Marley grows on you

Every year around this time, I grow nostalgic for Bob Marley’s music. It is unavoidable. Long Beach hosts the Bob Marley Day Festival year year. Its advertising is everywhere. I hear more reggae on the radio because stations tend to play it out of respect for Marley and to promote the upcoming festival. And… February is the month of my birth, so I end up playing a lot of Marley as I reflect on the previous year.

In my opinion, Bob Marley may have been the best musician of my generation. I regret that I did not see him live in the 70’s. I had several opportunities, but back in the day, reggae was not on my radar. I preferred Led Zeppelin and Boston to Marley at the time; What was I thinking?.

I made up for it in 99. I was living in France while working on a large technology project. One weekend I was riding the Metro with a few of my co-workers while in search of good Irish Pub. As I pulled into a Metro station near the Pigalle I heard Marley’s Slave Driver booming load and clear. It was almost as if somebody had turned on a boom box. I looked around and eventually located the source of the music. A man stood in an alcove with an amp, an electric guitar, a PA and a mic. He was singing his heart out. The music felt like Bob Marley, it was rich, melodic, and real. Without a word, I jumped off the Metro as it started to pull away from the station. My friends thought I had gone crazy, but I did not care. I did what I felt compelled to do and had no regrets.

I stood across the subway platform from this ragged Rastafarian and listened while he played a dozen wonderful songs. It was magic. I was one of the only people who paid him any attention. When he finished his set, I walked around to his alcove to give him some money. He refused my offer of cash and instead we shared a candy bar together while we talked about Bob Marley. We spoke for a few minutes, it was wonderful. I never learned his name; I never heard him or anyone like him again. However, to this day, this Bob Marley memory remains one of the most poignant memories I have of a long lonely year spent in France.

I am often asked about the race of man who played music for me that day. I never really understand why people ask me this. His race was unimportant – as race should be. He was neither distinctly black nor distinctly white, I did not waste time trying to guess. It just did not matter. He was a man, a person much like me, who loved Bob Marley and played his music as if possessed.



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