I was playing some old school calypso when the phone rang. It was disturbing to say the least. Now when I'm playing Sparrow, Kitchie, Melody and Shadow, that space is sacrosanct. Call me if the house is on fire. I walked over to the phone and picked it up. I said, "Yellow!" intending to say, "Hello"...no lie. A voice answered. He sounded foreign. "Who is this?" I bellowed.
"Sir," he said, "you don't know me, but I'm a music producer." He continued: "What I'm hearing is true?" I said: "What are you talking about?" Is it true that soca artistes fighting each other over $2 million?" he rejoined. "I don't know, and I don't care," I said hotly. "Wait! Wait!" he begged, "they haven't yet sold a million and they getting on so. They haven't even won a Grammy." He hung up.
Then I started to think. Yes, I do think. The man really had a point. As far as I know only Arrow with the diluted calypso Hot! Hot! Hot! sold millions, not even the Kitchie-flavoured Sugar Bum Bum. Now these jokey soca artistes behaving like spoil brats fighting over a soca toy, or who better than who. Utter nonsense! I needed something to console me. What about some good old calypso picong, the type that Melody and Sparrow used to engage in and rocked back.
The beautiful song of calypso almost put me to sleep.
I laughed at calypso picong...I almost cried for Melody. When Sparrow launched the broadside Belmont Jackass missile. Then I put on the Corbeaux Flying High, a brutal two-fisted attack on Sparrow by Melody. I shouted Kaiso! Kaiso! Neighbours rushed over to see if I gone off, not knowing I gone off long time. Ha! Ha! Ha! I protested I was alright, then they left warning me they will take me to St Ann's (mental hospital) if I can't behave; or showed more signs of unbridled joy. Then it dawned on me, a man can't say Kaiso! Kaiso! It's so bad as that. Really, I didn't have them to study. They like soca; I like calypso. Please forgive me, I am a purist.
I barricaded the front door and slapped on another calypso, Kitchie's Slippery Ann which tells the story of a woman so captivated by the sound of steel, "she leave the pot on the fire and she gone." Now who tell me do that. They started to rain big stones on the house. In true commando styling I dove under a bed. I shouted: "Haters! Haters! What calypso do all you?" Then an eerie silence filled the air. I crawled out from my safe haven and slapped on Iwer George's "Hand! Hand! Hand! Hand! Hand! Hand! Hand! Hand! and pulled the curtain slightly. They started to dance and cuss one another like today's soca singers are doing. I recognised one of them. He was a deejay at a radio station. His face was hard like life in Trinbago these days. It was also hard like concrete.
I reflected on soca music and its contributors Ras Shorty and Shadow and how soca children, the "just comes," show disrespect to each other in the name of money and ego. I remembered how Iwer told the soca giant Ras Shorty I "pee and go in yuh bed." A disrespect to the man who have him eating a food with macaroni, salad and other trimmings. A sadness engulfed me. It started right there, the downward climb. It was like a son cussing a father. I am happy that soca daughters still respect Calypso Rose. Maybe they're smarter. They really say women are smarter than men. I wonder why so many of our soca sons are before the court, getting flicks on the wrists from magistrates when they miss sessions. What a joke!
Now soca's disease has spilled over to the Chutney Soca Monarch where another "just come," disrespect a stalwart Rikki Jai all in the name of money. No amount of apologies will wipe away the disrespect of soca and chutney children to their elders. No amount of money, yes no amount of rum-drinking could wipe away the pain I feel. I guess it's symptomatic of the society where the new rejects the old. It could be deeper than that. When I feel overwhelmed by life in Trinbago, I retreat to the comfort zone of calypso where I find refuge. Thanks calypso, my saving grace, thanks. Although they're trying to diss you, you're still number one. I gone!