Forty minutes from now Peter Tosh will threaten to make me disappear. At this moment, though, he and I are in reasonably cordial conversation. We meet in North London to discuss his latest LP, Wanted: Dread & Alive. The name, by the way, is the best thing about it, but we’ll come to that. Outside the door is a unicycle and in here it’s just me, Mr Tosh and this other rasta-looking geezer with long, matted locks who, by the chamois leather and dusters hanging from his overall pockets, I take to be a window-cleaner. He’s here, apparently, having strolled in off the street and announced himself as Peter Tosh’s brother.
The rasta geezer doesn’t say much and seldom looks up from rolling multiple spliffs, which Tosh and he hand…
