September 17, 2025 • 19 mins
This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
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He wasn’t smooth. He wasn’t sweet. He was sharp—like a razor.
From the cane fields of Westmoreland to the streets of Kingston, he helped forge a sound the world would come to know as reggae. His voice carried fire, his songs carried justice, and his presence demanded truth. But one night in 1987, inside his own home, that voice was silenced in a storm of bullets. This is the story of the man who refused to bow—musician, rebel, prophet.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He wasn’t smooth. He wasn’t sweet. He was sharp—like a razor.
From the cane fields of Westmoreland to the streets of Kingston, he helped forge a sound the world would come to know as reggae. His voice carried fire, his songs carried justice, and his presence demanded truth. But one night in 1987, inside his own home, that voice was silenced in a storm of bullets. This is the story of the man who refused to bow—musician, rebel, prophet.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. Some artists sing
for applause, some sing because it pays the bills. But
every once in a while you meet someone who sings
because the truth itself needs a voice. It wasn't smooth,
it wasn't sweet. It was sharp, sharp, like a razor
(00:23):
on stage. He didn't perform. He prosecuted. The mic wasn't
just an instrument, it was evidence, and the songs were verdicts.
He believed in the power of the plant. He believed
dignity wasn't negotiable, and he believed justice wasn't a slogan.
It was a fight. And for a while, that fight
carried him from the sugar field childhood to the birth
of reggae, from harmony trios to the fiery solo anthems.
(00:48):
But one night, in his own home, the rhythm of
his heart collided with the cold sound of gunfire. This
is the story of a voice that refused a bow.
This is Script eleven The Bush Doctors, Long Night, Act one,
west Moreland the Kingston October nineteenth, nineteen forty four. Westmoreland
(01:08):
Parish Jamaica, cane fields, swaying rain, hammering tin roofs, church choirs,
filling Sunday air Born Winston, Hubert Macintosh. He's tall from
the start, so tall people notice him before they know him. Reserved, calculating,
always listening, the kind of kid who looks like he's
keeping score in his head. He discovers the guitar young,
(01:29):
not lessons, not tutors, just stubborn practice, shaping calluses on
his fingertips by his teams. He can play anything he hears.
When his mother dies, he drifts restless, eventually finding his
way to Kingston. Kingston in the late nineteen fifties, raw
electric intents, the sound of ska filling yards, the air
(01:49):
thick with the smell of kerosene lamps, and fried fish
in Kalilou. It's in Kingston that destiny crosses his path.
He meets two other boys chasing the same dream, one
with a sweet, angelic tenor, one with a voice full
of warmth and honey. Together the three of them start
practicing harmonies in the government yard, the audition for Joe Higgs,
(02:10):
a mentor, a kind of neighborhood music teacher. Higgins drills
them scales, harmonies, stage presents. You're there. The yard is crowded,
dusk pressing down. Joe Higgs claps his hands again. Three
young voices weave and crack, then finally land on the note.
The tall One focused on the guitar. He's determined. Sweat
(02:31):
beads on his brow, but when he locks the chord,
it's like a door opening. Soon they form a group,
the Teenagers, then the Wailing Whalers. The tall One isn't
the front man, he's the backbone, the steady, uncompromising edge.
In nineteen sixty four, they record their first single, simmer Down,
a skull anthem urging Kingston's youth to cool the violence.
(02:55):
It rockets to number one on the Jamaican charts. The
trio has arrived, act too. The Whalers take flight as
the nineteen sixties roll on. The group evolves, Skull slows
to rock steady, then slides into the reggae groove. The
world would come to know in this trio, they're at
the heart of it. Recording for Studio One, they cut
(03:17):
tracks like Rude Boy and One Love, local hits songs
blasting out of sound systems, spreading like gospel through Kingston's neighborhoods.
By the late sixties, they catch the ear of producer
Lee Scratch Perry. With Perry's Upsetters Band behind them, they
sharpen their sound into something global. Out of those sessions
come classics like Soul Rebel four hundred Years In small acts,
(03:40):
the Tall One's role is unmistakable. His voice isn't smooth
like the others. It's rough, cutting a growl that gives
the song's teeth. His rhythm guitar keeps the offbeat crisp,
and his harmonies give this sound weight. By nineteen seventy two,
they sign with Island Records, and suddenly the world knows them.
(04:00):
Albums like Catch a Fire and Burning break open reggae internationally.
Songs like Get Up, Stand Up, and Stop the Train
turn into anthems, but fame isn't evenly shared. The spotlight
falls heavier on one of them, the charismatic, smiling front man.
The record company markets him as the face. The Tall
One doesn't smile much. He's not interested in charm. He's
(04:23):
interested in truth, and that difference becomes a crack. The
bus rattles on a dark highway. A promoter shortened them again, voices, ride, complaints, anger.
The Tall One stares out the window, silent. Finally he
speaks music, nothing but thief business. His tone is low
but final. The bus goes quiet. The tension doesn't disappear,
(04:46):
it only grows. By nineteen seventy four, the group splits.
The front man goes solo, The Silky Voice One phades
into quieter projects, then the Tall One. He's about to
step out under a new name. Act three the Stepen' Raiser. Next,
(05:10):
Act three the step and Raiser. His solo debut, Legalize
It nineteen seventy six isn't just an album, It's a declaration.
The cover shows him in a Ganja field, challis in hand.
The title track becomes an anthem for legalization band on
Jamaican radio, but blasting everywhere else. Critics scoff at first,
but the people, they get it. This is their voice,
(05:33):
their struggle. His follow up, Equal Rights in nineteen seventy
seven is even sharper. Songs like down Presser Man and
Stepen Raiser and the title track are like thunderbolts. This
isn't love song reggae, this is revolution reggae. And on
stage he's unstoppable. Tall commanding, often with his infamous M
(05:53):
sixteen guitar slung over his shoulder, a statement as much
as an instrument. At the nineteen seventy eight One Love
Peace Concert, he doesn't play it safe. While his former
bandmate calls politicians on stage for a symbolic handshake, The
tall One tears into them. He lectures them, tells them
their peace is worthless without justice. The crowd roars the
(06:15):
leader's squirm. Backstage at the Peace concert, a friend leans
in and whispers, easy, easy, tone it down. He doesn't
even blink, No me, no cool, nothing, don't have to
hear truth. When he walks into the lights, it's like
watching a fuse catch by. Now the world knows his
new name, Peter Peter Tosh, the step and Razor the
(06:39):
Bush Doctor act for another Shitty Day in Paradise, but
power on stage doesn't erase trouble off it. A motorcycle
crash in nineteen seventy three leaves him with a fractured
skull migraines for the rest of his life, but he
never slows down. The police hound him arrests for possession beatings.
(06:59):
In nineteen seven, he's nearly killed by officers during a
ninety minute savage beating at Halfway Tree. For what he
says about the authorities at his concerts, he keeps recording
Bush Doctor in nineteen seventy eight, featuring his duet with
Mick Jacker, Mystic Man in nineteen seventy nine, Wanted Dead
or Alive in nineteen eighty one, Mama Africa in nineteen
(07:20):
eighty three with his hit cover of Johnny B. Good,
and finally No Nuclear War in nineteen eighty seven, which
earns him a Grammy. But behind the records, life is chaos,
money is tight, contracts, crooked health declining. His uncompromising nature
leaves him with powerful enemies and few safety nets. You're
there the police station, fluorescent lights hum overhead. He sits
(07:44):
in a cell, face bruised, jaw clenched. An officer smirks,
you think you're bigger than Delos. He stares back, calm,
law without justice. He's Dearney. The words hang in the
stale air, undeniable. Still he carries on a defiant, relentless
until that September night at five, one night, no return.
(08:11):
Next at five, one night, no return, September eleventh, nineteen
eighty seven, Barbican roade Kingston. The night is thick with
Jamaican heat. Inside Peter Tosha's home, the mood is light,
almost celebratory. He just returned from a US tour. Friends
(08:33):
gathered to welcome him back, Milton, Doc Brown, Jeff free,
I Dixon, his partner, Marlene Drummer, Carlton Santa Davis, along
with others drifting in and out. The living room glows
with a soft light of a lamp. The TV hums
in a corner. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mingling
with the sweeter burn of herb. Someone cracks a joke,
(08:54):
Laughter bounces off the walls, and for once life feels calm,
but not for long. Then they hear a car pull
up stop, doors shut violently, then then a knock. The
door swings open and everything changes. Dennis Leppo Lobin steps
inside a pistol grip tight. Two more men pushed through
(09:15):
behind him, both armed, eyes wild. Lobin is no stranger.
Tash had helped him after prison tonight. His gratitude is gone.
Leppo shouting everybody upon the floor. Belliot the command ricochets
through the room. Fear seizes the air. It's a phrase,
no Jamaican wants to hear Belliot face down, arms wide.
(09:35):
The guests freeze, Confused, They obey, bodies flattened to the rug,
hands gripped a carpet. Hearts thunder, Leppo, where the money
us dollars? You just come back from fourn Tosh calm, no, Leppo,
me no key millions here y'are looking into wrong place.
Loban snarls, waving the gun towards the group. Free I
(09:56):
pleading Lepo him help you, y'ah. You can't do this
to him, Leppo snarling. Shut your mouth, mean know the truth.
He must star money in the house. The two accomplices bark, orders,
pulling jewelry, rings, watches. The room is stripped of values.
Still they demand more. The intruders search every drawer, every cupboard.
(10:16):
Gun barrels clank against the wood, the clink of safeties
being pulled, echoes like thunder. You're there, You're on the carpet,
cheek pressed flat, the fiber's itch. You taste dust, Sweat
runs in your mouth. Every sound, the creak of the floor,
the shift the shoes make you flinch. Your chest burns
from holding your breath. But you don't dare move. Marlene
(10:39):
whimpers one gum and slaps her. The crack is loud
and cruel. Marlene, Please take what you want, Leppo. We
take until we done. Doc Brown tries the reason. His
voice is gentle, almost pastorial. Brother, don't bring a course
upon yourself. Lead the place, Leppo snapping shut your mouth, duck,
preacher can't save you. Now, free I tries again, voice breaking, Lepo,
(11:02):
Remember the man who give you food when you're hungry, Yah,
Lepo cold and now I take what I want. Loyty
can't pay me rent the gun's wave, the fan ticks overhead,
the second's pile into hours. Finally, Lobin turns his rage
back to Tosh. He shoves the pistol against his temple.
Leppo growling, where DAMAI peita Tosh? Even unshaken, Leppo, you
(11:25):
can't find what not? He me not keep it, me
not have it. The room holds its breath. Leppo furious,
y'ama think I'm an idiot. Tosh firm me no la
Lepo me, never beg me, never bow me, not start now,
even with a gun at his head, you see it
the defiance. He looks at Lobin, not with fear, but
(11:47):
with pity. His jaw is set, his eyes burned. You
realize he's not bargaining for his life, He's bearing witness.
Leppo strikes Peter in the head with the butt of
the gun. Blood spits from his skull. Lepo raises the
gun pointed at those prone on the floor. The first
shot shatters the silence, then another, then another, then another,
and then another, and the room erupts in chaos. Dark
(12:09):
brown jerks falling instantly, Blood pools beneath him. Free I
clutches his chest, gasping, then collapses. Marlene screams, bullets tearing
through her body. She falls, groaning, pretending to be dead.
And Peter Tosh, struck by two shots in the head, crumples.
His tall frame crashes to the floor. You're there. Gunfire
deafens you. The smell of gunpowder sears your throat. You
(12:32):
lift your head just enough to see the carnage, body still,
blood slick across the tile. The killers storm out, engines,
roaring into the night, leaving silence broken only by cries
of pain. Neighbors rush in, Sirens slice the humid air.
Panic spills into the street. Neighbor crying no, no, No,
(12:54):
no it comp be true. Peta peta gun inside, Survivors
cling to life. Marlene bleeds but breathes. Carlton Santa Davis
is wounded but alive. But three are gone, Doc Brown,
Free Eye, and Peter Tosh himself. The news spreads. By morning,
(13:14):
a nation wakes up to headlines Peter Tosh murdered at
forty two, Dennis Leppo Lobin turns himself in two days later.
His capture shocks no one. The betrayal cuts deep. A
man Tosh once helped became his executioner. At trial, the
courtroom swells, which Amaican's hungry for justice. Witnesses testify, Survivors
(13:37):
recount the horror. The wooden benches creak beneath you, Sweat
drips down your neck. Lobin sits at the defense stable,
head bowed. The jury files in. The foreman's voice is
steady guilty. The judge in tones death by hanging. The
gallery murmurs, half in relief, half in rage. Later, the
(13:59):
sentences commune to life. One accomplice is executed, the other
imprisoned on paper. Justice is served, but Jamaica knows better.
No courtroom can balance the weight of that night. No
sentence can restore the voice that sang for justice on paper.
Justice is served, but Jamaica knew no sentence could ever
(14:20):
balance the loss of Peter Tosh. Act six the epilogue
and funeral procession. Next Act six the epilogue. The shooting
ended Peter Tosh's life, but the story doesn't stop there.
(14:42):
You're there. The streets of Kingston are thick with people.
Tens of thousands pour into the Capitol, moving like a
river of grief. Banners stretch across the sky. Portraits of Tosh,
painted hand drawn, carried high, float above the crowd. Music
thunders from sound systems on flatbed trucks. Drums beat slow, heavy,
(15:02):
like the nation's heartbeat. Voices rise in hymns and chants.
Some mourners where black, others wrap themselves in red, green
and gold. The coffin moves slowly through the streets, lifted
on the shoulders of those who loved him, guarded by soldiers,
followed by politicians, Rastafarians, ordinary Jamaicans as well. A man
(15:23):
who never bowed in life is carried like royalty and death.
Inside the National Arena, the service turns into a concert
of mourning. Musicians play his songs, voices cracked with emotion.
His body lies in state, and thousands file passed, some
touching the coffin, some just staring, unwilling to let go.
But how do you measure him? Yes, there are the albums,
(15:47):
Legalize It, Equal Rights, Bush Doctor, Mama Africa, No Nuclear War. Yes,
there are the scars, the arrests, the beatings, the betrayals.
But for Jamaica, Peter Tosh was more than that. He
was a national conscious, a voice that refused to soften
or bend. Where others sang of love and peace, Tosh
sang of resistance, dignity, and survival. Bob Marley gave reggae
(16:12):
its smile, Bonnie Whailer gave it its sweetness, but Peter
Tosh gave it its teeth. And Jamaica remembers his murals
still color Kingston Walls. His words still shout through protest megaphones,
his song still shake the air at street dances and
sound systems. He wasn't always loved by politicians or by
(16:33):
the system, but for ordinary Jamaicans, for the people who
lived the struggle, he was theirs. He spoke their anger,
he spoke their pride. A crowd sways under the hot sun,
homemade banner's wave from a speaker, his voice thunders. Everyone
is crying out for peace, Yes, none is crying out
(16:54):
for justice. The chance spreads a thousand voices answering back.
He may be gone, but he is here. Peter Tosh,
not just a name, not just a voice, but an
instruction and to Jamaica, still a hero. I hope you
(17:16):
enjoyed Script eleven The Bush Doctors Long Night, The Story
of Peter Tosh. This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast.
I'm Johnny Heartwell, thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. Some artists sing
for applause, some sing because it pays the bills. But
every once in a while you meet someone who sings
because the truth itself needs a voice. It wasn't smooth,
it wasn't sweet. It was sharp, sharp, like a razor
(00:23):
on stage. He didn't perform. He prosecuted. The mic wasn't
just an instrument, it was evidence, and the songs were verdicts.
He believed in the power of the plant. He believed
dignity wasn't negotiable, and he believed justice wasn't a slogan.
It was a fight. And for a while, that fight
carried him from the sugar field childhood to the birth
of reggae, from harmony trios to the fiery solo anthems.
(00:48):
But one night, in his own home, the rhythm of
his heart collided with the cold sound of gunfire. This
is the story of a voice that refused a bow.
This is Script eleven The Bush Doctors, Long Night, Act one,
west Moreland the Kingston October nineteenth, nineteen forty four. Westmoreland
(01:08):
Parish Jamaica, cane fields, swaying rain, hammering tin roofs, church choirs,
filling Sunday air Born Winston, Hubert Macintosh. He's tall from
the start, so tall people notice him before they know him. Reserved, calculating,
always listening, the kind of kid who looks like he's
keeping score in his head. He discovers the guitar young,
(01:29):
not lessons, not tutors, just stubborn practice, shaping calluses on
his fingertips by his teams. He can play anything he hears.
When his mother dies, he drifts restless, eventually finding his
way to Kingston. Kingston in the late nineteen fifties, raw
electric intents, the sound of ska filling yards, the air
(01:49):
thick with the smell of kerosene lamps, and fried fish
in Kalilou. It's in Kingston that destiny crosses his path.
He meets two other boys chasing the same dream, one
with a sweet, angelic tenor, one with a voice full
of warmth and honey. Together the three of them start
practicing harmonies in the government yard, the audition for Joe Higgs,
(02:10):
a mentor, a kind of neighborhood music teacher. Higgins drills
them scales, harmonies, stage presents. You're there. The yard is crowded,
dusk pressing down. Joe Higgs claps his hands again. Three
young voices weave and crack, then finally land on the note.
The tall One focused on the guitar. He's determined. Sweat
(02:31):
beads on his brow, but when he locks the chord,
it's like a door opening. Soon they form a group,
the Teenagers, then the Wailing Whalers. The tall One isn't
the front man, he's the backbone, the steady, uncompromising edge.
In nineteen sixty four, they record their first single, simmer Down,
a skull anthem urging Kingston's youth to cool the violence.
(02:55):
It rockets to number one on the Jamaican charts. The
trio has arrived, act too. The Whalers take flight as
the nineteen sixties roll on. The group evolves, Skull slows
to rock steady, then slides into the reggae groove. The
world would come to know in this trio, they're at
the heart of it. Recording for Studio One, they cut
(03:17):
tracks like Rude Boy and One Love, local hits songs
blasting out of sound systems, spreading like gospel through Kingston's neighborhoods.
By the late sixties, they catch the ear of producer
Lee Scratch Perry. With Perry's Upsetters Band behind them, they
sharpen their sound into something global. Out of those sessions
come classics like Soul Rebel four hundred Years In small acts,
(03:40):
the Tall One's role is unmistakable. His voice isn't smooth
like the others. It's rough, cutting a growl that gives
the song's teeth. His rhythm guitar keeps the offbeat crisp,
and his harmonies give this sound weight. By nineteen seventy two,
they sign with Island Records, and suddenly the world knows them.
(04:00):
Albums like Catch a Fire and Burning break open reggae internationally.
Songs like Get Up, Stand Up, and Stop the Train
turn into anthems, but fame isn't evenly shared. The spotlight
falls heavier on one of them, the charismatic, smiling front man.
The record company markets him as the face. The Tall
One doesn't smile much. He's not interested in charm. He's
(04:23):
interested in truth, and that difference becomes a crack. The
bus rattles on a dark highway. A promoter shortened them again, voices, ride, complaints, anger.
The Tall One stares out the window, silent. Finally he
speaks music, nothing but thief business. His tone is low
but final. The bus goes quiet. The tension doesn't disappear,
(04:46):
it only grows. By nineteen seventy four, the group splits.
The front man goes solo, The Silky Voice One phades
into quieter projects, then the Tall One. He's about to
step out under a new name. Act three the Stepen' Raiser. Next,
(05:10):
Act three the step and Raiser. His solo debut, Legalize
It nineteen seventy six isn't just an album, It's a declaration.
The cover shows him in a Ganja field, challis in hand.
The title track becomes an anthem for legalization band on
Jamaican radio, but blasting everywhere else. Critics scoff at first,
but the people, they get it. This is their voice,
(05:33):
their struggle. His follow up, Equal Rights in nineteen seventy
seven is even sharper. Songs like down Presser Man and
Stepen Raiser and the title track are like thunderbolts. This
isn't love song reggae, this is revolution reggae. And on
stage he's unstoppable. Tall commanding, often with his infamous M
(05:53):
sixteen guitar slung over his shoulder, a statement as much
as an instrument. At the nineteen seventy eight One Love
Peace Concert, he doesn't play it safe. While his former
bandmate calls politicians on stage for a symbolic handshake, The
tall One tears into them. He lectures them, tells them
their peace is worthless without justice. The crowd roars the
(06:15):
leader's squirm. Backstage at the Peace concert, a friend leans
in and whispers, easy, easy, tone it down. He doesn't
even blink, No me, no cool, nothing, don't have to
hear truth. When he walks into the lights, it's like
watching a fuse catch by. Now the world knows his
new name, Peter Peter Tosh, the step and Razor the
(06:39):
Bush Doctor act for another Shitty Day in Paradise, but
power on stage doesn't erase trouble off it. A motorcycle
crash in nineteen seventy three leaves him with a fractured
skull migraines for the rest of his life, but he
never slows down. The police hound him arrests for possession beatings.
(06:59):
In nineteen seven, he's nearly killed by officers during a
ninety minute savage beating at Halfway Tree. For what he
says about the authorities at his concerts, he keeps recording
Bush Doctor in nineteen seventy eight, featuring his duet with
Mick Jacker, Mystic Man in nineteen seventy nine, Wanted Dead
or Alive in nineteen eighty one, Mama Africa in nineteen
(07:20):
eighty three with his hit cover of Johnny B. Good,
and finally No Nuclear War in nineteen eighty seven, which
earns him a Grammy. But behind the records, life is chaos,
money is tight, contracts, crooked health declining. His uncompromising nature
leaves him with powerful enemies and few safety nets. You're
there the police station, fluorescent lights hum overhead. He sits
(07:44):
in a cell, face bruised, jaw clenched. An officer smirks,
you think you're bigger than Delos. He stares back, calm,
law without justice. He's Dearney. The words hang in the
stale air, undeniable. Still he carries on a defiant, relentless
until that September night at five, one night, no return.
(08:11):
Next at five, one night, no return, September eleventh, nineteen
eighty seven, Barbican roade Kingston. The night is thick with
Jamaican heat. Inside Peter Tosha's home, the mood is light,
almost celebratory. He just returned from a US tour. Friends
(08:33):
gathered to welcome him back, Milton, Doc Brown, Jeff free,
I Dixon, his partner, Marlene Drummer, Carlton Santa Davis, along
with others drifting in and out. The living room glows
with a soft light of a lamp. The TV hums
in a corner. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mingling
with the sweeter burn of herb. Someone cracks a joke,
(08:54):
Laughter bounces off the walls, and for once life feels calm,
but not for long. Then they hear a car pull
up stop, doors shut violently, then then a knock. The
door swings open and everything changes. Dennis Leppo Lobin steps
inside a pistol grip tight. Two more men pushed through
(09:15):
behind him, both armed, eyes wild. Lobin is no stranger.
Tash had helped him after prison tonight. His gratitude is gone.
Leppo shouting everybody upon the floor. Belliot the command ricochets
through the room. Fear seizes the air. It's a phrase,
no Jamaican wants to hear Belliot face down, arms wide.
(09:35):
The guests freeze, Confused, They obey, bodies flattened to the rug,
hands gripped a carpet. Hearts thunder, Leppo, where the money
us dollars? You just come back from fourn Tosh calm, no, Leppo,
me no key millions here y'are looking into wrong place.
Loban snarls, waving the gun towards the group. Free I
(09:56):
pleading Lepo him help you, y'ah. You can't do this
to him, Leppo snarling. Shut your mouth, mean know the truth.
He must star money in the house. The two accomplices bark, orders,
pulling jewelry, rings, watches. The room is stripped of values.
Still they demand more. The intruders search every drawer, every cupboard.
(10:16):
Gun barrels clank against the wood, the clink of safeties
being pulled, echoes like thunder. You're there, You're on the carpet,
cheek pressed flat, the fiber's itch. You taste dust, Sweat
runs in your mouth. Every sound, the creak of the floor,
the shift the shoes make you flinch. Your chest burns
from holding your breath. But you don't dare move. Marlene
(10:39):
whimpers one gum and slaps her. The crack is loud
and cruel. Marlene, Please take what you want, Leppo. We
take until we done. Doc Brown tries the reason. His
voice is gentle, almost pastorial. Brother, don't bring a course
upon yourself. Lead the place, Leppo snapping shut your mouth, duck,
preacher can't save you. Now, free I tries again, voice breaking, Lepo,
(11:02):
Remember the man who give you food when you're hungry, Yah,
Lepo cold and now I take what I want. Loyty
can't pay me rent the gun's wave, the fan ticks overhead,
the second's pile into hours. Finally, Lobin turns his rage
back to Tosh. He shoves the pistol against his temple.
Leppo growling, where DAMAI peita Tosh? Even unshaken, Leppo, you
(11:25):
can't find what not? He me not keep it, me
not have it. The room holds its breath. Leppo furious,
y'ama think I'm an idiot. Tosh firm me no la
Lepo me, never beg me, never bow me, not start now,
even with a gun at his head, you see it
the defiance. He looks at Lobin, not with fear, but
(11:47):
with pity. His jaw is set, his eyes burned. You
realize he's not bargaining for his life, He's bearing witness.
Leppo strikes Peter in the head with the butt of
the gun. Blood spits from his skull. Lepo raises the
gun pointed at those prone on the floor. The first
shot shatters the silence, then another, then another, then another,
and then another, and the room erupts in chaos. Dark
(12:09):
brown jerks falling instantly, Blood pools beneath him. Free I
clutches his chest, gasping, then collapses. Marlene screams, bullets tearing
through her body. She falls, groaning, pretending to be dead.
And Peter Tosh, struck by two shots in the head, crumples.
His tall frame crashes to the floor. You're there. Gunfire
deafens you. The smell of gunpowder sears your throat. You
(12:32):
lift your head just enough to see the carnage, body still,
blood slick across the tile. The killers storm out, engines,
roaring into the night, leaving silence broken only by cries
of pain. Neighbors rush in, Sirens slice the humid air.
Panic spills into the street. Neighbor crying no, no, No,
(12:54):
no it comp be true. Peta peta gun inside, Survivors
cling to life. Marlene bleeds but breathes. Carlton Santa Davis
is wounded but alive. But three are gone, Doc Brown,
Free Eye, and Peter Tosh himself. The news spreads. By morning,
(13:14):
a nation wakes up to headlines Peter Tosh murdered at
forty two, Dennis Leppo Lobin turns himself in two days later.
His capture shocks no one. The betrayal cuts deep. A
man Tosh once helped became his executioner. At trial, the
courtroom swells, which Amaican's hungry for justice. Witnesses testify, Survivors
(13:37):
recount the horror. The wooden benches creak beneath you, Sweat
drips down your neck. Lobin sits at the defense stable,
head bowed. The jury files in. The foreman's voice is
steady guilty. The judge in tones death by hanging. The
gallery murmurs, half in relief, half in rage. Later, the
(13:59):
sentences commune to life. One accomplice is executed, the other
imprisoned on paper. Justice is served, but Jamaica knows better.
No courtroom can balance the weight of that night. No
sentence can restore the voice that sang for justice on paper.
Justice is served, but Jamaica knew no sentence could ever
(14:20):
balance the loss of Peter Tosh. Act six the epilogue
and funeral procession. Next Act six the epilogue. The shooting
ended Peter Tosh's life, but the story doesn't stop there.
(14:42):
You're there. The streets of Kingston are thick with people.
Tens of thousands pour into the Capitol, moving like a
river of grief. Banners stretch across the sky. Portraits of Tosh,
painted hand drawn, carried high, float above the crowd. Music
thunders from sound systems on flatbed trucks. Drums beat slow, heavy,
(15:02):
like the nation's heartbeat. Voices rise in hymns and chants.
Some mourners where black, others wrap themselves in red, green
and gold. The coffin moves slowly through the streets, lifted
on the shoulders of those who loved him, guarded by soldiers,
followed by politicians, Rastafarians, ordinary Jamaicans as well. A man
(15:23):
who never bowed in life is carried like royalty and death.
Inside the National Arena, the service turns into a concert
of mourning. Musicians play his songs, voices cracked with emotion.
His body lies in state, and thousands file passed, some
touching the coffin, some just staring, unwilling to let go.
But how do you measure him? Yes, there are the albums,
(15:47):
Legalize It, Equal Rights, Bush Doctor, Mama Africa, No Nuclear War. Yes,
there are the scars, the arrests, the beatings, the betrayals.
But for Jamaica, Peter Tosh was more than that. He
was a national conscious, a voice that refused to soften
or bend. Where others sang of love and peace, Tosh
sang of resistance, dignity, and survival. Bob Marley gave reggae
(16:12):
its smile, Bonnie Whailer gave it its sweetness, but Peter
Tosh gave it its teeth. And Jamaica remembers his murals
still color Kingston Walls. His words still shout through protest megaphones,
his song still shake the air at street dances and
sound systems. He wasn't always loved by politicians or by
(16:33):
the system, but for ordinary Jamaicans, for the people who
lived the struggle, he was theirs. He spoke their anger,
he spoke their pride. A crowd sways under the hot sun,
homemade banner's wave from a speaker, his voice thunders. Everyone
is crying out for peace, Yes, none is crying out
(16:54):
for justice. The chance spreads a thousand voices answering back.
He may be gone, but he is here. Peter Tosh,
not just a name, not just a voice, but an
instruction and to Jamaica, still a hero. I hope you
(17:16):
enjoyed Script eleven The Bush Doctors Long Night, The Story
of Peter Tosh. This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast.
I'm Johnny Heartwell, thank you so much for listening.
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