“One, two, three… news-a-carry-dread in a tenement yard,” he hummed, trying out the melody.

Suddenly, a knock on the door broke the trance. It was Ian, his drummer.

The sunlight in Kingston, 1978, was thick, a golden haze that seemed to vibrate with the bass pounding from a speaker box on the corner. Inside the dimly lit apartment, the air was cooler, thick with the smell of Red Stripe and the smoke of "dreadlocks serenity."