Honey Lick The Pan February 19
Queen’s Park Savannah has filled with white tents resembling a snowy mountain range. Traffic has slowed to a crawl on the enormous rotary, as impromptu fetes spill onto the streets for Panorama weekend’s semi-final round. “I lick it, I lick it, I lick it,“ booms the Soca sensation Nahlia Blackman, supported by the symphonic metal clang of Angel Harps.
British Petroleum Renegades drill-practice downtown on a mostly abandoned block of Charlotte Street. The youth band is famous, a consecutive 5-time Junior Panorama Champion. The high cinderblock walls are plastered with banners dating back to the ’80’s. Their posted space is designated as a refuge from “hooligans and vagabonds,“ which befits a nursery for the next generation of pan artists. Farmer Nappy joins the big band with a black plastic prop, singing, “But you packed all my clothes in a garbage bag.“ Again I am reminded of how I ended up here.
Woodbrook’s Silver Stars are playing almost 60-strong, the maximum allowed for a mid-size band, and a small appreciative audience is seated in plastic chairs in the converted alleyway. Plywood stands sell doubles, beer, and pholori, spongy chickpea cake balls with mango pepper chutney—Indian-style donut holes. The standing crowd bobs and dances to yet another deafening version of “Hookin’ Me“ by Farmer Nappy: B-E-Abm-F#, a simple 2-4 tempo with countless iterations. Indeed, Nadia Batson’s 2019 hit “So Long“ uses the exact same music track to generate her alternative melody, such is the recycled nature of these forms and instruments. All is meant for repurposing.
Desperadoes “World’s Finest Steel Orchestra“ drills in an actual yard, on a cement slab amid overgrown weeds, where Tragarete skirts the white-bricked graveyard. Rumor has it that PM Rowley and his entourage are on the way to visit this under-supported Woodbrook panyard. Recording devices are expressly prohibited, ostensibly as a precaution for the pending ministerial visit. In any case, the order is explicitly ignored. Everyone wants a picture. Only one white American is approached for the infraction, although he was merely trying to locate a cellular signal.
Shell Invaders have at least 80 players. This is a big band. Their “yard“ is a fenced tarred parking lot, which is packed with steel and spectators. The rejected vagabonds from Charlotte Street have found a home with this mixed audience, swaying and playing biscuit tins to the seismic rhythm. A few cops beat the shadowy perimeter but do nothing to disturb the peaceful vibrations.
In the parking lot of Petit Valley Harps, they are assembling the train of pan wagons for a treacherous drive to the Savannah for the semi-final showdown. These things are heavier than automobiles even before the drums are loaded in place, so many bodies are required for the moving job. Gero directs the effort from his seat below a “No Loitering“ sign. Another VIP lights up a joint beneath “No Smoking.“ Supreme irony reigns before a new monarch is crowned. Like Denzil says, 10 minutes will determine destiny.