Bob Marley review - chrisnieratko.com

Bob Marley Review

I lived in Los Angeles for four years and the "reality" of L.A. is that anything pretty on the outside typically is very ugly on the inside. I think all the transients check their souls at the county line before entering, trading them in hopes of fame or big fake tits. The insane way of life is rampant in Hollywood, and the experiences I had there made me second-guess my idea of what beauty is and where to look for it. I've come to realize it's not located between the stomach and neck; I doubt that you could even find it deep in a pair of warm, loving eyes. Yet I can assure you there is beauty packed within the 256 pages of Rebel Music: Bob Marley and Roots Reggae, a new collection of photos by Kate Simon. I was floored by it. The limited-edition tome is so stunning that it scared the piss out of me when I first saw it, packaged in a silk-screened wooden slipcase. I fell in love instantly. But it also led me to believe that nothing on the inside could live up to such a fantastic presentation. It took me a week to even open it for fear of disappointment. Not to mention the fact that I've been on the fence about Bob Marley over the last few years.

Like anyone who has ever encountered Marley, I am completely bananas over the man and the music. My problem is I hate hippies. And, sadly, I associate hippies with Marley. From what I know of them, these dirty kids who try to mask their

stench with patchouli oil and grow out these pathetic matlocks (the matted version of what dreadlocks are supposed to be) only shop for reggae at Barnes & Noble, where the selection basically consists Marley or more Marley. And I make no bones about it. I have zero tolerance for the burnt, the fired, the Humboldt Countied. I have things to do, I don't have five minutes to spend getting out one sentence, in a Tommy Chong tone of voice, along the lines of, "Bro... you know... uh... the band... they're called... heh heh ... uh... Phish? Yeah, man... They're awesome." Hippies should fuck off. I am an American. I like to litter, piss in public, eat red meat, destroy the ozone with my gas guzzling '72 El Camino. I want war all the time so there are no surprise attacks, I think the Grateful Dead were glorified Trekkies that figured out how to play guitar, I wish I didn't ever have to see tie-dye ever again.

I remember being very young and hearing my brother play Talking Blues and wondering how he could listen to something so relaxing, so feel-good, instead of his usual Slayer or Metallica. "Slayer will never let you sleep," he told me. Since then, no matter what musical phase in my life I was in, I'd fall asleep to the sounds of Bob Marley. That is, until the goddamn hippies stole him. And I want him back. I want to forget those little bastards and their bloodshot eyes. I just want to sleep again. This book of Kate Simon's photos -- including hundreds that have never been published before -- which were taken over the span of a decade that she spent with Bob, is the first step to achieving that. Seeing Marley's smiling face throughout these pages has begun to wash the slate clean, allowing me to rediscover him all over again. It almost makes want to go buy some weed and get high again. Almost.

Comments

Huge
02 Mar 2007, 03:26

I just bought the big HST book, its waiting at my parents with a big 'don't touch the fucker' cause I fear the same.
I'm hoping my hero's can live outside every party, every celebration. We'll all agree all the time, I fear explaining decoram, I don't want my kids buying their commercials.

wha?
19 Nov 2007, 12:36

I don't even understand what this guy is yapping about.