Zingaytalala March 3
Giant light towers illuminate flash points over the city tonight, as Carnival enters its final weekend—in Woodbrook and Saint James, in Belmont and Laventille, and, especially, on the Savannah. Even at sea, there is a cargo ship a mile offshore shining like a stadium. There must be no rest for the weary on that wide deck. Hundreds of thousands will partake in Carnival. The world now revolves around it.
At Queen’s Hall, Zingaytalala presents a J’ouvert primer, which starts for real after midnight on Sunday. Eight-piece Soca fuels the dancers for two hours of loose choreography and raw sensuality, representing the turbulent fluid of J’ouvert, the cherished “Dirty Mas’.“ Three singers named Canal sweat glittery face-paint like melting vanilla cones. A more literal representation of history and tradition takes the form of a creole dialogue among famous characters. The actress playing Baby Doll has had this role for years, and it shows—the baby is filthy and torn. Congo Jacko is a truculent Rasta man in cargo shorts and old sandals, lazy though dogged in defense of “de living ritual.“ He dances like he is sprinting through a cartoon, knees high, arms flailing. There is also Petit Belle, in a dress of frilly lace, who tends to spread her legs when she dances. She plays a femme fatal, but an insecure one, for she self-consciously stumbles over both big words and furniture. The leader of the troupe, Zingaytalala, looks like an androgynous voodoo baron from James Bond, only more imposing. And, ooh buoy, can she sing! Meh ears still ring.
There are even more human oddities on Adam Smith Square, in Woodbrook, where the party called old-time Mas is crashed by a zoo of characters. Blue Devils crouch like howlers, picking at the ground and barking at anyone near, sometimes choosing one in the crowd to pursue. She spits ounces of blood on shoes, then takes a swig of pitch oil from a plastic water bottle and spews flaming smoke. Her anguished eyes and dripping red teeth suggests she may have inhaled.
One particularly frightening specimen drools green saliva and wears a headdress made of a child’s jeans. The fly is open, allowing his nose to protrude between zippers. Cutouts reveal coma-dilated scarlet pupils. Long sharpened nails extend from a shawl of violet-green feathers. He is at least twelve feet tall, maybe more. A little girl shrieks at the nightmare. No wonder the British banished this guy.
Kaisorama concludes on Saturday, where monarchs are crowned and a wealth of treasure won—hundreds of thousand of TT dollars each for king and queen of giant costumes, soca, calypso, extempo, and steel pan. The competition for Junior Calypso Monarch, looks like a dutiful school talent show on TT Television. “Gimme Some Money“ may win despite the cheesy music score. Hopefully it is better live, but sources say it is not. Yet when youth pursues the popular art forms of yesteryear, it is always an encouraging sign, at least for old people.
Pierrot Grenade returns to introduce veteran Winston “The Gypsy“ Peters and Myron B for Extempo, a showdown of improvisational musical wit. Peters is the controversial chairman of the carnival board, the man who recently closed the north stands to save money. His decision is despised, some believe corrupt, yet the Gypsy will publicly expose himself on stage in a sword fight of song. The winner of the Extempo Monarchy can legally claim a TT fortune.
Fortunately for Winston Peters, the first subject for improvisation is “Trump is a Trap,“ a gift. The vaudeville number begins, and the two wordsmiths dance while composing lyrics. Myrin B delivers 8 lines, then they dance, the Gypsy adds another 8 lines of topical humor, more dancing, and repeat.
“The things he do, the things he say,
No American President gets t’at way,
I tell the Mexican huv no fear,
He could always deport you here.“
Then there is a break for some furious drumming and the traditional Limbo dance. A painted string bean of a man bends under a rolled TT flag, then a flaming bamboo pole, with multiple dislocated joints. If the fat man behind him is next, all I can imagine is an apple on a spit.
The next Extempo subject is “Publish Sex Offenders“, and things get weird. The Gypsy sings that his younger foe should be on the list, because “he coaches little boys…I hope it’s only footballs he playing with.“Then they dance. Then young Myron B gets his finger in Peters’ face.
“It’s no good that you make joke for kicks,“ he sings, and “You could never never do dat,“ that is, coach football. Myron, in fact, coaches girls not boys, and he continues to chastise his elder for ignorance in verse, to which, after more dancing, the Gypsy boastfully replies that he has 7 children and many grandchildren, he loves all children, and junior better calm down, in rhyme. The next stanza wins the crowd for the football coach, as he delivers a rhyming lecture on child welfare. The old guy thinks he is teasing for laughs, but he just woke up in a different age. The two are fuming by the end, but they shake anyway. Chairman Peters throws a fatherly arm around his reluctant apprentice and escorts him offstage.
“Jab for jab repartee,“ Pierrot calls it. “No rules, no blaspheme. Here we enemies. After, we friends again. Maybe.“