September 12, 2007
I didn’t know how anything worked except the record player. I remember my dad watched me, his fist out ready to flick a finger of scrutiny. “Ahgt-ahgt-ahgt,” he’d jag, if he thought I would drop the needle too quick, too far in, too far out. By five I could cue the tracks. He’d say, “Put on ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’,” and it’d be done careful to keep him resting on the sofa. On my birthday my mom said I should put on whatever music I liked. I knew my dad wanted reggae. It was all he listened to those days.