Exodus Chapter 1: "Ambush in the Night"

Because righteousness govern the world.

Broadcasting live and direct from the rolling red hills on the outskirts of Kingston, Jamaica, from a magical place at the intersection of words, sound and power.

The red light is on, your dial is set, the frequency in tune to the Rootsland podcast.

Stories that are music to your ears.

December 3, 1976.

A natural mystic was flowing through the air as the sweet sound of reggae spilled out into the streets of this quiet uptown Kingston neighborhood in what had become an evening ritual.

The inescapable sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers penetrating the peaceful suburban night as the band rehearsed at Bob's residence at 56 Hope Road.

The crackling one drop of Carlton Barrett's kick drum punctuated his brother Astin's rumbling bass line.

Their instruments entwined together in a sacred dance under the Jamaican stars, accompanied by Marley's wailing vocals.

On this night, sounding more urgent than ever, almost to the point of desperation, Bob Marley, child of the ghetto, had extraordinary instincts, and tonight they were on high alert.

As the group prepared for one of the most important shows of their career, taking place only days away.

Marley sensed something was wrong.

You know, Rita, right now, Rasta don't feel right.

I man pick up on some negative vibration.

Baba, I was thinking the same thing.

You know, I'm going to rest in the car and take a little break from the rehearsal.

The door to the rehearsal studio slowly opened, just enough for an arm holding a gun to push through.

And before anyone noticed, the gloved trigger finger started emptying rounds into the cramped space.

In the chaos and through the smoke, a team of hitmen rush in, firing off a barrage of gunshots.

Helpless, trapped in a room with no exits and nowhere to run, the band members take cover any place they can.

Loud booms are followed by zipping bullets ricocheting off cement walls, shattering glass and smashing musical instruments.

Bob's chest is grazed by a bullet that lodges in his arm.

His manager, Don Taylor, struck several times.

He hits the ground where he lays in a pool of blood.

The gunmen, thinking their work is done, exit as quick as they came in, but not before they spot Bob's wife, Rita, sitting in a parked car in the driveway.

The last thing Mrs.

Marley remembered hearing before the assassins turned their guns on her was that everyone was dead.

Then she felt the warm sensation of blood flowing down her neck.

Here now is a special item of news from the JBC newsroom.

Entertainer and reggae star Bob Marley, Rita Marley and the manager of the Wailers, Don Taylor, are now patients in the University Hospital.

After receiving gunshot wounds during a shooting incident which took place at Marley's home at 56 Hope Road.

Tonight, the CIA would look upon the radical political content of reggae music as dangerous because it would help to create a consciousness among poor people, among the great majority of Jamaicans.

Jamaicans, Jamaicans.

Jamaicans, Jamaicans.

By a miracle of Jah Almighty, everyone would survive the shooting at Hope Road.

Marley is warned that his life was in danger and he should immediately cancel his upcoming show.

But smile.

Jamaica had been planned for months.

Bob Marley's brainchild.

A free concert to unite the people of the island.

Regardless of class, race or political party affiliation.

Marley, like most of Jamaica, was fed up.

It was time to put away decades of bloodshed and tribal wars that have divided the country, that had seen neighbors killing neighbors.

This night was planned as a celebration.

One nation sharing one love and one heart.

Not everyone was in the sharing mood.

The Babylon system that Marley so despised thrived on this division.

The corrupt politicians and their thugs, they thought they can intimidate the King of Reggae.

They were sure even if they didn't kill him, he'd heed their warning and cancel the performance.

Come together and defend one team.

So imagine Babylon's surprise when two nights later, Bob Marley, his wife Rita and the Wailers band stepped out onto the stage at National Heroes park in Kingston with their wounds from the gunman's bullets still wrapped in bloody bandages.

Surrounded by tens of thousands of cheering fans packed in on all sides.

The musicians aware there was no guarantee for their safety, knowing full well there was still a price on Bob's head.

And rumors the assassins were hiding out somewhere in the massive crowd, determined to finish the job they started.

Ja Ross.

To this day, those who attended the show are still awestruck about what they saw Bob Marley do on stage that night.

Singing and dancing the night away in revolutionary defiance, extolling righteousness.

Burning fire upon Babylon.

Bob's courage forever standing as an example of a man's willingness to sacrifice everything for his convictions.

His brilliant hypnotic performance uplifted the entire country.

Showing his people, you can stand up to tyranny and bullying and violence and conquer it with courage, faith and love.

They say that was the night Bob Marley went from a singer to a legend.

Bob survived the battle, but he was a wounded lion.

More spiritually than physically.

Stunned his life would mean so little.

His fellow Jamaicans would sell him out in a murder for hire plot.

Marley left his island home and went into exile in London, England to recover his strength, to satisfy his soul.

Part of his healing process was Writing and recording the album Exodus, released the following year.

An astonishing musical and emotional journey that captures this turbulent moment in his life.

The title song, a modern retelling of the biblical story of the prophet Moses leading the Hebrews out of slavery to their promised land.

Marley's Exodus focuses on the African slaves stolen from their homeland, forced into 400 years of brutal and dehumanizing slavery.

His dream is seeing the repatriation of the descendants of these slaves, the children of the diaspora returning to their promised land, a peaceful, unified and thriving African continent.

In 1999, Time magazine awards Bob Marley's Exodus the album of the century.

Beating out Some Kind of Blue by Miles Davis and Are youe Experienced by Jimi Hendrix.

From the ghettos of Kingston to the suburbs of Long island where I grew up, and just about everywhere in between, people connect to Bob Marley and his message on so many levels.

His music is a constant reminder that the world is hurting.

The world is divided, the world needs healing.

And as God's children, we have an obligation to fight to make it a more just and equitable place for all humanity.

Because in the end, the things that divide us, like polytrics, isms and schisms, they're strong, designed by man to separate and keep us apart from each other.

But the things that unite us and connect us, like love, faith, hope, they're created by a higher power and are so much stronger.

So when Bob Marley sang Wake up and live, Rise up, mighty people, there's work to be done, I figured, why not take him up on his offer?

Growing up in the 80s, I saw firsthand how music could be a catalyst for enacting social change.

Reggae helped inspire a new crop of activist musicians from all genres that believed music could bring about a higher consciousness.

An awakening.

The Clash, U2, Peter Gabriel with Yusu Endorphins, hip hop artists Chuck D&KRS1.

Events such as Live Aid and Farm Aid.

They revealed hidden truths, taught realities many of us had not experienced firsthand and weren't covered in the mainstream media.

Music became one of the most powerful tools for educating, informing and enlightening my generation.

And I just wanted to be part of that.

A decade after the release of the album Exodus, I traveled to the island of Jamaica, lucky enough to get a job at Tuff Conk Records in Kingston, working for Bob Marley's legendary and perseverant widow sister Rita.

And from the moment I stepped off the plane, she made sure I was immersed in every aspect of the music from its creation.

On inner city street corners where young hopefuls audition Acapella looking for an escape from a never ending cycle of poverty to the polished and refined inner sanctums of the island's iconic recording studios, where maestro engineers put finishing touches on mixes that become hit songs.

Mrs.

Marley saw that I was lovingly mentored by true reggae royalty.

Singer, songwriter extraordinaire, Bob Andy and saxophone great deadly Headley Bennett.

Authentic pioneers that gave everything they had to the museum for the pure love and joy of making it their payback.

Getting to spend the twilight of their lives fighting for their fair share of rights and royalties just so they can provide a future for their children and grandchildren.

Remember my youth.

It's called music business here.

And while the music might be deeply spiritual, the business lack any kind of soul whatsoever.

Despite the disappointment though, I would not trade any of it for the world.

And most importantly, there is no expiry date and a dream.

And if you don't have a dream, it can't come true.

Security opened the gate when he saw me in the front seat of brother Nelson's taxi.

This was my last stop before heading to the airport.

It was time to go home.

A poetic end to my trip to Kingston.

56 Hope Road, now the Bob Marley Museum.

Mrs.

Marley wanted to see me here before I left.

And unlike our previous meetings at Tuff Gong's bustling downtown offices on Marcus Garvey Drive, today she was waiting for me within the gated confines of the museum on Hope Road.

The famed house originally owned by Island Records founder Chris Blackwell, bought by Marley and transformed into his uptown musical oasis, an ultimate rasta chill spot.

56 Hope Road is also the location where 10 years earlier, the assassination attempt on Marley's life took place.

And although Bob survived that brutal attack, within five short years he would lose a battle to a deadlier, more formidable foe, Cancer.

Bob never stopped fighting for others or himself.

He struggled for survival up until his last days, far from home, emaciated from experimental treatments that would ravage his body and without the divine source of his strength, his trademark dreadlocks.

They had to be cut off due to the damage of chemotherapy.

And it was done in a solemn bedside ceremony on Bob's terms, surrounded by the ones he loved.

Not long after, on May 11, 1981, the skipper, the mighty tough Gong, lost the battle for his wife, Sister Rita.

The war was just beginning when it was discovered that Bob Marley, one of the wealthiest entertainers in history, neglected to leave a will.

Vampires and scavengers immediately started circling Mrs.

Marley, at times represented by inept and criminal Lawyers would face countless legal battles involving biased judges, corrupt government officials and court appointed banks, all vying for control of the Marley estate.

She'd faced the humiliation of multiple children coming forward, fathered out of her husband's infidelities.

There were disparaging comments made against her character and betrayal by people she trusted most.

For Mrs.

Marley, the worst was long from over.

But by now she had learned to conceal her hurt.

She greeted me with a gentle smile and a warm hug, her face as youthful as it was in the teenage pictures of her and Bob hanging out on the streets of Trenchtown.

The consummate survivor stood before me in a room filled wall to wall with memorabilia and mementos of her late husband.

The signs of a life well lived, a man well loved.

Gold records, music awards, government honors and medals, proclamations from leaders, pictures of Bob with smiling celebrities and adoring fans transfixed by their dreadlocked superhero.

Most revealing, the hundreds of photos, letters and postcards sent from around the world by ordinary people.

Postmarked from places far and wide, scribed in every language imaginable.

Some handwritten, others typed.

Pictures and drawings from fans eager to share their stories, say their thank yous.

And somewhere, buried in this massive collage is a poem sent by a teenager from Long Island, New York, on a piece of loose leaf paper torn from a notebook.

And the teenage me that mailed the letter never dreamed that I'd be standing here in the home of my childhood hero with the woman he loved.

You know, it's amazing to see how far one voice from the ghetto can reach, you know?

But more than anyone always knew this.

This was more than just music, more than just one man.

This is a movement, a conscious uprising.

Henry, I really hope coming to Jamaica was a positive experience.

No matter what you do in life, whether you choose to be in music or not, remember Jamaica.

Our people, our story.

I promise, Mrs.

Marley, I'll never forget the people that I had a chance to meet, the places I had a chance to go.

I don't even know how people can survive in those conditions.

You see those conditions, that suffering.

That's where reggae music comes from.

You know, it only takes the smallest flame to brighten up the darkest place.

Reggae music is a spark.

The flame and the fire.

I'm sure you've listened to the words of Bob's Redemption Song.

Yeah, of course, Mrs.

Marley.

I heard Redemption Song a thousand times.

I didn't ask if you heard.

I asked if you listened.

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery.

None but ourselves can free our minds.

Henry, you may be too young to understand, but if you can learn to free your mind, no one can take you prisoner.

No matter where you are, you will always be free.

Mrs.

Marley was right.

I was too young to understand.

So the system captured me.

The Rootsland Podcast is produced by Henry K in association with Vice Box Studios.

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