Born Murvin Junior Smith – most likely in 1946, although some sources say 1949 – he was raised by his great-grandmother in the bustling coastal market town of Port Antonio. His father died when Murvin was young, and his mother subsequently emigrated. At the local Methodist church, Murvin operated the pump for the pipe organ but he was too shy to join the choir.
Armed with some of his strongest material, addressing the political and social upheavals that were having such adverse effects on Jamaica, Murvin travelled to Perry’s Black Ark studio in May 1976. Police and Thieves immediately captured Perry’s attention and, after adding lyrics of his own, Perry arranged for Murvin to record it with the drummer Sly Dunbar, the bassist Boris Gardiner and the guitarist Ernest Ranglin. Murvin’s debut album, also named Police and Thieves, was highly acclaimed, but a planned follow-up was scuppered by Perry’s breakdown in the late 1970s.
Man, “scuppered” is an awesome word. I’m going to have to use that shit more often. Anyway, rest in peace, Mr. Murvin. You were scuppered far too soon.
Today the New York Times, formerly known as the Paper of Record, put a picture of a woman’s dead body above the fold on the front page of the Sunday paper (and no, I’m not linking to it). Not to sound like the old fucking man I am, but reputable newspapers didn’t used to put pictures of dead bodies on the front page, and they certainly didn’t do so to illustrate a story that was not “breaking” in any way.
It’s ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with these people?
Well, now that I’m on about dead people, here’s the Dead Kennedys. Seems timely.
One of the reasons that I needed to get back to posting, which I’ve intended to do for some time, is that I came across this image today that apparently was snapped on the M train. Now I used to ride the M train way back when it stopped at Cortelyou Road. I don’t even know where it goes now, but I know it’s turned from brown to orange.
Now I don’t know anything about this dude Mott Green, but if the headline is any indication, he led a distinctive (if short) life:
I’m too cheap to pay to get the whole article, but the tease is plenty:
Mott Green (ne David Friedman), a visionary anarchist chocolatier who abandoned his upper-middle-class upbringing in favor of an idealistic, sustainable lifestyle, died June 1 in Belmont Estate, Grenada, following an electrical accident. He was 47.
“Electrical accident.” Sure. That’s what happened.