Bob Marley: Rasta Vigilante

Double Elvis.

“Discrace land is a production of Double Elvis.”

[MUSIC PLAYING]

The truth about Bob Murley is pretty nuts.

The piece in love rusted firing in Raygate Superstar was also a violent revenge-fueled kid from the trench town ghetto, who would not be denied justice, or his due. He once hung his manager out of a hotel window

to renegotiate a contract. He and his friends were known to strong arm DJs for radio play. And in a rage, he jammed a pistol into the side of a colleague's head until he was given what he wanted.

If you were the big tree in his way, he was the small axe. Sharpened to cut you down. And he saw it and possibly attained justice by having a trench town kangaroo court string up his would-be assassins from palm trees.

Bob Murley believed in justice.

“But there is a thin line between justice and vengeance.”

You can hear both themes throughout his music. And Bob Murley made great music. Some of the greatest music ever made, in fact. That music at the top of the show. That wasn't great music.

That was a loop from a mellow trot called "Rumbukatarlo M.K.2." And I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to night fever by the B.G.'s. And why would I play you that specific slice of Harry Medallion cheese, can I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on April 22, 1978. And that was the day that Bob Murley, international Rage superstar, the tough gong. And the Rastafari men of peace and love

may or may not have brought violent justice down upon his enemies. On this episode, a kangaroo court, "Rumbukatar," Harry Medallion cheese, Bob Murley, and Rastafari inventions. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Discretion.

[MUSIC PLAYING] Before the tiny Ford Capri had even stopped skitting, the four young men from Tranch Town jumped out and onto the unpaid parking lot of the Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation.

One of them was Bob Murley, and he was pissed. Pist off that his bandmate, Bunny Livingston, didn't want a tour. Pist off that money was tight. Still in his 20s, he was supporting seven children

by four different women. Joe will provide, but within reason.

“And most important, in this moment, Bob was pissed off”

that his latest single, despite being the number one selling song in all of Jamaica, couldn't get spun on the radio. Tranch Town Hoods got a bad rap, but the real gangsters were the suits in the music industry, pulling strings, and playing kingmaker.

Bob sang small acts killed. And so to Bob's right-hand man, the man rushing the radio station with him at the moment, who went by the unambiguous nickname, Take Life. He was a brutal presence back in the ghetto.

A second killer, hurried along Bob's other side.

In the last man, the wheel man, a professional footballer named Alan Skill Cole, who, when he unfolded his six foot five inch body out of the front door of the fastback coupe, made it look more like a clown car.

But there would be no clowning around on this visit to the radio station. These guys meant business. Skill carried with him a cricket bat. Take Life carried a ratchet knife.

And Bob, Bob Marley carried with him a lifetime of angst and desperation. The only growing up in abject poverty can add to your load. The force and burst into the studio uninvited and intimidating his all-hell.

You go and play the new whale is record on JBC. Bob demanded of the confused British DJ behind the console. Take Life leaned back against the wall, played it cool. Cleaned his fingernails with his knife and sucked on his teeth while the other short,

well-dressed thug, frouser, loosened up his neck muscles to let the DJ know and no one certain terms that he was ready for combat. Skill just smacked his open palm with the cricket bat. Slowly and stared with menace.

And then he said, listen here. If we don't hear small acts on JBC before an hour pass, we smash your windscreen. Then, if another hour pass, and we don't hear small acts, we smash your face.

Skill had recently begun helping the whaleers out with what he called, quote unquote, "management." His Jamaican patwa was a little easier for the caoring DJ

who now fixed the DJ with an intense gaze, a look that those who knew him called "screw face." The DJ had heard tale of Marley and his muscle visiting the island's only other major station, radio Jamaica, earlier in the week.

The damage amounted to one broken nose, four slash tires, and a sudden increase in airplay for Bob Marley.

“The only thing the DJ was able to verify”

was that he had indeed heard small acts on radio Jamaica on his drive to work that morning. And now, here was Bob's "screw face Marley," the tough gong himself, armed with a couple of thugs in the country's best footballer, staring him in the face.

He had only one choice. And so, Bob Marley's top selling Jamaican smash, small acts cut through the island's airwaves.

At all around his hometown, people were finally

able to hear Bob Marley on their radios. His message was revolution. His message was love. His message was peace. It's so what if the message needed a little stronger

to get across. Jamaican radio, in the 1970s, was difficult for Ross to crack. There were only two radio stations on the island. One played disco, and the other was busy trying

to be the BBC. And they both ignored the musical revolution

“growing like weeds right outside their studio doors.”

[MUSIC PLAYING] Reagan was alive throughout the streets of Jamaica, a true music of the people, or in Jamaica, just like in America, it was paid a play.

If you wanted to record played on the radio,

well, you better show the program in just some love and come calling to cash or coke, a women, or all three. But bribes weren't enough. The proletariat power of Reagan, even in those early days, spooked radio programmers.

And despite whatever enticements were brought through way, DJs were still reluctant to accept them from the dreadlocked rastus. But take life, browser, and skill brought a different set of skills

to the proverbial negotiating table. And things, for the whalers, and Bob Murley slowly started to change. The radio station was ignoring the needs of the masses with symptomatic of a larger political problem in Jamaica.

The island achieved independence about a decade before in 1962.

“But Jamaica was still unapologetically neo-colonial,”

run by a lazy white middle-class minority who had their own interests at heart and had no interest in losing their power to the masses and the shanty towns. The gulf between the rich and the poor,

seemed to widen daily, even under the socialist rule of prime minister Michael Mamley and his people's national party. Life in Jamaica was rough. So its citizens looked to their government for change, and everyone had seemed to can interest in politics.

Including it was rumored, the American government, who had invested interest in ousting the sitting prime minister in favor of their own puppet. So mysterious shipments of guns started floating up under making sure as it were handed out in the ghetto.

CIA agents began training rubboys on how to use their new M-16s. Rumors started circulating that prime minister Michael Mamley was a communist puppet for Cuba's Fidel Castro, and as such distrust was sewn,

and the tiny country was further destabilized. Meanwhile, as Bob Murley's star rose and as his name began to ring out throughout the island, he formed an alliance with Michael Mamley, the sitting prime minister, and his people's national party,

also known as the PNP in the early 70s. The Whaleers had lined in 1971 tour, called the PNP Musical Bandwagon. And whenever asked an interviews, which of the two parties

he preferred, Bob would always stump

for the people's national party. And nearly all of these interviews, and Bob Murley did a lot of interviews. He would also install the virtues of Gonja and courage all blacks to repatriate to Africa,

and preach that mighty God was a living man. Ethiopia and Emperor Highly Salasiai, aka John Rostofarai. I and I will survive. Bob was far out, unconventional, even so with his new clout,

his endorsement of Michael Mamley carried away. Bob was fast becoming an international superstar, and wither without Jamaican radio, Jamaicans were listening to him. In an app to follow his lead, politically, as well as his message of revolution and justice.

For years, Murley had been yearning to expand his message beyond the island. He struck out on his own and the Whaleers became Bob Murley and the Whaleers, after founding members Peter Tosh and Bunning Livingston quit.

It was also time for Murley to get a new manager. Although skill coal had been helpful, or at least forceful in Murley's development. And he was a hell of a lot of fun to kick the ball around with. Skill was returning to the world of professional soccer.

Bob Murley met Don Taylor, the concert's organizer,

and a business relationship was struck.

“Taylor had strong US music industry connections”

and a shrewd business acumen. This, coupled with Murley's natural and immense appeal, helped Bob make influential friends from other parts of the world. By the mid-70s, most major rock-acts had begun integrating Rage into their sound.

And it was entirely because of Bob Murley, the Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, and Paul Simon. Psalm did a more convincingly than others. Eric Clapton covered, "I shot the sheriff." And Clapton was God, and so to white kids,

that met God was covering Bob Murley, a ghetto kid from a tiny island, the large portion of the world had barely heard of. Stevie Wonder even wrote a song about Bob Murley. And after the Whaleers shared a bill with Stevie

at a benefit concert in 1975, Bob decided

he wanted to give something back to the Jamaican people, respect his roots, and hold a free concert. The concert was to be an apolitical event called the Smile Jamaica concert,

“but nothing in Jamaica in 1976 was apolitical.”

Bob's intention was to bring people together to ease social tensions on the eve of a divisive election. Prime Minister Michael Manley, one of the concerts to be held on the Prime Minister's lawn. Bob felt like he was being played

by Manley's political machine. Being boxed into a position where he would be seen as being too far out on his front foot as a political shill. So Bob declined to fuck that.

Bob Murley wasn't going to go calling on the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister could come calling on Bob Murley. The concerter was decided, we'll be held at the National Heroes Park, but then shortly after the day to the concert

was announced, Manley's incumbent political party pulled a fast one and moved the election up two weeks, effectively making the event seem like a rally for Michael Manley himself,

when it effect that was never to be the case.

It did indeed, now look like Bob was chilling for Manley to win the election. Bob Murley was pissed, but perhaps more important, the heavily-armed CIA backed conservative labor party back in the ghetto was even more pissed.

This election was war, every battle mattered. And if Bob Murley, the country's biggest star, was openly supporting their sworn enemy Prime Minister, Manley, then this was not to be tolerated. Marley, fully backing Manley, even by accident,

or by manipulation, was a bridge too far. A bridge worth blowing up. A bridge worth dying on. If Bob Murley was going to help win the reelection for the Prime Minister, then Bob Murley had to be stopped

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I'm Joshua Adner, and I am so excited to tell you about how we made your mother a rewatch podcast looking back at how I met your mother. And I'm here with Craig Thomas, who co-created the show along with Carter Bay's high-crag.

Hey, Josh. Somehow, it has been 20 years since the show premiered, that's seen I'm going to check the math on that 10 years since it went off the air. And we thought that made this a perfect time to look back.

See, what the hell we did, and why the show still seems to resonate with fans around the world today. Follow a listen to how we made your mother wherever you get your podcasts. Bob Murley admitted, he knew this because he'd

moved from the slums of trench town Jamaica to a Kingston estate. And perhaps out of guilt, or perhaps just because he was a truly righteous dude, Bob Murley took trench down to Kingston with him.

Bob was more than happy to allow all sorts of friends and hangers on to get together and feel all right at a swanky new digs. And if in doing so, he brought the property values of his white devil neighbors down then so be it.

His front yard was overrun by gangsters, gunmen, and half naked children. Many of them, his own from an ever-expanding stable of women who weren't his wife. Members of the 12 tribes of Israel, an intense sect

of rastafarianism, of which Bob was a part, kept intense, watchful eyes over the makeshift, new-vole-rich commune that Marley was bankrolling. A reporter once asked Marley, if he found it difficult to keep writing from the perspective of the struggling man,

if he found it difficult to stay in touch with the ghetto, Bob said, find it difficult, watch now. You look into my yard, it's a ghetto. This is a ghetto you're looking at.

“Look out there, I've just brought the ghetto up town.”

Two days before the smile and Jamaica concert was to take place, Bob was standing in his kitchen, taking a break from rehearsal, waiting on one of Jamaica's finest herbs men to show up and sharing a grapefruit

with wailers guitarist, Don Kinsey. That's when the gunshots ran out. Pop, pop, pop.

At first, the sound was in the distance.

It almost sounded like fireworks, but then, the second round came. And there was no mistaking the sound. Out in the yard, a gunman shot Bob's wife, read Marley in the head.

Bob Marley's rastafarian vahala was on the siege, and two white dots and compacts had snuck into the gates behind the car of Bob's manager, Don Taylor, and quickly, two teams of gunmen exited and had begun their hunt. They prowed over the grounds under the cover of night

with pistols and machine guns in hand,

“crouched, slinking around, looking to kill their man,”

the man with all the influence, the man with the plan, the man they believed to be backing Michael Manley. Bob Marley. After shooting Rita Marley, one of the gunmen burst through the rehearsal room door into the house

and fired a revolver off of the assembled band members. The gunman was no more than 16 years old and terrified. He pissed himself for firing off multiple shots. All, the device closed.

Over in the kitchen, a mass gunman stuck his head into the kitchen door. This dude wasn't fucking around. He raised the barrel of his submachine gunman entered the cliff toward the corner where Bob his guitarist Don Kinsey and manager Don Taylor was situated.

Bob remained standing but crammed his skinny body into a corner to make himself a small, the target is possible. Don Kinsey jumped behind some musical equipment as five bullets ripped into Don Taylor's side and upper legs. And then, a bullet found its way to Bob Marley.

First, it grazed his breastbone.

“Then, it burst by his heart and eventually”

lodged itself into the bicep of the singer's left arm. And then, just as soon as they arrived, gunmen were gone. All they remained in their wake was smoke, silence, blood, and ruin. Bob Marley opened his eyes.

He was in pain, but he was calm. He knew that someday, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but one day, the people who did this would get theirs. He knew in his bones the peace and love would not be

cout by violence and hate. And the justice would one day be coldly served. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Mama, how did you feel the great love of Anne? Hmm, is this sad and so creamy?

Hey, we can in Papa Kemi's scene. No Taylor, or from Mama's and father-in-law, no no Taylor is no Taylor. The blood was everywhere, all over his body. Bob Marley was a mess.

Prime Minister Manley could hardly recognize the singer when he got to the hospital. Maraculously, down the hall in the separate ward, reader Marley lay in bed and fair condition despite having a bullet lodge between her scalp and her skull.

And Don Taylor had to be airlifted to a hospital in Miami. Bob was placed in her national protection by the Prime Minister, and quickly ushered out of the hospital to a remote home in Jamaica's blue hills that belonged to Island Recordshead, Chris Blackwell.

The smile Jamaica concert, the Bob had been planning for a few days later, had not yet been called off, despite the headlines that gripped the island, detailing the shootout of Bob's home. Political pressure continued to mount and so did the pressure

on Bob to perform and not give in to the fear that this would be assassins were counting on. Manley's political machine was keen on Bob not backing out. It was symbolic. Don't give an inch to these animals.

Don't let him see his sweat, but Bob, like the rest of the country, had no idea how dangerous performing would be. What would happen when he went on stage? He had a bullet lodged in his arm.

The doctors told him he might never be able to play guitar again

if they removed it. He told him to leave the bullet in. Bob knew he'd rise to the occasion. But what about Rita? She's still at a bullet in her head, in her head.

How is she supposed to sing back up alongside him? And scarier than all that. The assassins were still at large, and they were still out there. When they tried to finish the job while Bob was on stage, got him down from the shadows of the crowd.

Fear hung heavy. The tension in the air was palpable. All of Jamaica felt it.

This was just, this was right and wrong.

This was quite literally freedom. The freedom to use your voice. The freedom to speak truth to power. The freedom to make your living. The freedom to live.

“And the gossip surrounding the shooting was everywhere.”

The most Jamaicans were convinced the CIA did it. Or at least put the guns and the hands of the people who did do it. Coach them up from the getters, and train them to kill as they had anti-castoral Cubans a decade and a half earlier. The public pointed to the song "Ratt Race"

on the most recent Whalers album, "Rasta Man" vibration, as illustrative of the beef. And there was also proof that people said, "Because Carl Colby, the son of former director of the CIA William Colby, was in Jamaica as part of a film crew to shoot the smile Jamaica concert."

And sons of powerful CIA men showing up at the crime scenes of culture shifting assassinations

is not an entirely uncommon thing. Senator Prescott Bush, a man who literally helped invent the CIA. You might want to look into the presence of his son, George H. W. Bush, and Dallas on the day President John of Kennedy was killed. And while you're at it, check into the declassified 1991 FBI file on George Bush's

activities immediately following the assassination as well as his experience with anti-castoral Cubans. The photographic evidence, though grainy, does not lie. Google it, but I digress, sort of.

“Because in 1976, the air Bob Marley was shot.”

The year Jamaicans believed the CIA was running guns and support to those who opposed their prime minister, manly. Exactly as the CIA had been doing for anti-castoral Cubans a decade and a half earlier. Do you know who was ahead of the CIA at that time? The answer.

George H. W. Bush. More rumors persist. The shooting happened because Bob and Skill Colt fixed the horse race, and made a lot of bad people a lot less money. The shooting happened because Don Taylor, Bob's manager,

was a major debt after skimming off the top of concert grosses and gambling the money away. The shooting happened because one of Bob's rude boys could bob to finance a scam that backfired majorly. But fact, her fiction, it didn't matter. The truth was that Bob needed a lay low for a hot minute, cool out.

He sat back and Chris Blackwell's plush leather recliner and took a cheek hollowing hit off a slifter. Outside in the darkness, Rosta vigilante surrounded the house, armed with great aid gonger for themselves and sharp machetes for anyone who dare come try and fuck with Bob Marley again. Bob let his head wander.

The smile Jamaica concert was all he could think about. Was he going to perform? Would he be killed in the process? Who would want to kill him? He was Bob Marley.

He was a man of peace. His songs inspired people to love one another. Not to kill, songs of freedom. He fought for justice. He fought for equality.

And this was horseshit. And this wasn't even supposed to be a political show. It was supposed to be his show. Bob Marley's show for his people. He had to do it.

Fuck the assassins. Fuck the politicians. Fuck the CIA. He heard one of his home invaders with so scaredy pissed his own short pants. Amateur.

Bob was a pro, a professional musician, a professional healer, a prophet, a true man of the people. If the punk shooters, CIA, back, no soul mercenaries had the balls to try and finish the job of the concert, the crowd would have Bob's back. He was Jamaica's favorite son. Or if things went south and the assassins managed to get a shot off or worse put a bullet in him,

he'd go down doing what he did best. Bringing the truth to the people and dying for it. And it was a cause we were fighting for. Especially at the weapon of choice was music. And really, going out to blaze a bullet on stage would make him a martyr.

And that's the last thing the CIA would have wanted. Marders. Last a lot longer than one term political ponds. His mind was made up. Shows on.

Today the show finally came.

Tens of thousands of fans flocked to National Heroes Park. The opening performers third world took the stage. Not knowing if they'd be the reluctant headliners of the warm-up act for one of the most historically significant shows in the history of Reagan. The history of music.

What was going to happen was Bob Marley actually going to go through with it. Were they warming up the stage for a dead man? Crowd had no idea what to expect. What if the entire show was a ruse, a scam?

“What if Bob was actually out of the country and hiding?”

And all the concert goers were to be exterminated? That's a hell of a lot of PMP supporters who wouldn't be alive to cast their votes for men. Or if the real Bob did step on stage. How long we last? Were they going to have to watch their hero get rubbed out in front of it?

Was this about to be some real-life roster version of a snuff film? No what I have swayed on everyone, especially Rita.

She busted out of the hospital before being discharged.

“Decided against chanting a taxing instead stole a car from the hospital parking lot.”

And hide tell that out to Chris Blackwell's house for Bob was laying low. When she arrived, barely recovered from a bullet with her wearing a hospital gown. With not so fresh bandages on her head. Bob took one look at her and we considered. Maybe this was such a good idea.

He knew she'd need some convincing. Bob told her the plan was to do only one song and Rita could get with that. It would be war figuratively and literally. Yes, war is the song that years later Chanel Connor would sing as she ripped apart a picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live.

But that was like sticking your tongue out at somebody when they turned her back.

“Compared to the giant fuck you statement, Bob would make to his assassins with the same song.”

On stage, later that day. You trying to shoot me down? Try again. You can't kill the tough gun. Effort to made the round-up the rest of the wailers, but since not everybody could be located by showtime,

it was decided that members of third world would sit in on the missing instruments.

What was only supposed to be one song would unravel to become 90 of the most intense minutes of live performance ever captured on film. One of the camera men may have been the son of former CIA director, but that was a red herring. The footage of the show is grainy and hyper real, and the crowd is raging. The exchange of energy between Bob and the audience is close to being something you can actually touch.

“The stage itself is jam packed with musicians, bodyguards, and hangers on, sworn protectors of Bob Marley,”

keeper of the people's flame, air to rustify her eye himself, that you can see it, feel it. They're literally willing to take a bullet for. The singer who survived a hellfire of bullets just two days before.

Marley himself flails in what little stage space he has.

He sees as if he's singing directly to the assassins themselves. Songs course through him with an electric current of the liberated masses. Rita's at his side still in her hospital gown, and holding it down. Her head is still bandaged again from a bullet. After seven songs of protest, Marley shifts the mood from defiance to exuberance and performs

trench town rock. At the end of the 15 songs set, Bob handed off his mic, stepped to the lip of the stage and unbuttoned his shirt to show the 80,000 people in attendance's bullet wounds. And this is the stuff religions are built upon. Nobody fucks with the tough gun. Bob Marley's manager, Don Taylor, was screaming in hard, but it didn't matter.

Nobody could cure him, except skill call, and a few other members of the entourage. But skill call didn't care. The screams got him off. Violence, even just the threat of violence. To fuel him, caused his chest to bubble above his heart, and just below his throat with that giddy rhythm. It was like sex but better. And right now, skill was before it. He and another member of Marley's muscle had Taylor by his ankles, and were hanging him out of the

seventh story window that palaces into continent the hotel in the African country of Gabon. Taylor was pleading frantically for his life. He didn't do it, he said. He couldn't have done it, he said. He was one of them. He loved them. He was trustworthy. He swore. But then, of course, as the fear really said it. And it came apparent just how serious skill call was about dropping Don out of the window. The music manager sang it different tune.

Okay, he did do it, but only because he had miles to feed, and only because he knew Bob wouldn't miss the money. And besides, he was planning on paying it every penny back. Yes, he'd get Bob all of his money back, before they let him live. Skimming off the top of Bob Marley's concert proceeds had been a lucrative scam for Don Taylor. There was about to cost him his life. So he thought of him, yes. The Bob thought of the last,

because Bob was in a bind. He couldn't really throw his manager out of the window of his hotel. What he also couldn't just fire, Don Taylor knew too much. He knew all Bob's secrets. He was also the only one who knew where all Bob's bank accounts were. So he was hauled back into the hotel suite and beat about the head and face by Bob Marley's man. The Bob took a gallon of milk and poured it all over Don and his wounds.

Skill caught the hammer of a 12-gauge shotgun and took aim at Don's badly beaten head. Don's swayed, somehow still able to stand on his feet. Two days, the two confused from the beatings to be scared anymore. Bob Marley pulled Taylor down violently by a shoulder into a chair

Don's head and pressed his head like a bite into the barrel of the gun. Barely containable rage

“seed in from the lost deferring and superstar. Someone pushed a pen into his manager's hand”

and it revised contract was furnished. Don Taylor, with Bob Marley pressing a nine millimeter heart into the side of his head, was forced to sign away all of his rights to Marley's management and allowed to stay on to continue managing Bob's business affairs. I'll bet under the very watchful heart eyes of skill-cool. Justice, Bob's mind, was served. The man, Shugnight didn't invent anything. It had been two years since Bob Marley had been back to Jamaica. He spent his time

recording in England and touring the rest of the world and in one wild burst of creativity he ripped off two great albums, Exodus and Kaya. The song's jamming is this love, satisfy my soul,

natural mystic and even three little birds are beyond incredible. They are genre defining.

“You probably know most of them from the legend CD that that douchebag trustafari and down the”

hall from you and your dorm played on repeat, non-stop freshman year. But if you can detach yourself from that memory, the song shine and consistently call out for triumph, justice and even for vengeance. So, in the spring of 1978, when Bob Marley returned to Jamaica after two year exile in the UK, vengeance was very much on his mind. Bob was in town to perform at the one love piece concert, but after the show he had other business to tend to. Rumor has it that after the show was over,

Don Taylor ushered Bob to trench town where a kangaroo court was in session. On trial, two of the men who invaded Bob's home and tried to gun him down to years earlier. Marley's men hurled insults and questions at the accused, Bob hung back, quiet, cool, stern, stoic,

“screwface and full effect. The accused pleaded for their lives, the cries of innocence”

were mocked by Bob's muscle, a girling mob of trench town locals grew impatient, something had to give, guilty. The verdict came in cold, the next of the accused men were threaded through two trench town mooses in strung up high in a palm tree. Bob Marley turned and mocked away, behind him the guilty swung violently across the great divide to meet their maker. The feet jerking, their shoulders twitching and their necks snapped. Vengeance had been delivered.

In court years later, when Don Taylor was asked who actually carried out the execution, he said, because of the love of Bob Marley by the people the people took it upon themselves, they felt the government wasn't moving fast enough. Other friends of Marley cried bullshit. The nut simply doesn't fit the screw they say. Bob Marley was a good man, a man of mercy, not a man of vengeance. He couldn't do that while there was something called the one love

peace concert. But Bob Marley's strong-erming DJs and Bob Marley's strong-erming his cheating business manager, those stories are accepted as truth. Bob Marley was a badass. Go to YouTube and check out the smile Jamaica concert. What's more badass and appearing on stage with fresh bullet holes and taunting your assassins? So imagining Don Taylor's account of a vengeful Bob Marley presiding over the kangaroo court that found his would be assassins to be guilty is not

exactly beyond a reasonable doubt. Whether or not Bob Marley did have anything to do with it, most accounts hold that every single gunman who entered Bob's house that night in 1976 was indeed eventually brought to justice and violent and dramatic fashion.

In addition to the hanged men, two other gunmen were poisoned with a powerful hallucinogen.

One night, two other wannabe Marley killers were followed into the Jamaican Hills by a group of roster vigilantes. Both of their throats were slit, ear to ear, they were left to bleed out and die, slaughtered like the dirty goats that they were. Another gunman from that faithful night back in Kingston was caught up with all the way up in New York City. He caught a bullet in the head. And finally, the last of Bob Marley's would be assassins was rounded up in two of the gardens. He was briefly

bound and gagged, while men, very capable men, quietly and methodically dug for him a shallow grave. His bines were removed and he was buried alive in the rich to make him soil. Right, wrong, justice, vengeance. For some, these are just words, and for others, their ideals to live by, to fight for, to die for, to kill for.

showing weakness isn't an option. It's a death sentence. Bob Marley made it out of the ghetto,

“but in this great future, you can't forget your past. I'm Jake Brenning. Miss.”

This is The Screaseland. This great sound was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis,

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