On Music: Conscious Dancehall Time March 31
“Music rots when it gets too far from the dance.
Poetry atrophies when it gets too far from the music.“
Ezra Pound
Welcome to our recurring series “On Music.“ Our program today starts with Dancehall and Conscious. Both of these West Indian music genres have roots in Jamaican Reggae. Dancehall provides the vibe of clubs and car stereos, splicing electronic elements into a standard 4-piece ensemble. It occasionally borrows horns from British Ska, as well as lyrical Rap from America. Themes are contemporary—love, sex, justice, and politics—but none of this matters as much as the dancing in the hall.
Meanwhile, Conscious is transcendental verse set to a raw up-strum reggae groove. Keyboards are spare, but otherwise digital manipulation is avoided. This is real-sounding food for thought, even prayer. It provides the gospel of Rasta, more apropos of a lime and ganja than the skin joints of Dancehall. None of this is to imply that I can actually tell the difference myself. For this I rely on my guide Ferdy, whose transcendental dancehall states can range from Zion to Babylon and back again.
Buju Banton, the reigning King of Dancehall, is scheduled to perform next month on Queen’s Park Savannah, and security should be tight. In 2010, Buju was arrested in Florida with a gun and 5 kg of cocaine. As he awaited trial, his album won the Reggae Grammy, and his musical success only grew during his long incarceration. Almost immediately after his release from prison, in December, Buju filled Kingston’s National Stadium. Now he is bringing his revival to Port of Spain. The City of Rastafari loves Buju. Therefore, The Muslims necessarily hate him. Excited fans may pray for peace while preparing for violence. Just keep dancing, keep conscious.
Soca music has largely evaporated from public airwaves. Big 2019 Carnival blossoms, like Hookin’ Meh and Iron Love, have withered, re-written to sell toothpaste and cell phones. Nailah Blackman’s Iron Love is particularly hard to hear as a B-Mobile ring tone, especially since her original lyrics are lifted from Calypso royalty—Lord Shorty, or Ras Shorty I, or Garfield Blackman. “Honey lick the pan“ may deserve heritage protection, but bubble gum gets old—a new piece is required—which Nailah is happy to oblige. Her 2018 hit “Baila Mami“ lights the Spanish language on Fuego. Like all sugar cane Soca, the double-time back-rhythm and major key, Ab, cause non-voluntary movements throughout shoulders and hips and feet, while also providing swimming-safety tips for the children: “Put Da Bubble ‘Pon Yuh Wais’.“
Atlantic Time gives way to Eastern Time. The rest of the world springs forward, but we stay put. Halifax and Rio De Janeiro leave us behind, as T&T returns to New York time, but not really. This place will never keep New York time—it is simply not built for it. Traffic on the congested angel-hair roadways stops routinely and without warning, ruining schedules. In the States, deadlines and time-management are a major source of stress, but Trini’s have enough sources already, so they make fun of it instead.
The old Calypso song Trinidad Time, by Lord Kitch, welcomes listeners to embrace the likelihood that “you promise by eight but shows up half late, because anytime is Trinidad time.“ The audience at Queens Hall nods with a knowing “hmm“ and joins in the refrain, with cultural pride. The suggestion that “Anytime is Trinidad Time“ may encourage us to live in the moment, to treasure the present. And it is never too late to twist a lime and join the fete, although “anytime“ might also be no time at all. “You promise by ten, so you come by when?“ the Calypsonian croons. Today or tomorrow or never? Timelessness becomes a practical necessity, perhaps an ideological stand, and certainly a reason for capitalist cranks to deride a shabby work ethic. European standardized times were established to ensure efficient train travel, straight through two world wars and a holocaust. Clocks are tools of the oppressors. Put that in your watch and tick it.