 Now, I have never had any expectation that soca music would achieve the level of high art, worthy of assessment by qualified music critics. It is understood that this art form is about escapism, it is disposable music not meant to survive beyond Carnival Tuesday and is only designed to serve as the back drop for writhing masqueraders working themselves into a froth and frenzy as the sun comes down like marmalade on the deluge of humanity in the streets of Port-of-Spain. Mind you, I should declare my bias at the outset: I have never liked this festival. Carnival for the average Trini is two months of rubbing elbows at all-inclusive fetes. Usually these take place in the cool of the afternoon, not too hot, but still enough sun to see whose back-breaking labour in the gym paid off and “oh gosh she lookin’ hard eh!”
It is the wining in front of the stage with wild abandon as the 35-inch speakers push out rhythms at frequencies so powerful they can trigger a heart arrhythmia. It is standing in crippling stilettoes wearing a pair of shorts (the white pants tight yeah yeah) that would make Caligula blush and eating pork from a floppy paper plate. More than anything else, though, it is this disorganised faith, whose only gods are hedonism and self-gratification; and these are demanding gods. For me Carnival has always been warm beer, ah pushin’ and a shovin’, losing everyone and moving involuntarily with a crowd of people, everyone with their arms upraised and exuding a body odour that very closely mimics expired marmite. This however does not disqualify me from offering my opinions on the Carnival songs for 2009. I say this because I do have an appreciation for good soca and calypso music, the latter which I predict will be extinct in the next ten years.
I would be faster caught dancing the bele than wining “on de wrong” gyal and winding up on the wrong end of the fist of the wrong husband who happens to be a port worker—muscles rippling like fibre optic cables in his neck from years of insisting that a forklift is just laziness. But the calypsonian Shadow still manages to induce spirited toe-tapping in me. I have spent the last two weeks listening to 96.1 to get a sense of who is in the top ten. Well folks, it is my studied opinion WASA has failed us again. This is the most amount of untreated effluent to make its way into the public domain for many years. First at bat, Iwer George must be brought under control. The Ministry of Culture has to intervene. Based on the lyrics of his song, Ready, I strongly suspect that it is his way of flipping the bird to the entire population. If you did not pick that up when he unleashed Han’ (to the power of 40) a few years ago, then his sinister plan is unfolding quite well.
Iwer George: “Ready, raise yuh fla-ah-ah-ah-ah-ag.” Perhaps unnoticed by the flailing party-going public, he has recycled Han’ for this song as well but the real offence perpetrated here is the word “ready.” It is repeated at machine-gun pace innumerable times. In direct contrast, the lyrics are riding on a rather tuneful production. It is, however, effortlessly undone by Iwer’s guttural croakings and lyrics written on the back of a cocktail napkin in a bar at closing time. Next up, Bunji Garlin, a man whose music I have never understood (guess b-mobile has to pick someone to peddle its phones). At least this year he has shelved his arsonist bent. He has penned an ode to a song which needn’t have been resurrected. Two Sapodilla and a Nine-inch Banana was recorded, in relative terms, the other day by Preacher.
He is not salvaging a classic as was his seemingly noble announcement that every year he would pay tribute to calypsonians past. Mr Garlin has added his own twist, solidifying a new element of the artform, the “single entendre”: “Some feel dey so big, dey tekkin’ dey banana right dey in de Savannah!” Guess he stretched his intellect simply to achieve a rhyme. His lyrics echo the high-school buffoonery and crudely crafted ribald humour that dominated lunchtime bench banter of my Fatima days. His wife, unfortunately, has done no better with Heavy T. Obviously, one needn’t be capable of singing to deliver this throwaway music, but Faye Ann Lyons’ caterwauling on “no man …cyar mash up meh structear!” …well, it is just unbearable. And what does that even mean?
There is, though, a breath of fresh air. Kes the band has recorded a beautiful song, This Feelin’. What works for Kes Differential is that he can actually sing! His mellifluous voice rides a crest of superb production, blending muted harmonics and real musicianship. If ever there is an ambassador for this music, it should be Kes. Machel Montalban does not disappoint, but he does not thrill either. It seems he is loathe to stray from his formulaic jump and wave-driven tracks, opting to hug the coastline of conformity in his well weathered craft, rather than chart a course for deeper and more meaningful music. No way am I suggesting that soca should attempt to explore the exigencies of identity creation, in a society dominated by doctor politics and an interminable post colonial hangover! Is it, however, too much to ask that we set our sights on a destination other than “boom-boom ville?”
There are of course commercial considerations, hence the numerous odes to rum and the pleasures of getting “toe-up.” Rum Till I Die uncorked a keg of imitators. This would explain one of the biggest songs for the year: “When they drink dey rum, all dey want is roti, ahhhnnn…dey eat up de roti …mmhnnnn…dey lick up de curry!” Lookit, this song is nothing but infectious. The lyrics, simplistic though they may be, are borne aloft on solid rhythms and it is actually a tuneful number. With that said, a beautiful tune cannot save all and Jep Sting Naina is the perfect example of this. The singing is wonderful and it is well matched by the music.
I am thinking to myself this is soca chutney at its finest; that was until I discerned the lyrics: “The jep fly up she skirt and sting she so fas’/ Right in she big big…” Well the rest isn’t thermonuclear science. This year 3-Canal has some great music and I also understand that Gypsy has put forward a wonderful composition. However, I fear that the music getting the most exposure is the embarrassing intellectual lethargy polluting the public consciousness. “I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, you could say what you want!” Which is odd because I imagine that it is the only way that anyone could stomach Carnival 2K9.
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