Sheriff John Brown Always Hated Me

Saturday night was my brother JP's 30th birthday, so we gathered at his apartment to throw a surprise party. His girlfriend, Schmoopie, and my other brother Matt planned the party, and I'm happy to say that he was surprised. The whole "surprise" factor was more difficult than originally calculated, because JP didn't want to leave his apartment that day. Somehow, Schmoopie convinced him to go see a movie that he didn't want to see, and we were waiting for him with noisemakers and balloons when he returned.

The highlight of the evening, for most of us, was probably the live music going on in the living room. There was a guy playing the steel drum, standing in front of an impressive speaker and a musical setup that cranked out a seemingly endless karaoke track of reggae favorites. I'm not sure where they found him, but I think he may have come from "the islands".

Matt stocked a nice bar complete with limes, plenty of ice, and, most importantly, Jack Daniels. For those who know me, they know that Jack Daniels plus a microphone equals audience participation.

Shortly after JP's grand entrance, he noticed our live music. Clearly, he was impressed with the guy's steel drum skills. At this point, we, the partygoers, had heard "I Shot the Sheriff" more than a few times, but we all took a moment to enjoy watching JP soak in the music.

"I Shot the Sheriff", said the 30-year-old, obviously proud of his name-that-tune ability. And for a brief moment, we were taken back to a simpler time, as if we were all hearing it for the first time.

The guy decided to take a break to rest his wrists, because there's a bunch of tricky drumwork involved with this reggae classic. My brother Matt, aware of the Jack Daniels/microphone equation, warned the steel drummer that he would soon be part of a duet.

He smiled and seemed very excited. "Yes, yes, I love it when people join me on stage", he said.

OK, I'll play along. I can use my imagination enough to visualize the corner of the living room as a stage. "So, Bob Marley, huh?", I said. "Do you know Stir it Up, or Redemption Song?"

"How about Three Little Birds?", Matt asked.

"Yes, yes. I know it all", said the guy from the islands.

A few minutes later, he was back on stage, banging away on the steel drums to the extended dance-remix of "I Shot the Sheriff". OK, I'm thinking, I know the words to this one. The guy's a good steel drummer, but his singing leaves a bit to be desired, so I'll go up there and try to be funny for a few minutes. I joined him for a duet of his greatest hit. We both admitted to shooting the sheriff this time, but neither of us would take any public credit for shooting the deputy. Like a couple of outlaws on the run, we proudly detailed our crimes as the room began to fill up with fans of my musical work. Unfortunately, the CD ended abruptly right in the middle of one of my more emotional lyrics. No problem, Island Guy cued it up again and the song restarted. We were a strong musical tandem. As a duet, our performance would probably rate somewhere between "Hall and Oates" and "Captain and Tenille".

Now, the seal was broken, and others at the party felt comfortable enough to join the steel drummer in the corner of the living room. My brother Matt went up there and sang a song called "I Shot the Sheriff". My friend Dave joined the island guy on stage as well, and he sang a little ditty about shooting a sheriff. Another guy, who's name I didn't catch, got up and sang the Bob Marley classic "I Shot the Sheriff".

As the evening went on, the good cheer continued to flow. The voices got a little louder; our dialogue a little more slurred. Everybody was having a great time. The island guy was taking another break. I watched him as he poured himself another drink, and then started high-fiving all of his musical partners. He turned to me with his hand extended in the air, awaiting a high-five.

"Nice work", I said as I slapped his hand, careful not to injure his drumming fingers. "Hey, do you know "No Woman No Cry" or "Exodus", I asked.

"I do. I do. Come up and sing and I'll play something special", he promised.

As he returned from break, I ambled over to the corner of the living room with him. He smiled as he handed me the microphone and fired up the music machine. It was a smile that said: "Here, my friend. This microphone belongs in your hand. Now, let's make some music." I felt a quick rush of adrenaline and turned to face my audience. The music began, and, one note in, I knew it was a song I was familiar with.

"All around, in my hometown, they're trying to track me down. They say they want to bring me in guilty, for the killing of a deputy. For the life, of a deputy."

Ahhh, Good times.