A Drumbeat Felt Before It Was Heard There are moments when music feels less like sound and more like breath. When the rhythm does not announce itself, but holds everything together . On January 26, the world learned that Sly Dunbar had stepped away from the kit, leaving behind a silence heavy with memory. It was not the absence of noise that hurt—it was the sudden awareness of how much of our musical lives had always been moving to his time. Sly Dunbar was never simply keeping the beat. He was shaping the ground beneath it . The Man Who Organized Sound Born Lowell Fillmore Dunbar in Kingston, Jamaica, Sly emerged in a time when reggae was finding its global voice. From the studios of Channel One to stages across the world, his drumming carried discipline, restraint, and intention. Each kick drum landed with authority. Each snare spoke with clarity. He understood something few musicians ever fully grasp: rhythm is responsibility . Sly did not rush. He did not overcrowd...

  On January 18, the reggae world paused to remember Stephen "Cat" Coore—a founding member of Third World, a master guitarist, and a quiet giant whose influence reached far beyond the stage. Cat Coore was not a musician who chased attention. He was a musician who earned respect—by how he played, how he lived, and how he treated people. To understand his legacy, you don’t need a full discography. You need to understand three moments—one professional, one personal, and one rooted in giving back. Together, they tell the story of a man who believed reggae was not just sound, but responsibility. 1. The Professional Moment: When Reggae Went Global Without Losing Its Soul In the early 1970s, reggae stood at a crossroads. The music was powerful, but often boxed in—seen as regional, niche, or limited in scope. When Third World emerged, Stephen “Cat” Coore helped change that perception forever. As a founding member and musical architect, Cat Coore brought discipline, musicality, and re...

Some interviews feel like marketing. Others feel like a moment you’re supposed to hear. This conversation with Blaz’em belongs to the second category. For over 15 years, Blaz’em has lived Rastafari—not as a look, not as a trend, but as a discipline. In his exclusive Reggae Hour interview, he speaks with a clarity that cuts through noise, ego, and industry illusions. He talks about faith, elders, mistakes, music, youth, and why conscious reggae still matters when so much feels disconnected. What follows isn’t just a recap. It’s a reasoning—with the artist, and with yourself. “I Always Knew I Was Going to Be a Rasta” Blaz’em’s journey didn’t begin on a stage or in a studio. It began quietly—as a youth watching, listening, absorbing. “Looking at the elder Rastaman dem, it interest me. The picture of Selassie—I used to just stand and stare at it. I knew one day… I was going to be a Rasta.” At just 14 years old, he embraced Rastafari—not because it was popular, but because it felt like home...