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His mind flashed to his "All Night Till Daylight" days, the way the music connected everyone. He could already hear the horn section, the steady, rhythmic guitar strumming. He was a Rasta, but his message was for everyone.
Jacob grinned, tearing the page from his notebook and tucking it into his pocket. He picked up his guitar. "Let’s go, bredda. The music can’t stop. The vibe is just right."
“One, two, three… news-a-carry-dread in a tenement yard,” he hummed, trying out the melody.
Suddenly, a knock on the door broke the trance. It was Ian, his drummer.
