Baby Dolls February 23
Baby Dolls are prime examples of the fundamental weirdness of Carnival. My favorite librarian Debbie doubles as a journalist and social advocate, and I consider her to be a sober-minded critic as well as a believer in Trinidad, her chosen home. Yet she writes scholarly sentences about Carnival traditions that seem crazy to a foreigner. Her recent Newsday article, “Extortion Mas—Baby Dolls and Devils,“ speaks to this method of masquerade, with 45 variations of devils and made-up unwed mothers. These young women are solicitous yet vexed, strolling the crowd during J’ouvert with a scary fake baby, accosting unsuspecting men for money. The madness almost sounds normal:
“Although baby dolls are no longer prevalent, jab jabs are thriving. In the past, they both played an important function in TT’s Mas. They gave a voice to poor masqueraders who couldn’t afford fancy costumes. Baby dolls allowed men and women to confront the upper-class society that marginalized them.“
As mores change in England and abroad, so must they in Trinidad, pushing the bar of good taste into a vat of chocolate and oil. Conservatives bemoan the vapid sexuality of recent years, but one essential point is that Carnival must always seem obscene to the Imperial British. This is the whole reason for the parade of imposters—sailors, lords, and kings. You are expected to drink it all in, even to excess. To hell with the monarchy and her bloody church! Confession can wait until Ash Wednesday.
I avoid loud repetitive music. I avoid large crowds. I avoid being covered in mud. I avoid staying awake for days on end. I avoid the wildly drunk. I may not, in fact, be a true Irishman, who would surely be in his element here. He would be fairly familiar with a bacchanal. If he is not careful, he may end up in the gutter before Lent.
The advised technique for negotiating Carnival is full immersion, which is honestly terrifying. I have somewhat attempted to do this through music, where the language is not so foreign to me. The Soca is undeniably loud and repetitive—4 spit-fire chords define each song—but it is nevertheless hookin’ meh. B-E-Abm-F# inspired both Nadia Batson and Farmer Nappy to write songs to identical tracks of percussion and keys, a common practice which allows both singers to share the same stage and play together. Nappy’s “Hookin’ Meh“ has raised feminists hackles for his praise of a woman who looks good when she cooks for him, then blames her for his own callous failings. Regardless, Renegades Orchestra won the Panorama semifinal with Farmer Nappy, partly because Soca lyrics do not matter. If the listener feels a release, then the song is a winner.
“Iron Love“ is another chosen favorite among steel bands, and it is easy to play on guitar, especially if slowed to an unrecognizable dirge, as I did at school assembly:
“Iron man
He sweeter than
Honey lick the pan
Jam iron
Woman does leave the man.“Composer Nahlia Blackman is smart to write a fallen love song to pannists, as it is an irresistible solicitation to play it “whole day, whole day.“ Specifically, in C#m-A-E-B. Although the minor chord receives more emphasis, to invoke a clanging chain gang, the rapid progression is exactly the same as the others, only played backward, in E major instead of B major.
It is all so basic, so simple, so reproducible, which is the essence of any folk music. Furthermore, everyone knows these songs. They sing along to the radio and in open gatherings. And, like the tents and the costumes and everything else, they will disappear after Carnival altogether, vanish to ash and dust, to make way for next year’s creations. You have to die to be reborn.
Modernity is changing Carnival, which the young embrace and the old abhor. The nation sees an interest in preserving the heritage. In the new world, copyright is to be respected, and Trinis want respect. They do not want to see anymore exploitation, or expropriation without compensation, as we are reminded by Baby Dolls and 45 varying devil incarnations.
Thus, with noble intent, the National Carnival Commission issues licenses to photographers who want to capture images of Mas’, fees owed to the property intellectuals but more likely lost to the sieve of government finance. I would argue more vociferously in defense of these artists and their magnificent preposterous property, but I have listened to at least $500 worth of Soca from Nadia and the Farmer, and I confess I have not paid them a single useless TT ha’penny. Call me deadbeat.