No Woman No Cry (18 page)

S
OMETHING WAS STILL
missing. I had a house, a farm, a shop at Hope Road, but I woke up most days with this: Suppose Bob and I should separate, what would I do? I felt I had to confront my dependency on someone who was so much in demand by the world. So I'd think, where do you really hang
your
hat? Are you gonna be wife? Or are you gonna be Rita? And who's Rita?

Because I knew I had the opportunity for a career and wanted more to do, I joined a drama group. Actually, it was more like a light opera troupe, a group of men and women who put on concerts every year. They had advertised in the newspaper for singers to audition, and after I was chosen I mentioned to Bob that I had a part in the upcoming concert. He was interested—not surprising, as he usually encouraged me in anything I tried to do. The singing was good for me, since I hadn't performed at all after moving to Delaware, and it felt good to use my voice, and to be onstage again, physically. I felt comfortable. But although I had fun, I knew I needed more of a challenge.

After coming home from Delaware I'd met up again with Marcia Griffiths, like Judy Mowatt one of Jamaica's top female singers. I'd known Marcia since the early days, when like me she was a Coxsone artist, young and pretty and skinny with a big voice. So we were aware of each other's potential. Since then her “Electric Boogie” had been a hit record in the States (and the source of the ever-popular Electric Slide), and she'd had another hit with Bob Andy in “Young, Gifted and Black.” Marcia and I were already touching bases, listening to each other, when one day she called me to say that she was performing at the House of Chen in Kingston, one of Jamaica's well-known clubs at the time, and was wondering if I'd come along with Judy. “It would be good,” Marcia said, “if both of you come in and let us just vibe together, just a little thing.” She had already called Judy, who'd said, sure. So now it was up to me.

My first thought was, oh my god, as if I wasn't ready. But then I thought,
uh-uh
, being professionals as we were, it wouldn't be an assignment we needed time for. It wasn't as if I should say, “Oh no, we'd have to rehearse.” So I told Marcia I'd call Judy and get it straight.

I had been seeing Judy, too. I'd first heard of her back in the sixties as the leader of a girl group, the Gaylettes, who were the top rivals to the Soulettes. We competed on the radio, although the Soulettes had an edge because we sometimes sang with the Wailers. Bob's friend Alan Cole was dating Judy back then, and he'd begun telling her about Rastafari. Judy was a good-looking young woman and into being glamorous, lots of bangles on her arm and all. But Alan would use me as an example, he was always going on about how Rita looked, and what Rita wore and didn't wear, saying, “Look at Rita! She's a big singer too, and you don't need all this hair style stuff.” At the time, Judy had said,
“Uuff!”
I don't think she was ready to give up her bangles and her earrings to be a Rasta! But she did eventually. Like many of my friends, I had lost contact with her when I went to Delaware, but now I had remet her through Alan. I reached Judy that afternoon and we agreed it might be fun to “do a little thing” with Marcia.

I had to ask Aunty to come out to Bull Bay and babysit for me overnight, which I'd been trying not to do, in order to spare her, as she was now in her sixties—though she was as spry as ever. I picked up Judy and we went to the club and sat there watching Marcia onstage until, in the middle of her performance, she announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have two of my best friends and sisters here with me tonight, Rita Marley and Judy Mowatt.” And the place went crazy! We went up on the stage and sang “That's How Strong My Love Is”—no rehearsal, no nothing, just us. And we tore the place down! We had to encore continuously; the audience would not stop calling for more! And from there after we knew that, wow, we could do a thing, you know! And if you are not doing
your
thing, we could all come together and do
our
thing!

Lee “Scratch” Perry, after his failed attempt at performing, had become a producer. It was he who first billed the Wailers as “Bob Marley and the Wailers.” When Chris Blackwell came into the picture, he continued to headline Bob, causing more than a little friction and confusion with the two other members, who felt as if they were losing Bob to the high-powered, high-living world of international music promotion. After their first successful tour, Bunny announced he would never again get on a plane. Peter was cooperative, though reluctantly, and never let his fury at Bob become evident. When their three-album contract with Island was finished, both Bunny and Peter decided they didn't want to have anything else to do with Blackwell, with touring and promoting concerts. It was arranged among them who would get this or that, and who would continue to get what. This was when Bob settled with Chris for the Hope Road property instead of money. Unlike the other Wailers, Bob re-signed with Island, as Bob Marley and the Wailers, but with new people as the Wailers.

Some people took the matter very deeply. I think the breakup of the group was more stressful to Bob than to either of the other two. He took it very very hard. He felt hurt and abandoned, and he never stopped thinking about it; that sadness was always a part of him. They'd been so young when they got together as the Wailers, and it was like being deserted by your brothers, especially in Bunny's case, since they were related through their sister Pearl. A lot of people still don't understand that this was such a hurt in Bob's life, that he took it with him. Because even when he was sick and losing gravity with life, he was saying they couldn't even call him. They never called him to say, “Bob, I love you.” Peter was trying, I heard, onstage, and Bunny also, but then it was too late, when they reached out.

The Island deal finished, everybody went out on their own. They each set up their own act—Peter started his company Intel Diplomat, Bunny had his Solomonic. And Bob achieved what he achieved and they achieved what they achieved. I'm a witness to the fact that Bob worked very hard, on the road and in the studio day and night; he was very serious about his work and the future welfare of his family. His achievement, which lives on, is testimony to that. And it's not about money, because he didn't begin to earn money until he went to rest. Money that he had he was using to build his own thing. He had to buy studio gear, he bought equipment for the band (he had hired his own band), and he was starting to own his career.

One morning, not long after Bunny and Peter's decision, I was in my garden at Bull Bay hanging the wash and watching Stephanie crawl around when Bob's driver came up the road, parked, jumped out of the car, and said, “Robbie said you should come down to the studio right away.” When I asked, he insisted that nothing was
wrong
.

“Well,” I said, “I can't just
leave
like this without any warning. What is it?”

He didn't know, he said, only that “Robbie just said it was an emergency.”

It took a while for me to find the neighbor lady to look after Stephanie and change my clothes and everything, but I finally got it all together and drove to Hope Road, where they sent me to Harry J.'s studio in Kingston for a session.

Bob was there with some of his band members, and without revealing much he asked, “Where are your friends? Can you get your friends?”

I said, “What friends?”

“Marcia and Judy,” he said.

Someone might have told him about our performance at the House of Chen, but he hadn't been there and if I had even mentioned it, I hadn't talked about it much. But it turned out that with Peter and Bunny gone, he was going to need backing support for work that he was doing. There was still some mystery surrounding this “emergency,” but I said I would try to call Marcia and Judy, which I did, and they responded just as I had, as soon as they could. We went into the studio that afternoon and were told that we were supposed to be singing on a song called “Natty Dread.” Of course, Bob knew of our separate abilities, whether or not he had heard about the three of us bringing down the House of Chen. But the fact remains that he hadn't heard us together until he heard us in the studio that day.

One thing about Mr. Marley: When you work for him, he pays you. And this was one of the respects that I always gave to him. When I was asked how much I was going to charge for this studio work on “Natty Dread,” I looked at him and he looked at me quite businesslike—as if to tell me “Say it!”—and we laughed.

So I said, “Well, whatever you're giving Judy and Marcia, the same applies to me—and thank you!”

And he said, “No problem!” And flashed that sweet smile he had (when he wanted to use it).

Everybody loved what came out of the studio session that afternoon. And then it was finally explained that Bob had an album to deliver to Island, and now the big question was: Would we three sisters work with him? Would we go on a tour, finish the album, and work on the promotion?

After all those years with the Wailers and the Soulettes, and then the JAD thing, and singing and writing together on our own time in the little cellar studio, it was hardly new to me to work with him. But what really struck me now is that I would be paid. And I can't dismiss the sentimental part: Being able to be with him on the road meant so much to me, because we had decided to be friends again. There was no denying the fact that we still loved each other, and so were again living as man and wife, and I had just about started to be the
nagging
wife: “Where you going again?” “Why you have to go?”

I knew, at that point, that whatever I chose to do, I needed to pick myself up soon and do
something
. “Finding Rita” meant just that—making something happen. Marcia and Judy already had established solo careers, but they were eager to work steadily. So I looked at the two of them after Bob asked the question, and simultaneously—in harmony!—we all three yelled, “Yeah!”

It was one thing to be enthusiastic in the studio, and to be planning rehearsals and all that. But then I drove home and picked up Stephanie, and got the big kids from the Bull Bay Community Center, and didn't tell anyone anything about it, as I was still mulling over what would happen, how it could all be arranged.

Then, just as it was getting dark, Bob arrived. After the kids had climbed all over him, he pulled me down into the studio and said, oh so seriously, “You really want to come with me, Rita?”

And I said, “Well, why not?”

And he said, “Well, at least you'd be with me. We'd see each other every day.”

And I thought that was great. He wanted me to be with him, if he was really going to go that way, as a solo performer with his own band and backup group. So we decided that we could do it, although that night we didn't expect such a tremendous reaction from audiences all over the world, or that we would tour together for seven years. And I never imagined that this would be the beginning of a long career for the I-Three, the group that Marcia and Judy and I formed.

Right then, Bob and I had only the moment in mind and were happy with the positive vibe. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? We figured that, hey, this is too good to stop, that even without Bunny and Peter, there was a way to go on. As the saying goes, one monkey don't stop the whole show. And this new way, which was after all a lot like the old way, seemed like a good way for everyone.

The first tour began in 1974, when Stephanie was still a baby. Again, it was Aunty to the rescue, because once more I had to leave the children with her. In order to accommodate us, she moved to Bull Bay, where she leased a piece of land from a little old man and built a house for herself. I suppose I needn't have worried about her being sixtysomething years old, because she was still so active. Truly an amazing lady. Aunty had two handhelpers this time, but she still built her own house. It was within walking distance of Windsor Lodge, so she would come down to the family house in the morning to run the show. A helper stayed with the children overnight, usually Miss Collins, an older lady who was Aunty's buddy. The children loved Miss Collins, who ended up living with us a long time as the family nanny.

That first tour was an experience—not just for me but for all of us—because this was big, and being sponsored by Island Records, and our group included a large entourage of press and photographers. It was also Bob's big break, the moment he had waited for. Our billing was still “Bob Marley and the Wailers” but consisted of different personnel—I think the I-Three were then included as Wailers, so this was exciting, too. Bob used to say that anyone who worked with him was a Wailer.

As much as the tour was an experience, it was also very much a trial run. Maybe not so much for Bob, who was ready, but certainly for the rest of us, because our earlier little concerts here and there had never exposed us to these kinds of crowds. People
came out
to see Bob Marley and the Wailers. The tour was well put together—we had our own bus and our own hotel rooms. At first I worried that I was going to be squished in with Bob and have to stay up all night, until I got it straight with the tour manager: “
No no no!
Out here I must be treated like an I-Three and not Mrs. Marley!” Even though I had to do the things that a wife would do, like make sure you get the wet clothes from the last performance, make sure you get the clothes out for the next concert, make sure to ask “Have you eaten? Did you eat?” And make sure—“It's bedtime!” Things like that—I still had to be that kind of a person on the road. But afterward I was privileged to be alone. I had my own room, I had my freedom, I could go shopping! I could do the things I wanted to do like a normal background vocalist! At the end of the day I was Rita!

So that was a wonderful experience for me, one that I really enjoyed. Naturally, there were certain things I missed. I hadn't realized how hard it might be to be away from the children. I was so attached to them now, from spending so much time with them and having had the leisure to have real conversations with them, and I missed them badly. Still, I knew Aunty was there for them, as she had been for me. A phone call a day kept my worries at bay, and Bob's too. At our sound check each day, first thing he'd say to me was, “Rita, you call the children? How them pickney? Them all right? How is school?” Because he was very—and always—concerned about his children. This was something I had doubted from time to time, when he'd gone into one of his disappearing acts. But he never failed to provide for them, and I learned that Bob was one father that you could close your eyes and know that Daddy's going to make it work. He always looked out for them, and not any special one but all of them.