A parade of steel pans rolls down Ariapita Avenue in the Westbrook borough of Port of Spain tonight. At first I thought the promotional flier read “Pain in D Ass“, so I immediately grabbed one for instructional purposes; but, no, “Pan ’N D Ave“ was what it read. The atmosphere is decidedly boisterous after dark along Ariapita, stretching from the state-of-the-art football stadium to the peeling plastered walls of 200-year-old Lapeyrouse Cemetery, where Commodore Perry rests in peace, at least until tonight.
Westbrook is a mixed residential-commercial neighborhood of small lots and narrow cross-streets—one block features a pentecostal church, a blinking casino, a pub, a loud patio called Smokey and Bunty, and modest family homes, where old-timers sip beer from lawn chairs on the crowded sidewalk. This is the closest thing to carnival that one can find in late summer.
The Avenue is cleared of car traffic for the party, forcing drivers to park on congested side-streets. Samantha announces that her car has been “wrecked,“ and I worry that there has been a crash—but, no, “wrecked“ means “towed“, as in carted away by a city wrecker. According to her irate husband, cars must park 9 yards(!) from the nearest corner, essentially rendering all parking illegal in this neighborhood of tiny lanes. Despite the likely 500-dollar TT fine to reclaim the vehicle from God-knows-where, the couple refuses to wallow for long. After all, the pan bands are approaching, and there is some serious limin’ to be had.
A couple dozen players make up a pan ensemble, and each floating band is pulled to the central pavilion at Adam Smith Park on a rented trailer, either by a big rig or a farm tractor. The train stops occasionally in front of especially appreciative audiences, where the men and women pannists aboard absolutely wail. Congas, cowbells, and loads of pastel-painted industrial oil barrels are struck with synchronized abandon, while the trailers bounce and rock to the rollicking beat, testing the limits of carriage suspensions. Beside the floats are red-caped dancers on stilts wearing feline masks and frilly blouses from another century or two, waving home-made banners with names like “Pan Elders“, “Harvard Harps“, “Brimblers,“ “Lorena’s Memory,“ and “Saint Margaret’s Superstars.“ Pedal carts offer boiled corn and shaved ice with syrup. Coconut venders are posted on every block.
The dancing along Ariapita is free-form and frequently frenzied. There is strutting, swaying, tapping, bobbing, raising a knee and grinding a heel—all of it sensuous and sweaty. Some respond to the thunderous Caribbean grooves by throwing legs behind, as if the globe’s spin had suddenly accelerated. Unlike Latino dancing, there is no prescription for the movement, no need for a partner to hold, no precision footwork necessary. Despite the complex rhythms, the music is reducible to 2-4 time. The old-timers in the lawn chairs capture the simple essence with little more than a metronome chin-nod and well-timed sip.
I find an illuminated bench outside a wing-and-jerk shack and take it all in with my notebook in hand, which proves fortuitous, as folks are happy to share my seat and ask my opinion of the festivities. They are proud of their national tradition, which has taken the dregs of a petroleum economy and created an art form.
Jeffrey conducts “Pan Elders“, and the gentleman soothes a bad mood with a gigantic plate of fries engorged with Matouk’s West India hot sauce. He has reason to be grouchy, as the city has failed in its financial commitments to the bands. Someone has apparently emptied the piggy bank, meaning that his crew will not be receiving the $75,000 TT promised for the event. Indeed, his truck driver has just learned that he is not getting his $3000 TT for the vehicle rental, and he is threatening to take his wheels and go home.
“The crime and corruption are getting so bad, I tell you,“ says the veteran pannist, shaking his head between messy bites. “What will happen at carnival next year? I just don’t know. We love to play, but we need the money too.“
Then his ride arrives, just as the spicy plate is licked clean. Pilfered coffers or no, the show must go on. Jeffrey rises and bids me a good night before hopping aboard a rickety trailer bedecked with 55-gallon barrels. “Skirt-length“ (how much of the drum has been cut away) defines the musical range—miniskirts provide the soprano sound, middies the alto, full drum the bottom end. Jeffrey pulls out his rubber-tipped sticks and strikes the biggest pan with purpose, and the younger players follow his lead, picking up the tempo with messianic enthusiasm. Dreadlocks and perspiration are flying with cultural pride. The pounding conductor grins broadly—his driver will stay the course tonight—as Caribbean Soul legend Nailah Blackman Socas with Baila Mama.
Pan ’N D Avenue September 10