This article originally appeared in the October 1989 issue of SPIN.
He looks a lot more like his mother. He’s got Rita’s apple cheeks and dimples, and a flirtatious, almost girlish smile. No intimidating stares, no tough ras sass, no prophetic, heavy-lidded ganja nods. Still, you can’t help playing the Famous Son game, studying his face for traces of the father whose brooding, angular, saint-like portrait graces West Indian dwellings from Kingston to the United Kingdom. Meanwhile, this bright-eyed Jamaican 20-year-old dressed in sweats and snazzy athletic boots, a graduate of one of his country’s most rigorous preparatory schools, keeps a soccer ball bobbing at his feet. “Me is
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