Robert "Bob" Nesta Marley being born on 6th February 1945 in the a small
village known as Nine Mile in Saint Ann Parish, Jamaica.
His father, Norval Sinclair Marley, was born in 1895 and was a white
Jamaican of English descent. His own parents originated from Sussex.
Norval Marley was a Marine officer and captain as well as being a
plantation overseer when he fell in love with and married Cedella
Booker. She was a black Jamaican woman who was then just 18 years old.
Although Norval Marley provided financial support for his beloved wife
and son, he seldom saw them due to his being often away on naval trips.
The young Bob Marley was only 10 years old when his father died of a heart attack at the age of 60 in 1955.
As a youth, Bob Marley suffered much racial prejudice due to his mixed
racial origins. He often faced questions about his own racial identity
throughout his short life.
"I don't have prejudice against myself. My father was a white and my
mother was black. Them call me half-caste or whatever. Me don't dip on
nobody's side. Me don't dip on the black man's side nor the white man's
side. Me dip on God's side, the one who create me and cause me to come
from black and white."
Young Robert (Bob) Marley and his mother were forced to move to the
slums of Kingston's Trenchtown after Norval's death. This was a very
tough neighbourhood and Bob marley was forced to learn self-defense
becauee of his being the target of bullying, mainly due to his racial
makeup as well as his small stature of only 5'4". As he grew older, he
earned himself a reputation for his physical strength which earned him
the nickname "Tuff Gong".
Bob Marley made friends with Neville "Bunny" Livingston (who was later
known as Bunny Wailer). They soon started playing music together as a
natural progression of their friendship. Bob Marley left school at 14 to
work as an apprentice at a local welder's workshop. In his free time
Bob Marley and Bunny Livingston made music with another friend, Joe
Higgs who was a local singer as well as being a devout Rastafari. Joe
Higgs is regarded by many as being Bob Marley's mentor. It was at one of
their frequent jam sessions with Higgs and Livingston that Bob Marley
met Peter McIntosh (who was better known as Peter Tosh) who had similar
musical ambitions.
In 1962 Bob Marley recorded and released his first two singles. "Judge
Not" and "One Cup of Coffee" were produced by Leslie Kong, a local music
producer. Both songs were released on the Beverley's label under the
pseudonym of Bobby Martell. Unfortunately, they attracted almost no
media attention and were complete flops.
Richard Williams was at Bob Marley's funeral 30 years ago in Jamaica. He
recalls an extraordinary carnival of music, prayer and full Rasta
pageantry
Bob Marley in 1975,
two years before he was diagnosed with the malignant melanoma that would
lead to his death in May 1981. Photograph: Jonathan Player/ Rex
Features
They buried
Bob Marley
on 21 May 1981 at Nine Mile, the village where, 36 years earlier, he
had been born. His heavy bronze coffin was carried to the top of the
highest hill in the village and placed in a temporary mausoleum painted
in the colours of red, green and gold. Alongside Marley's embalmed
corpse, the casket contained his red Gibson Les Paul guitar, a Bible
opened at Psalm 23, and a stalk of ganja placed there by his widow,
Rita, at the end of the funeral ceremony earlier in the day.
On
the night of his death, on 11 May, I had gone to the Island Records
studios in an old church in Notting Hill, west London, where Aswad had
been cutting tracks in the very basement studio where Bob had completed
Catch A Fire,
his breakthrough album, nine years earlier. But it was long after
midnight, and the musicians had gone home after watching the tributes to
the dead man hurriedly assembled by the British TV networks. The only
people left were a caretaker and one of Aswad's roadcrew, both
Jamaicans.
"A sad day," I said, unable to think of anything more profound or perceptive.
They raised their eyes, and the roadie paused in the middle of rolling his spliff.
"Jah give," he replied, "and Jah take away."
That
was the mood in Kingston when Marley's body arrived on a flight from
Miami a few days later. There was no reason to grieve, the Rastas told
anyone who expressed sorrow. Death meant nothing. Bob hadn't gone
anywhere. He was still among us.
The announcement of the country's
national budget was postponed by several days to accommodate Marley's
state funeral. Invitations had to be sent out, the mausoleum had to be
constructed, and security had to be organised at the National Arena,
where the main ceremony would be held. And the prime minister, Edward
Seaga, had to prepare his eulogy.
On the day before the funeral,
the coffin was placed in the arena, a large, gymnasium-like building.
The lid was open and the public – an estimated 100,000 of them – were
allowed to file past to take a final look. Marley's head was once more
covered with dreadlocks; but this was a wig which covered his bald
skull, his own hair having been lost during his treatment for cancer in
New York, Miami, Mexico, and finally the Bavarian clinic of Dr Josef
Issels, following the diagnosis of a malignant melanoma four years
earlier.

In
Jamaica,
everyone claimed to be Bob's friend. "Sure I knew him," the cab driver
who picked me up at Norman Manley Airport said. "He smoked the herb of
life." And he passed his spliff over his shoulder to his friend in the
back seat, a uniformed policeman.
The day of the funeral began
with an hour-long service for family and close friends at the Ethiopian
Orthodox Church of the Holy Trinity on Maxfield Avenue, presided over by
His Eminence Abuna Yesehaq, the church's archbishop in the western
hemisphere, who had baptised Marley in New York the previous November,
just after his last triumphal concerts at Madison Square Garden. Bob's
baptismal name was Berhane Selassie – "Light of the Trinity".
At
the end of the short service the coffin was transported to the National
Arena, where the 6,000-strong congregation were assembling under the
eyes of cameras and reporters from around the world. Above the entrance,
a huge banner proclaimed: "Funeral Service of the Honourable Robert
Nesta Marley, OM". The Order of Merit had been conferred a few weeks
before his death.
The casket was carried into the hall on the
shoulders of a score of white-jacketed guards of the Jamaica Defence
Force. Inside and out in the street, a powerful public address system
blasted out Bob's records, while in the surrounding avenues the hawkers
of badges, posters, soft drinks and ganja worked the large numbers of
people who had arrived without invitations and were prepared, if they
could not get in, to listen to the ceremony as it was relayed by the
loudspeakers.
"Babylon system is a vampire," Bob's voice wailed as
the coffin was deposited on a trestle table in the middle of the broad
stage and covered with two flags, the green, gold and black of Jamaica
and the red, green and gold of Ethiopia. The decorations were the work
of Neville Garrick, the creator of all the Wailers' album cover art from
1976's
Rastaman Vibration to 1980's
Uprising. The
balconies were open to the public, and filled up quickly, but on the
floor the rows of chairs were marked with signs: Family, Government,
Press, Twelve Tribes of Israel, Musicians.
Photographers swiftly
surrounded Cedella Booker, Bob's mother, in whose Miami home he had
died, as she took her place. She was followed by his widow and some of
his children, including his sons Ziggy, aged 12, the nine-year-olds
Steve and Robert Junior, born to different mothers, and Julian, aged
five, and his daughters Cedella, 13, and Stephanie, six. Applause
saluted the entry of Michael Manley, the former prime minister, whose
pro-Cuban policies had provoked the disastrous enmity of the US
government and the International Monetary Fund, and who had been deposed
by Seaga at an election six months earlier.
The Rastafarians, in
particular, still saw Manley as a friend of the oppressed, and there was
an obvious contrast with the polite but tepid response accorded to
Seaga, who hurried to his seat surrounded by uniformed guards. The
governor-general of Jamaica,
Sir Florizel Glasspole,
ON, GCMG, CD, the Queen of England's official representative, arrived
from his residence, the palatial Devon House, to provide an appropriate
symbol of the island's colonial history, a living reminder that the
ancestors of most of those present had been brought from Africa four
centuries earlier to form the world's only entirely slave-based economy.
The
formal guard of the Ethiopian church, elderly men and women in white
robes, took their places around the coffin and the centre of the stage
was soon filled with the church's elders, in robes of varied and vivid
design. On the right of the platform a riser had been built for the
choir and for the United Africa Band, a group consisting of several
percussionists, a bass guitarist and organist, directed by Brother
Cedric Brooks. To the left, another riser was covered with amplifiers,
keyboards and drums, all stencilled with the legend "Bob Marley and the
Wailers".
A voice came over the loudspeakers. "Brothers and
sisters, this is a funeral service for the late Bob Marley. Please don't
forget that. The selling of all merchandise must stop now." In the row
in front of me, the producer Harry J, accompanied by his latest
protegee, the singer Sheila Hilton, was in conversation with a Rasta
wearing a red, green and gold tam o'shanter. "There has to be a
revolution to get a solution," the Rasta proclaimed. Harry J didn't seem
to be entirely in agreement. I wondered if, under the armpit of his
glossy silk suit, he was stillpacking the silver Smith & Wesson
revolver I'd seen him remove from the glove compartment of his
Oldsmobile as he took Chris Blackwell and me to a
Catch A Fire
session in his studio nine years earlier, the day after Marley and
Blackwell had signed the deal that would set the whole phenomenon in
motion.

A little while after the scheduled hour of 11 o'clock, the
service began with an Anglican hymn, "O God, Our Help in Ages Past",
accompanied by the drummers of the United Africa Band. As the familiar
18th-century melody – written by William Croft, an Oxford scholar and
composer to Queen Anne, whose remains lie in Westminster Abbey – died
away, the archbishop, standing beneath a parasol held by an acolyte,
began to read passages from the Anaphora of John, Son of Thunder and the
Anaphora of St Mary, rendered in Ge'ez, the ancient tongue of Ethiopia,
and Amharic.
The governor-general stepped forward, a small,
portly figure, to read the first lesson, taken from 1 Corinthians: "The
last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." The congregation sang
another hymn, coincidentally a favourite of Elvis Presley: "Then sings
my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee/ How great Thou art, how great Thou
art." Manley read from 1 Thessalonians: "Therefore, brethren, we were
comforted over you in all our affliction and distress by your faith/ For
now we live, if ye stand fast in the Lord."
Then, to the delight
of the Rastas in the balcony, it was the turn of the dreadlocked Allan
"Skill" Cole, Jamaica's finest footballer and one of the dead man's
closest friends. Cole was wearing the raiment of the Twelve Tribes of
Israel, a popular sub-sect of Rastafari founded in Jamaica in the late
1960s and with whom Marley had long been associated; his inclusion in
the proceedings had been tolerated by the Ethiopian elders, to whom the
Rasta doctrines represented a form of heresy, only under protest. He had
been scheduled to read from Psalm 68, which bears the subtitle "To the
chief musician, a psalm or song of David".
Instead he announced
that he proposed to deliver passages from Corinthians and Isaiah
particularly dear to Rastafarian hearts. Mutterings and shufflings among
the church dignitaries on the platform were answered by sounds of
delighted approval from the congregation. Their mood turned to
boisterous glee as the footballer refused to heed urgent requests to
leave the platform, continuing with his reading before returning to his
seat amid the sounds of triumph.
The archbishop, clearly annoyed,
recovered his composure in time to read the Beatitudes – "Blessed are
the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" – and to lead
the Lord's Prayer before Seaga delivered a eulogy memorable only for its
closing benediction: "May his soul," intoned the man in the dark
business suit, "rest in the arms of Jah Rastafari." Even the Twelve
Tribes could scarce forbear to cheer this explicit recognition of their
usually ignored presence within Jamaican society.
The archbishop's
address contained an implicit rebuke of Skill Cole in a direct address
to the Rastas in the hall. Why advocate repatriation to Africa, he
demanded, when it would profit them more to work together for a better
life in Jamaica? "Jah!" they shouted in defiance as he spoke.
"Rastafari!"
The most extraordinary moment of the ceremony, the
most beautiful and un-European, came after the members of Marley's old
band mounted the stage. The I-Threes – Rita Marley, Judy Mowatt and
Marcia Griffiths – sang "Rastaman Chant" to a ponderous and mournful
rhythm before the Wailers, directed by the guitarist Junior Murvin,
struck up "Natural Mystic".
It was during this song, while the
crowd was getting to its feet and moving towards the stage to join what
had suddenly been transformed from an obsequy to a celebration, that
Ziggy and Stevie Marley could be seen dancing among the musicians.
Identically dressed in maroon suits and white shoes, they performed
joyous imitations of their late father's distinctive stage choreography,
and the resemblance was such that the congregation gasped at the sight.
When the engineer at the mixing desk superimposed a recording of Bob's
voice above the band's heavyweight rhythm, the effect was hallucinatory.
Cedella
Booker closed the service. Accompanied by two other women, she
delivered "Amen" – written by Curtis Mayfield, whose music had inspired
Marley's earliest efforts – in a powerful voice as her listeners swayed
to the rhythm.
Then the musicians put down their instruments,
lifted the coffin on to their shoulders and carried it through the hall
and out into the roadway, where it was placed in a hearse, ready for the
50-mile journey to the place where Marley's life had begun.
As
the cortege left Kingston, it passed by the house at 56 Hope Road whose
walls still bore the scars from the bullets that narrowly failed to kill
Marley in a politically motivated attack in 1976. On South Camp Road,
outside the Alpha Boys School, where many of Jamaica's finest musicians
had been taught to play by an inspiring teacher named Ruben Delgado,
pupils sang "No Woman, No Cry" as the procession headed towards Marcus
Garvey Drive and out of the city on the road towards Spanish Town .
Crossing
the parish of St Catherine to the town of Bog Walk, where the road
splits right to Port Maria and left to Ocho Rios, the cars turned
north-east through Moneague and past the 2,000ft peak of the mountain
called Friendship, taking the left fork past Claremont and into the
parish of St Ann, skirting the foothills of the Dry Harbour Mountains
and on through Brown's Town. All along the route, people came out of
houses, schools, farms and workshops to stand by the roadside. Finally,
in mid-afternoon, the dead man and his companions arrived at Nine Mile,
a hamlet set at the end of a single-track road among gentle, verdant
red-clay hills.
A helicopter buzzed overhead, carrying a film
crew, their cameras trained on slopes covered with white-robed figures.
Rastas from all over the island had set off early to be in place when
the cortege arrived. Policemen fingered machine guns but disorder was
minimal, despite the crush as the coffin was removed from the hearse and
carried by many willing hands up to the small temporary mausoleum.
Nine
Mile turned out to be no more than a scattering of shanties, with one
or two bars and a small single-storey stone building consecrated,
according to a handwritten sign, to the use of the Holy Baptist Church
of the Fire of God of the Americas. This was a place where workers in
the sugar plantations set in the flatlands towards the sea had built
their homes and quietly cultivated their modest crops. It was here, on 6
February 1945, that Cedella Booker had brought Bob Marley into the
world, and it was here, only a few paces away from the mausoleum, in a
tiny two-room shack, that Bob and Rita had returned for a year at the
end of the 1960s, to nurture their first child.
After a brief
ceremony of interment, the convoy departed, followed by the police. Only
the Rastas remained. For the last time, Junior Murvin and Neville
Garrick climbed the low mound to the mausoleum, picking their way
through empty Red Stripe cans, the music they helped to send around the
globe throbbing from cassette players.
As the light began to fail,
the vendors of ice creams and soft drinks packed their goods away. The
thump of the helicopter's rotors receded. The white-robed members of the
Twelve Tribes of Israel melted into the dusk. Bob had come home.
Born in Nine Mile, Jamaica to white Jamaican father Norval Sinclair Marley and black mother, Cedella Booker.
Norval dies when Marley is 10. Marley acknowledges his mixed ethnic roots but identifies himself as a black African.
Becomes a Rastafarian.
Forms
ska and rock steady group the Teenagers with Bunny Wailer, Peter Tosh,
and three others. Marley, Wailer and Tosh went on to become the Wailers.
Marries Rita Anderson.
First daughter, Cedella, is born. Marley had 11 children in all.
While on tour in London, the Wailers are dropped by their label, CBS. Marley visits Island Records who promptly sign the band.
, is released worldwide. .
Marley's profile is raised by Eric Clapton's cover of "I Shot the
Sheriff". Shortly after, the Wailers break up. He continues to perform
as "Bob Marley and the Wailers", with the I-Threes, three backing
singers, among them his wife, Rita.
"No Woman, No Cry", his first hit outside Jamaica, is released.
Marley and Rita are wounded at their home on 56 Hope Road in a
politically motivated shooting. They exile themselves to London for
several years. Marley records
.
Diagnosed with acral lentiginous melanoma. He keeps recording and performing until 1980.
Dies in hospital in Miami, Florida.
"When
I was just a kid, a struggling unknown poet ranting on the streets of
Birmingham, he was the only singer who ever replied to any of my
letters. I actually got advice from brother Bob: he told me to "keep it
up", to "stay militant", and he said that one day people would read my
poems.
"Bob Marley was my hero, and then he became my penpal. Very heaven."