Perhaps I never thought of it in such terms but seeing Shadow, Rudder, Stalin, Nelson, Baron, SuperBlue, Chalkdust and a few others of that golden and gifted generation perform during the season has made me wonder, with no small amount of trepidation, as to where the generation to carry on the tradition set down by men such Gros Jean, Executor, Atilla and Tiger will arise from. The anxiety attack became stronger when I saw and listened to Calypso Fiesta and the million-dollar performers on the big Dimanche Gras night-and it should not be thought that I am making "couyon mout" objection to the sums now earned by calypsonians; far from it they absolutely deserve more than parity with the soca and chutney singers. It is more like saying that money is not all. In fact it may be a major problem as it serves as a blotter on creativity; that is, if it becomes the overriding consideration. When that happens the artiste follows the crowd and is swallowed up as he/she finds it necessary to pander to vulgar sentiments and appetites. But this is not an attempt to mark the end of the careers of the bards mentioned above and in any way diminish their continuing immense value to the society. Quite to the contrary, as has been demonstrated over the last decade and more, they and their music in melody and lyrics have saved the Carnivals from being starved of rhythm, rhyme and meaningful artistic, calypsonic expression and vitality.
More than ever we need the intervention of Superior and his wandering Vintage troubadours. Sparrow, Rose, Relator, Valentino, Explainer and others need to be under the trees at Normandie to keep us in memory of what true calypso is about. Interestingly, and maybe it has been happening for a few years without my particular notice, the audiences for the great calypsonians of the last 40 years have been getting younger. As the "30-somethingers" reach beyond the need for the constant inflow-outflow of physical stimulus, they break away for a night or two from jamming and wining. They go, sample and by the end of the evening ground with lyrics and melody beyond the one-liners provided by those satisfying the appetite they helped to generate for the frenzied, mindless waiving. But genuine calypso that finds melody and meaning to stir the imagination, explore the society and penetrate beneath the surface is more "than the lyrics we rhyme and sing"-Duke and the great calypsonians have always had personality and a kind of appeal out of the ordinary. As a teenager walking the city, I witnessed Kitchener and Terror, just back from England, strutting their stuff around town. The latter became a fixture at Test cricket in the Oval. There he commanded a presence much like he did in 1950 at Lords when for the first time we mastered our masters. Duke, always with a smiling face and abundant charm, captured the attention of young men looking for personality models; sad that he had to endure some knave, probably completely incapable of understanding what he was doing in robbing and manhandling someone such as the Pope.
Then there was Pretender hustling across Duke Street with his stingy brim pushed back on his head, cigarette between fingers made brown from the nicotine of "Anchor dog" (no filter tips) and forever ready with a cutting quip if anyone dared challenge his status as King of Extempo. Later in life as a reporter, with a camera crew, I got to Preddie's ground-floor apartment at the Plannings on Nelson Street just in time. With his voice then no more than a rasping whisper, he nevertheless gathered enough strength to scold me for waiting until he had reached the condition where he could not give me the full range of his experience and wisdom of the artform. In the 1970s, Lion, well decked out, cane in hand and a brief full of all kinds of materials from his travels, held court in Woodford Square before and after he hosted a programme on Radio Trinidad where he played the music of a golden age and gave unending explanations on what happened and when. Contemplate the Shadow, the King from Hell. He remains deep dark, still unmasked and misunderstood, he will be waiting for some of them judges when they come down in the fiery inferno. I once heard him put an interviewer straight for wanting to find out his age: "You ever hear a shadow have ah age," he responded with provocative laughter. Brigo has walked and wandered around town willing always to stop and chat and fill your ear with his calypso philosophy; someone needs to carry on that tradition.
I remember too the natty, slim image of Lord Christo outside Honeycomb on Prince and Duncan.
Rudder of a different generation but inheritor of the personality cultivated in that brave little suburb of Port-of-Spain, Belmont, remains invaluable. In that town, never absent were the vibes of the Shango, the Orisha, the Spiritual Baptists, the Anglicans and Catholics on the Circular Road. Then there was Ken Morris, Colts with "Diamond Jim," king of fancy sailor mas-making and "Pepper Wine." In Rising Sun and Sunland, there were the range of bad men from Big Sacks through Carlie Byer and Eddie Boom. If you listen carefully to David you will hear the voices and spirits of these men and women (Elaine) coming through; but you must know what to listen for. Once many years ago, I described Stalin's performance on stage not so much as a dance, but a kind of statement of national consciousness, a kind of strut, as when he threatened "Mr Divider" in his own town: "Dis is man talking to man." Talent and personality are not completely absent, but welfare has taken initiative away. It has sucked creativity out of the artistic endeavour. It (welfare) and the material demands of modern living have prepared calypsonians to hire out their voices to the highest political bidders. Spoiler has carried with him the wit, the humour; double entendre will soon become extinct. Sure Machel has personality and stage presence that approach Slinger, but there is no lyrical quality and deep insight of the society, warts and all.
