No, not this one:
This one:
The only one.
Last weekend, I was watching this—to say fascinating is an oceanic understatement—documentary on the life and music of Bob Marley whose songs were the constant background of my early life from ages 6 until I left for the United States at 21.
Bob was the “illegitimate” son of an Irish man, Captain Marley who as near as they can tell never actually was a captain of anything other than bedding underage Jamaican girls. I put illegitimate in quotes because, as someone said, there are no illegitimate children, only illegitimate parents.
His early life was as one would expect growing up in a shithole, shitty. He picked up music, a propensity for ganja, pretty women and a biting urge to succeed. So far, we have here the age-old story of a man possessed of talent and drive clawing his way out of the slums to reach fame. All well and good. What he couldn’t get away from, however, was his genetics and his circumstance.
Bob Marley espoused Rastafarianism, a rather weird combination of homegrown Christianity, hero worship pointed in the general direction of Emperor Haile Salassie, “good vibrations” socialism, and toking large burning rolls of marijuana while managing to keep soap and water as far away as possible from their hair.
This laissez-faire attitude—naturally (Jamaica, man!) and pharmaceutically acquired—combined with an unmanaged melanoma that metastasized into a full-body infestation (the Jamaicans called it his “white” disease) ultimately did him in so that he died in Miami in 1981.
His life stands as a lesson, or should: if you’re a Rasta, you’re a fucking idiot. If you have a melanoma on your toe and treatment required cutting off the tip of the toe, continue to visit the doctor for regular checkups afterwards, the protestations of Jah Rastafarai notwithstanding. Stay the hell away from the machinations of two warring Third World political parties, the only difference between them being just how leftist they can be so you don’t get shot at by idiots.
Five stars.
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