn’t know that day why out of all my dad’s music I would keep coming back to Bob. He wasn’t pretty, but then he didn’t have too much use for prettiness. There he was, holding an electric guitar, dreadlocks unfurled, armpit hair visible. My first encounter with Bob Marley was in my uncle’s living room on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. ![]() ![]() We going to smoke’a de ganja until the very end.” “You know I smoke’a de ganja all de time. ![]()
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