Our pub has become something of a hide out, only accessible by a set of steep stairs up from the boardwalk or down a never-ending staircase from the street level above. The town, in its infinite wisdom, pushed by an insurance company I’m sure, has removed the connecting ramp between the wharf and the building along with the pub’s front entrance, even though the ramp could hold a herd of elephants and more than the single vehicle traffic into the underground garage. It was built of steel beams and solid timbers. Now the garage is an empty inaccessible space and the patrons like Camp and I have to clamber down or up a steep flight of stairs. ‘Not exactly wheelchair accessible,’ Camp pointed out. 

‘We went to see ‘One Love’ last week, the Bob Marley movie about the last few years of his roller coaster life that was cut short at only 36 years by a rare form of skin cancer. The mediocre film was produced by Brad Pitt, Rita and Ziggy Marley,’ I said, once I got comfortable in my old corner chair.

‘Oh yeah, how was that? I love the music but the man? One Love could have been named Many Loves,’ Camp said. ‘Didn’t he have a soccer team full of kids from many different women?’

‘Bob had three kids with Rita who already had a 15months old girl when they met. Rita later had another daughter with a Jamaican soccer player. Bob also adopted her. He himself fathered multiple children with different women. He also mistreated his wife and had homophobic tendencies, as revealed by Rita Marley in her book No Woman, No Cry: My Life with Bob Marley. Rita even agreed to adopt children that Bob has had with other women and eventually raised a family of eight children while continuing to pursue a singing career, running a juice bar, traveling, and farming. Bob and Rita both followed the Rastafarian teachings which includes a strong homophobic sentiment. Bob refused to take a picture with Prince. In fact, in Jamaica in those days anyone caught in a homosexual relationship faced up to 10 years in jail.’

‘His music stands the test of time, especially songs like Redemption Song, but we need to separate the art from the artist,’ Camp said, taking a sip from his pint. ‘Look at Picasso, as much a creator as a destroyer. He destroyed those who loved him, disowned his own children and left a trail of suicides and psychic breakdowns in his wake. Should we continue to insist on the genius of such a person and keep admiring and exhibiting his art? Francoise Gilot detailed Picasso’s abusive treatment – including burning her cheek with his cigarette – in her book Life with Picasso, first published in 1964. Speaking out was not an easy thing to do at the time and it was Gilot who was cancelled in the wake of the book’s publication thanks to Picasso’s unrelenting power in the art world.’

‘And all of us know the story of Ike and Tina Turner but only because Tina became a much bigger artist than her late abusive husband. Even John Lennon was notorious for his violent outbursts. By his own admission, he was physically and verbally abusive to his first wife, Cynthia Powell. I for one will still enjoy Marley’s music, Picasso’s paintings and John   Lennon’s songs,’ I said. ‘If we knew the personal stories of every artist whose art we admire, we couldn’t read listen or watch anything anymore. Everybody has their demons to fight and fame and fortune are apparently not conducive to a balanced life. I’m not trying to make excuses here. Abusive and violent behaviour have no place in any relationship, no matter how famous the perpetrators.’ 

‘If we cancel all these artists, we also cancel stories of resistance to those men, and radically alter our own understanding of the present,’ Camp said. ‘We need to separate the art from the artists, the books from their writers, the songs from the singers. Neither James Joyce nor Hemingway were nice to their women, Dickens was a ruthless Victorian husband and Bob Marley apparently a self-absorbed, misogynistic philanderer. ‘

‘Which leaves us with the art that outlives their creators. Should we evaluate the artists based on their art or should we even judge their often complex and complicated lives laid bare in books, pictures, personal accounts, rumours and hearsay? It’s a difficult question, one I can’t fully answer myself. Put it this way: After reading up about Bob Marley and his treatment of women some of the shine went out of his music,’ I said. 

Just as Vicky was bringing us two fresh pints, ‘No woman, No cry’ was playing on the sound system. The song was written by Vincent Ford, a friend of Marley’s who ran a soup kitchen in Trenchtown, the ghetto of Kingston.

‘Do you like reggae music?’ Camp asked Vicky when she came around to swap out our empty mugs.

‘It’s easy on the ears and sounds full of sunshine and happiness.’