Here’s a brief excerpt:
Oh gosh boy, Kenny Rogers. If Trinidad had her way right now, “The Gambler” would be blasting from every tinny tweeter and mega-speaker from Icacos to Matelot. They’d ease into it with the grooving, percussive Busy Signal version — a Caribbean testimony to how much you’re loved — and wind up with your mellow croon, and not a voice would be silent in the singing of your held spades and folded diamonds, your spurned jacks and squabbling clubs sprayed out like seafoam on the rough, rough rocks of life. Who told you to die during these hard pandemic times, sir? How can the great bars and small hawk-and-spits of our 868 mourn you appropriately, with no recourse to congregate and take a nip, crack open a new White Oak rum and spill for you?