Jamaican Beats
Our columnist dreams of Ska, booming bass and the idyllic but multi-sided Caribbean isle
Column by Guy Shepherd
“Ya can’ play bass. Ya can’ play drum. Ya can’ play (h)organ.” You are right, Scotty, I can’t. But I can dance. The DJ’s scathing words, in his ‘Skank in Bed’ version of Lorna Bennett’s beautiful cover, ‘Breakfast in Bed’ (a song by Dusty Springfield), remind me of the transmogrifying qualities of all things Jamaican and subsequently to the greatest party that our own British Isles have to offer, The Notting Hill Carnival, which is a few short days away as I write this
OK, I am biased. My mother was born and bred in British Jamaica, the most beautiful island on earth (OK, I am definitely biased) and, although her family left before independence in the early 1960s and I wasn’t born for another ten years, I am fascinated by all things Jamaican. What one might call its roots and culture. When I studied at university in the early 1990s, I wrote my dissertation about the island’s religious history, from African Obeah, through Christianity to Ras Tafari. The Caribbean community in South Manchester provided me with an interestingly alternative college practical experiment. Research was key. I think….
One of the ironies about my own obsession is my love of the island’s prodigious musical flow from the early 1960s. The irony being that it was largely catalysed by the celebration of ridding the country of all things British and Babylonian, the very establishments that my colonial forefathers were institutionalised within. Being a human being that loves to dance, this early Ska music provides the perfect platform for any wild Bashment or the slightly later Rocksteady sound for a more ambient opportunity to swing and sway. Mountains of brass pound out tune after tune to a pulsating beat which set up a unique introduction, with its blues, calypso, jazz and rock ’n ’roll origins, for the subsequent global tidal wave of Reggae, two tone and punk. Explosive.
And it is this dichotomy that makes the place, like the music, so wildly exciting. On the one hand it can be the most relaxing lullaby on earth, on the other a chaotic symphony of corruption and dangerous crime. For the first part, the majority of its people are charming souls and so they should be, living on an island that is lush with bulbous fruits, lush vegetation, exotic wildlife, stunning beaches, turquoise lagoons, spicy food, strong rum, weak stout, tumbling waterfalls, steep mountains, mountainous sound systems, spine weakening bass booms, baking sunshine, refreshing rainfall and a pace of life that just makes you say, “Yes. Yes. Yes”. I dream of retiring to the north east parish of Portland.
But then every record has its flip side. I apologise to the Jamaican people generally in advance, especially the tourist board, but there is a heartbeat on this island in the sun that pulsates more like an Uzi. The reasons are obviously arguable but it seems that government, police, social, historic, gun, drug and criminal corruption may have a part in it. The men I met were often misogynist, aggressive, xenophobic, ableist, racist, homophobic and genophobic. They knew no better? The girls I met were often just happy with the Lord, Jesus Christ. Perhaps they knew better? In one of my favourite bars (because they played the aforementioned ‘Old Hits’, actually pronounced similarly to a sometime popular bed time hot drink), the bar girl, who almost ceaselessly knitted clothing behind the concrete counter, would suck her teeth when you ordered another white rum before shouting that you would go straight to Hell if you carried on in this God forsaken manner. A strange sales technique in a venue that relied on alcohol consumption.
But back to the boys. Did you think my earlier description a little harsh? Examples should answer that. On a trip, some fifteen years ago, my greatest friend and I met a black Englishman of Jamaican parents who was staying in our local hotel for his cousin’s wedding. Local means that it was not a tourist-all-drinks-and-food-inclusive-marooned-from-reality-by-a-razor-wire-fence-hotel. He also happened to be gay. We befriended him because he was fab-u-lous. Once this friendship was ascertained, we would often ask him to join us but the hotel waiters would come to our table and take our food and drink orders without even acknowledging him. When we called them back to take his order, they refused, muttering “Batty Boy” profanities. When he left the hotel for the wedding, the townsfolk threw stones at him. Worse still, but not for him suffering ‘only’ bruises, in ‘honour’ of my English pal’s blossoming friendship with another group of local ‘heroes’, they armed a pair of deaf and dumb friends with knives and ordered them to fight on the dancehall floor. Disgusted, he left immediately. I only hope his simple statement stopped another unnecessary war.
This particular trip summarised everything good and bad about Jamaica. We had arrived for the Sun Splash Reggae Festival, only to find out that it had been postponed for three months. Typical. We had a riot anyway because, quite simply, Jamaica is a riot. Not without incident though. On our arrival at the previously mentioned hotel, the staff told us that under no circumstances were we to walk down a particular street dressed as we were. Our uniforms were that of any Ska devotee: black shoes, dark two piece suit, white shirt, dark tie, sunglasses and short brimmed black hat; one Pork Pie, one Chelsea. The boys look sharp. At mid-afternoon we set out and had made it approximately half way down the strip before a group of ten or so ‘yutes’ surrounded us and pressed knives into our sides. The gang leader, used to taxing Americans off cruise ships, barked his demands, “Listen, ya pieces of white shit, if you don’ hand over ya money, w’ill kill ya”.
To say that my life hung in the balance is just a literary convenience. I was terrified. What I did not count on was my mate’s answer. “Listen, you piece of black shit. By the time your boys kill me, I will have killed you. How about thinking about that?” I’m not sure whether a Mexican standoff can even involve one outnumbered and unarmed posse but the pause that ensued was a pregnancy well beyond the due date. The boss looked up at my tall, posturing friend, then at his crew, before he erupted into repeated jumps and bear hugs of joy as he screamed, “I’ve been waiting for you all my life! I’ve been waiting for you all my life!” Fighting fire with fire works in Jamaica. We were most unlikely Untouchables for a fortnight. Despite our aged fancy dress, wherever we got into trouble, one of the gang would emerge from the half light and pronounce us, “Their problem”. I would never have dreamed about reacting in his way, but am forever grateful. In retrospect.
And so to the Notting Hill Carnival, Britain’s celebration of all things Jamaican (Oh, all right, all things Caribbean). Carnival historians will know that there have occasionally been major skirmishes and minor ones almost annually but, for the most part, it is the best party that these far chillier Isles have to offer. I love it. In order to avoid the crush, plan your day(s) carefully. Yes, things are a little livelier after dark so, unless you are actually looking for a ruck, it is best to leave before dusk. With a million or so visitors, don’t try moving around too much. Pick your spots and enjoy. Kids day is Sunday, Carnival main is on Bank Holiday Monday. This last day is far busier with all the grown-up floats. Whoop it accordingly.
After twenty odd years of attendance, here is my recommendation for the years to come. Choose your entry and exit point carefully as most bus and many tube routes in the vicinity simply will not exist, you will have to do the hard work on foot and it can be a long day (or two….). Whichever route you take in or out, it will cross the procession route. If you want to avoid being born away on a tide of costumes, music and chaos, don’t follow, just stay put, watch and enjoy. If you do follow the floats, you will have the greatest time jogging behind your own particular favourite. Next, check out the nearest food stalls. There is everything available but, obviously, the Caribbean flavour burns through brightest. Goat curry, rice and pea is my own favourite. Staple pre dance fare. Next, amble, strut and roll within the local vicinity to find the sound system of your choice. This will be a VERY difficult choice. Go with the flow. If you are more inclined to follow advice, this Shepherd would say go to Gaz’s Rockin’ Blues on Talbot Road. You will not be disappointed. This legendary themed street party (Bollywood, I’m warned, awaits us this year) is inhabited by a host of annual friends who are there, as regular as clockwork, to dance to records spawned by “My Girl Lollipop” and interbred with a rash of intoxicating live music whilst canned Jamaican Lubrication and dark rum is spooned out from shopping trolleys. I have given you the safest version because, quite simply, I am briefly introducing my five year old son to this flamboyant celebration of his cultural heritage. If you are not taking such young blood, go wild, it is the greatest. Or better explained, “Here, I bring you the rhythm of the day, for you to swing and sway, from your boss DJ, I! King Stitt!” 