Sacred Profane March 4
Brian London is crowned as Calypso Monarch, one of three victorious Londons this year, dishing fresh dirt on Police Commissioner Gary Griffith, the audacious new sheriff in town, in “Who To Call“:
“In Westmoorings if you cyar slumber,
He go give you his phone number,
He go use his power
To bus’ up all de happy hour,
Be you black or white or blue,
Be a cockroach, he crush you“A Griffith look-a-like arrives to drag the singer away at the end of the song, to applause under a steady drizzle. The real cops in the shadows do not seem amused.
The Soca Monarchy “wen’ foreign“ in 2019 for the first time in history. Defying all odds, Mr. Killa captured the crown. He is from Grenada, which does not go over well with the nationalists. He is dressed as a ferocious tribal warrior, barking a plea for “no fightin’, more fetein’,“ while standing next to a coffin on stage. I must be a nationalist too because I have never heard of Mr. Killa.
In pan, Army wins the small band competition, which was held in San Fernando, down sout’. The triumphant large and medium bands are not crowned until 3 am. If these thousands were to form a genuine army, there would be more drummers than soldiers. Valley Harp from Petit Valley makes an interesting rootsy choice in performing Dingolay and, for its sins, finishes ninth out of ten in the medium category; Pan Elders take first.
The successful large bands tend to play B-E-Abm-F#: BP Renegades successfully defend their title, followed by Desperadoes, Massy All Stars, Shell Invaders, and Caribbean Airlines Skiffle. All but one band showcases “Hookin’ Meh“ or “So Long,“ while only the “Desperate Ones“ play “Iron Love,“ which still receives the most radio airplay on 100.5 fm.
To mark a dynasty, Nailah Blackman’s lyrics for “Iron Love“ were written by her grandfather Cory, known as Lord Shorty, in 1976, in a song called “Cory Iron.“ It is considered one of the earliest Soca songs, though its sunny calypso is exposed bare—“honey lick the pan“—you can practically hear the singer smiling. For those debating whether Nailah’s chorus is “lick it“ or “bring it,“ Shorty is clearly singing “dig it“ in the original—very ’70’s. Shorty almost died from a stab wound to the eye, which is not as uncommon as you might think.
Already Nailah’s hit has been retooled, yet again, with new lyrics for B Mobile, my phone company, and is replacing the original in the mall. Meanwhile, Farmer Nappy has new words for Hookin’ Meh, which shall torment me for months to come in the Massy checkout lines:
“But yuh pack all my fro-
Zen food in a bag—“ (or somet’ing like dat)
Meanwhile, in the same universe, or neighborhood, Carnival’s sweeping train collides with Maha Shivaraatri, a high Hindu holy day, which falls this year on March 4, according to the eternal lunar calendar. This “Great Night of Shiva“ washes away with Ganges water all those karmas that entrap mortals in the life-death cycle. This must be keenly anticipated by such a man named Satnarayan Maha Raj, and in the newspaper it is:
“This major festival in Hinduism marks a remembrance of overcoming darkness and ignorance, observed by remembering Shiva and chanting prayers, fasting, and meditating.“Not likely tonight. No one can pray or meditate, or sleep, in Port of Spain. Not with these lights and racket. East Indians may embrace steel pan, but not Carnival in general, especially this year. Shiva’s devoted servant cannot resist a swipe at how the other half lives, joining many who view the bacchanals as irresponsible, dangerous, and racist:
“It is difficult to imagine two coinciding events with such marked contrast. Carnival appeals to the base nature of human beings while Shiva Raatri appeals to more acceptable forms of behavior.“
Out on the rain-greased streets, white women feel targeted, even those born and bred here, often citing safety as the major reason not to “play Jew-vay.“ The revelers are drinking alcohol and have been doing so for days, without rest. They are on edge and impressionable. Surreal characters prowl and march and crawl. The flambeaux is ignited, the sugar cane burned. Seismic drumbeats build to religious rapture, deeper than the abyss, closer to the center of the earth.