Best Of Jacob Miller Today

He began to scribble. It was a new tune, "Tenement Yard." He was channeling the stories he’d heard, the daily bustle of the tenement, the news travelling from one yard to another—the dread news. He thought of his friends, the Inner Circle band, and the way they bridged the gap between raw roots reggae and the pop charts.

The sunlight in Kingston, 1978, was thick, a golden haze that seemed to vibrate with the bass pounding from a speaker box on the corner. Inside the dimly lit apartment, the air was cooler, thick with the smell of Red Stripe and the smoke of "dreadlocks serenity." BEST OF JACOB MILLER

Jacob sat on the edge of a bed, tapping a pen against a notebook. He was in his prime, a "Killer" in the studio—quick with a hook, sharper with a melody, his voice a smooth, gravelly, and soul-tinged sound. He was wearing a casual patterned shirt, his eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of the city outside. He began to scribble

"Jake, man! They wait for you at the studio. King Tubby’s got a new dub mix he wants you to hear," Ian said, bursting into the room. The sunlight in Kingston, 1978, was thick, a

"Jah," he whispered, a smile playing on his lips, "the children need to know."