The Fire is lit- Calabashment 2009

 

Kwame Dawes (left) and Colin Channer at Calabash 07

Calabash 2009 is back on! In a release issued this morning by the festival’s organizers it was announced that the Jamaica Tourist Board (JTB)  has reverted its decision and will fund the festival at the US$40,000 requested. So uncancel your reservations and mop up your tears, we’re heading to Treasure Beach this year.

 

Calabash won our hearts and when it was was threatened, when we realized just what we would lose if it did not materialize we armed ourselves with our shock, sorrow and outrage and it seems it made a difference.

Yet many of us realize that we too were culpable for Calabash’s stumble. It is free to us, it is freely given and because of that we must support it.  If nothing else the great Calabashment Scare of 09 showed us that it is time for all Calabashers to put our money where our heart is.

As the debate raged about how to find the shortfall, many questioned whether the organizers should not charge. That would make the festival into something other than what it is, and many of those who now enjoy it, would be able to do so.

Yet as many of you have outlined in your comments which have lifted my spirits and warmed the cockles of my heart (though I’m not quite sure where exactly to locate my cockles), we cannot simply wait on funding agencies and the government to fully support this important festival. Instead we must adhere to the mickle theory (every mickle makes a muckle), and so whether our mickles are big or small we must pool them together to ensure the future of Calabash.

By now the festival is ours, let’s keep it that way. I end with words from Kei Miller  ”we’d continue in rounds saying let and let and let/ until even silent dreams had been allowed”. Let there be Calabash!

Remember  the “the fire is lit”!

CALABASH – A Lament or maybe a Rant and a Moan

Jamaica, land I love, once again you break my heart! Once again you fill me with a feeling of loss that I cannot explain. I haven’t blogged in a while, a very long while, but when I checked my email, supposedly before

going to bed and saw a release headlined – Calabash Cancelled – sleep was cancelled, at least for the next few hours. It is ridiculous! It is impossible! It cant happen! It’s happening!

It seemed, in the silence of midnight, that a tragedy had struck and I was not at all sure how to deal with this. For the past seven years, I have known what I will be doing on the final weekend in May, I’m going to Calabash. It’s a given, how could I not! From my first brush against the tongues of fire, the flame was lit[erature], and each year, the passion grew, until – in the words of Pepe Le Peu it had become a “roaring fire!” 

From the very first Calabash I thought the organizers had managed to produce the biggest little festival, in the biggest little village in the biggest little island. And so I’m hoping that this isn’t a eulogy, I am careful not to use the past tense. 

I try to tell myself that the feeling of tragedy might be overreacting – I may have been watching too many episodes of Ugly Betty. Then I realized, this can’t be an overreaction, because Calabash isn’t some place I go to because I can think of nowhere better. Honestly, most years I couldn’t think of anywhere better, as it has been a phenomenal addition to the Jamaican cultural and entertainment calendar, another great festival which we seem to be losing our grip on! It seems that every time we get something right, we get it wrong.

Calabashers soak up some words

Calabash provided one weekend, where its you, some good friends, some good words, the beach and a few thousand other people who are enjoying the same thing. My group had grown with each passing year, moving from me, my best fried and a few other friends, until last year the group I travelled with (not to mention those you meet up with there) included me, my mother, my sister, my best friend, her mother and sister and another lady from my mother’s church who had always heard about it and never made it.

Our rooms are already booked (They were booked from January when the hotel was already down to two rooms) – but I guess we won’t be needing them anymore. I can only imagine the loss of revenue that’s going to come from this as rooms from Treasure Beach right back to Black River tend to be sold out – many having been booked from the year in advance.

I’ve always been amazed at the Jamaica that you find in Treasure Beach, yu can still walk nights, there are people everywhere, and in a country where I have been told people don’t read, a literary festival was outstripping itself year after year. 

The stage has been graced by so many, most of whom I know the average (and even the not so average Jamaica could not afford to see, or perhaps would never have heard about). From Derek Walcott, to Lorna Goodison to Sonja Sanchez, to Edward Baugh, the fifty year-old books brought back into print, or revived and brought back into the spotlight – that is something. 

The release says that the problem is a lack of financial support. I was speaking with someone recently and they said the festival wasn’t feasible, and I wasn’t sure what they meant. Did they mean the festival cannot fund itself – well, everybody knows that, its free! So what do we mean by it’s not feasible? Do we mean that the spin-offs from Calabash are not feasible then? Do we mean that it is not feasible for a new generation of potential writers to start finding their voice, and some finding their way into print ? Do we mean that it is not feasible that in a country where too many members of the population are bent on ripping it and themselves apart, some people can turn to the comfort of words and enjoy themselves? Do we mean that it is not feasible for a farming/fishing community to look forward to some extra income when the world economy is badly in need of some Zoltoff?

Is it that we do not deserve this? Do we not see the value of the new voices that have been found; the stories that are being told? As a country we have never managed to fully harness the potential of our stories. Even while the publishing industry is in trouble (like almost every other) stories are not in trouble. Novels become plays become movies become novels. Each time another Jamaican picks up a pen, one less Grandmother gets forgotten, another piece of the untold story is chronicled, and we can only right our history, when we begin to write our history, our story, our own truths as we know and feel and imagine them.

 

Maybe this boy has the right idea and we should all hide - Calabash2007

That is what Calabash represented for me. The will to write! I remember the joy of going to Trinidad and reading at rum shop, and there in the crowd in Trini dressed in his Calabash t-shirt, with his copy of Kei Miller’s The Same Earth under his arm. And I know why he’s wearing the Calabash shirt, because he’s going to a literary event, and Calabash means literature! Calabash brings writing closer.

And so, nine years (because it would have been nine this year) after Calabash began it has been decided, it is not feasible? 

The release mentions disappointing sponsorship from the private sector and the government, but I feel more than a little culpable. Maybe I, me, you, us, we didn’t give back enough. Maybe I, me, you, us, we expected too much.

Looking out from Calabash

Live Music Nation – What we have lost and hope to find again

Jamaica’s reverse conlonization of England in the middle of the last century had put a significant dent in the live music scene, which was further complicated by the digitization of the music and the proliferation of

Contributed - sounds from the big band still echoes in Jamaica

 dancehall where man and machine copulated to make often scintillating rhythms. Yet in the last several years there have been varying attempts to revive the live music scene as is the case with Griot Music’s Live Music Nation – which hopes to have live music in Jamaica (or more accurately Kingston) every night of the week. 

So it was that I ended up at the performance of Nina Karle backed by PON Fire at the Village Blues Bar (once the Village Cafe). Karle’s performance varied. She is energetic and has a strong melodious voice, and when she selects her song well, such as the piece on which she ended ‘Face Myself’ she is worth a listen. Unfortunately at other times she appeared as uninteresting as the grapefruit “thingy” that Village attempted to pass off as the Ting I had ordered.

And this performance was to be the subject of my post, alas the next morning – at a funeral – I encountered the best live music experience I had had in a long time. With the passing of Johnny ‘Dizzy’ Moore, friends, family and well-wishers gathered at the Ethiopian Orthodox Church to tell him to walk good, as he journeyed to the other side. Included amongst these friends were several horn musicians, bearing their trumpets, saxophones and trombones. The Alpa Boys Band, conducted by Sparrow Martin was also in attendance.

I had come expecting a solemn affair, as funerals tend to be, but this notion was quickly eroded upon entering the church and being greeted by the sounds of ska coming from the Alpha Boys Band. As the ceremony started, my own interest in the nature of the ceremony (having never been in an Ethiopian Orthodox church) soon pushed aside anything but curiosity and it became cleared that I was getting much more than I had bargained for. 

Yet, it was in the tributes that I was swept up in a wonderful experience that had music coming from around the room, as, directed by Sparrow Martin, the musicians stationed in different parts took up their solos. If you have seen the marriage scene of Love Actually – take that and multiply it by three or four and you may understand the impact.

Cedric Brooks, Lester Sterling, Tony Greene, Mickey Hanson and more contributed to this wonderful moment of music history. They were complemented by spoken tributes from Bunny Goodison, Dr. Clinton Hutton and Herbie Miller – whose eulogy should make it to a cultural studies journal.

Contributed - Moore's trumpet now plays on the other side of the crossroads, but leaves a great refrain on this one.

The performances and spoken tributes highlight what Jamaica has lost with the disappearance of live music, the absence of a museum of Jamaican music, and the as yet insufficient chronicling of the lives and contributions of our musicians.

So it was that in moving from a performance which left me uninspired on one night, to a brilliant showcase of talent the next morning – I was reminded of what we have lost, and what, through initiatives like Live Music Nation we hope to find again. It cannot, however be found solely through performances, it must be chronicled, sometimes torn apart, sometimes revered. 

From folk, to mento, to ska, to rocksteady, to reggae and dancehall and whatever else may come, our music has been a tremendous part of our developing a sense of self. From the first use of the drum for revolution or revelry our music has been significant to who we have become as a people. The ability to respect that, to look beyond the glamour and the dirt and understand how our music reflects us, will greatly affect our ability to respect ourselves. And yes, it will also make us better able to find that ever elusive mulah, which we need for development. Never mind what they say about piracy, music is still big business – all areas of it.

Through what he has written about Moore since the last stages of Moore’s illness through to his death, Herbie Miller has helped to chronicle Moore’s life in way that needs to be done for so many others. We cannot blame our youth for going astray if we never showed them the path. They will cut and clear their own road (and sometimes they should) if we do not help them find where we have been. Our history is one of greatness, but it is also one of loss – in varying ways we have lost ourselves but we hope to find it again.

Hurricane Gustav and and the Politics of Hot Air

house covered in sand

 

 

So Earth tun pressure cooker
A mek hurricane like rice an’ peas
an we in Columbus West Indies
Quake in de breeze
of dese WMDs

Weather of Mass Destruction

Mel Cooke

Tropical Storm/Hurricane Gustav has left the island behind and while some of us have minimal damage and others have none, many Jamaicans, Haitians and Dominicans have been left picking up, hosing down and drying out the pieces of their lives. As the news chronicles the devastation it becomes clear that living “on the gully side” is not the romantic dream chronicled in dancehall as gully side denizens (even those on the uptown side) watched their lives wash down the famed gully bank.

And we wonder, faced with the continuously rising WMDs: why do so many Jamaicans continue to live on the gully side? Why do they perch precariously on pieces of mountainside? But where else would they live – and not get bulldosed from the land on which they squat? On the gullysides and hillsides (at least the undesirable ones) and in the river beds, you remain safe from development’s tractor that will brush you and your family aside turning out the contents of your life and dismantling the walls you called home – even on the eve of a storm. 

As chronicled in Mel Cooke’ poem as quoted above, the weather is clearly changing for the worse. Hurricanes have become more furious and more frequent. For the past several years it has been said at the start of each season that we are expecting more activity than normal, and nobody notices that this has therefore become normal. And so the cries of ‘we need help’ that echo from our poorest regions when storms blow, rise once more. The tales of desolation and vistas of destruction once again make the news and all the usual suspects from politicians to the toothless come out for their few minutes of fame, hopefully with a muddy raging river as the backdrop. 

 

two men sit amongst the desolation in Gordon Town, a rubble filled version of its former self

And yet, the real gust behind these massive winds – the rising temperature of the world is left out of the picture, is hardly if ever mentioned in the story. We blame the destruction on the rain, blowing away any signs of our own culpability.  The streets remain bloated with SUVs though in the aftermath of Cashplus and Olint it seems that many have opted for the smaller models like the Vitara and the RAV4. 

Yet no initiative has been announced to encourage the use of hybrid vehicles – and of course if you have attempted to buy a bag of rice recently you know that bio-fuel and bio-fuel only as the solution is not a good plan. Certainly not when that biofuel is being generated from the same foods we eat, and certainly not if we intend to plant it on the arable lands we currently need for food.

Can we explore how a really legitimate and strong recycling policy can help to declog our gullies?  And before we start to lament that it is the people living on the edge of these gullies who clog them, maybe we should ask about the structure for getting rid of garbage, the methods to eradicate poverty at the level that still makes bagging a way of life. There is currently a plan afoot to turn waste into energy, a good plan if done right but likely to be hampered by the fact that the island has not yet quite figured out how to collect its garbage, and too many Jamaicans still do not see it as their personal responsibility.

So the hot air blows about the work that will be done to piece together the lives of those affected. Of course, they will be pieced in a manner similar to what they had before the gushing waters and slipping land took away the bedrock of their lives. And what remains fascinating is the way the weather is reported. So it was said:

1) The mountains of Haiti and Jamaica “tore up” Hurricane Gustav

2) Hurricane Gustave “struggled” over Haiti

That speaks of a very twisted vision. Because when you think of it, it was our islands which were “torn up” under Gustav and we “struggled” under what became clearly a “bad-mind” storm that just wouldn’t move on. It lingered and lingered as though it had not seen Usain Bolt’s dance and realized that we are the land of “no-linger”.

And that we truly are, so that it will be easy to forget the devastation that we have faced so far. It is easy to forget that some of the roads destroyed by Hurricane Ivan (2004) have not yet been properly fixed. We will look and we will wonder but these memories will not linger, we will move on as though nothing truly devastating has happened. With the awesome survival spirit that I think works to our benefit and doom we will simply say “A so life go” and others will simply see it as another that we are at the end of days. And so there is no need to fix anything. It is after all just a natural disaster, it is not as though we had anything to do with it. 

 

These streets have been covered by mud and rubble

Some of the greatest devastation to the island took place in the usually sleepy Gordon Town area, nestling in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. The main street that passes through the town became a bed of rocks and rubble and shop owners found their place of business filled to the brim with sand, washed down from the ‘Cut Throat Gully’ above it. “In the fifty-odd years of my life, I have never seen anything like this,” says my father.

To: Dizzy Moore et. al. – Thanks for Everything

“When the music hits … feel the revolution”

Jamaica needs to write a letter, and we need to send it to all the unknown and often unsung musicians, writers, actors, dancers, and researchers who built the bedrock of much of our culture though we know nothing of their work. I thought about this when, in amongst the regular junk and jokes that clog my mailbox, I received from Herbie Miller, an article on trumpeter Dizzy Moore, who is currently battling cancer.

This article reminded me that there are so many Jamaicans who remain relatively unheralded, and even when they receive some recognition, the country has still not been able to adequately find ways to ensure that even a quarter of the story (that we could dare to beg for a half) of the story is told. 

 

So, as I wracked my brain to figure out what to blog about this week (and I have discovered that blogging can be complicated business in which I think they should be offering postgraduate courses) I decided that rather then attempt to fill your brain with complicated nonsense, I would simply allow Herbie some space. The space is needed, because, as Miller points out in his email, the story is unlikely to be carried in the dailies. Of course, the beauty of the blog is that all, sundry and their mother, can grab a key pad and draw a long bench and wax philosophical or simple give some much need space to things and people that matter (and even some who don’t – at least not to the general public). And so this week, I donate this space, as a very small token of thanks, to a man whose name I did not know, but whose influence I have clearly felt with every stomp of my feet, and bop of my head.

 

“After spending five weeks in hospital and undergoing two surgeries, 

musician, trumpeter, ska innovator, and humanist, Johnny “Dizzy” Moore is at 

home convalescing. On his better days, he talks rhapsodically about his life of 

musical achievement and reflects on the colon cancer that he bravely confronts 

while displaying the dignity of a lion. On more challenging days, this national 

cultural treasure, rests and meditates. …

 

Emerging out of a tradition of outstanding Jamaican brass 

instrumentalists, Johnny “Dizzy” Moore is regarded by many followers of

Jamaican music as the most popular trumpeter of all. Certainly he is among the 

most innovative. He is also one of the few older musicians able to reinvent 

himself; remaining vital to the form he helped establish at the same time 

contributing to the currency of succeeding forms. This is so because Dizzy 

Johnny arrived on the music scene at a time when musicianship and Rastafari 

concepts coalesced. The synergy allowed for musical collaborations that signified 

the departure from established musical trends associated with North America 

thus setting the foundation for a truly indigenous popular Jamaican music to 

emerge.  Because of his role in that innovation, Moore is recognized as a 

pioneering figure in ska, the first phase of this development, and the foundation 

on which rock steady was structured and reggae, the islands most recognized 

popular music, created. Popular music is, to date, the island’s most enduring 

cultural product, and Moore has been a participant in all its major developments. 

 

As a 1950’s graduate of the famed Alpha Boys School, Dizzy had as 

exemplifiers of brilliance, world recognized Jamaican jazz trumpeters like Leslie 

Thompson, Oscar Clarke, Leslie “Jiver” Hutchinson, Sonny Gray and Dizzy 

Reece. Amazingly, just as Johnny was able to do, all these graduates of the Alpha 

music system established international reputations. What was also remarkable 

about Dizzy was that in his formative years he remained in Jamaica to create 

music rather than following his seniors seeking fame and fortune abroad…

Musically, Moore occupies a pivotal position among brass players in 

popular Jamaican music. Whether complimenting the efforts of Don Drummond, 

Tommy McCook, Roland Alphonso, or countless others, and this includes 

providing the break to vocalists, Moore’s contributions have always been solid 

and conceptually complimenting the requirements of each piece of music. At 

times the quality of his music can lift a song above the seemingly simple or one- 

dimensional experience suggested by lesser talent. In his case, Dizzy brought a 

complex deep logical slice of harmonic examination to ska. For example, his 

performance on any number of Don Drummond’s tunes, and on songs like Black 

Sunday, Guns of Navarone, Well Charge and Caravan, by the Skatalites, are 

representations of the high standard of trumpet playing he is capable of and a 

celebration of the quality players his Alma Mater, Alpha, has produced. In the 

context of each performance, Dizzy displays a nuanced harmonic sense, 

rhythmic complexity, and a devotion to melodic tunefulness.

 

His characteristically lean lyricism is from time to time replaced by bravado as his 

solo improvisations were executed to enhance the form and structure of each 

song. An interpretation of the well know spiritual, Nobody Knows, by The 

Wailers, shows just how balanced Johnny navigated the thin line between sacred 

and secular and the ritual of invocation drawn from idiomatic knowledge. 

Johnny’s creative complex is grounded in a thorough knowledge of black 

vernacular traditions–– vocally and musically ––and specific styles of European 

music, including the theoretical element of harmony, from which he built his 

vocabulary and compositional form…

 

Whether you are just a music loving person–– as most Jamaicans are–– a 

so called “musicologist” making the rounds talking music, a radio or nightclub 

DJ, one of the hundreds of individuals making a living in the music industry, a 

producer, a singer or player of an instrument, you are all better off because this 

old convalescing simba in healthier days was part of a musical discovery called 

ska, and that he continued to make music. Let each and every one of us who 

claim this music as our own generously show “Dizzy” Johnny Moore some love. 

Send him greetings on the Sunday afternoon radio shows that play those classic 

ska recordings, send him a get-well card c/o Dr. Clinton Hutton, The Don 

Drummond Foundation, Department of Government, UWI, Mona, Jamaica W.I 

play your own Skatalites recordings and vociferously proclaim –––Dizzy Johnny 

Moore to the world.”

Herbie Miller

Mental Slavery, Batman and Season Rice at the Eve of Independence

“In my view language was the most important vehicle through which that powerfascinated and held the soul prisoner. The bullet was the means of the physical subjugation. Language was the means of spiritual subjugation” Ngugi wa Thiong’o

It is the eve of Independence … the 46th for this country, Jamaica – Land we should love and I cannot help but reflect on an article I read in the Jamaica Observer last week. It was, without a doubt the greatest piece of rubbish I had read in the newspapers in a long time – though in fairness to the writer (whose name I’m glad to have forgotten) I haven’t read the newspapers in a long time with the exception of getting my Calvin and Hobbes fix.

So, this gentleman, armed with a thick hide of ignorance proceeds to lambast all those who would propose to teach patois, or Jamaican Creole in schools. The writing is indeed awesome, as piling such nonsense atop other nonsense must be an enviable skill and cannot come accidentally. Clearly having mis-read V.S Naipaul (who at least backs his venom with sterling literary skill) he remarks that patois has was not built upon ancient architecture but was instead crafted by people who were not able to benefit from instruction in their native language nor in the tongue of their masters. It seems then, that all other languages must have fallen from the sky in a manna-esque fashion. This cannot be an argument made in defense of English – a language that has borrowed so heavily it confuses it self!

Furthermore, he this writer clearly has no grasp of the full impact of language and the value of beginning linguistic instruction in the mother tongue which provides a good base upon which other languages can be built. Let’s face it, Jamaica needs to be multi-lingual. English alone cannot be our salvation, and fully allowing our children to understand English begins by valuing their first language. 

The article was probably inspired by the announcement that the Bible Association of Jamaica intends to translate The Good Book into patois. I say, kudos to them. Those who object to the Bible being translated into patois are probably still under the illusion that Jesus and Shakespeare spoke the same language. Though it might irk some people, it must be realized the “Verily, Verily I say unto thee…” is indeed a translation. The article further highlights the brilliance of British colonization, that 46 years after Independence we still suffer from such feelings of inferiority, such a mis-understanding of ourselves and the contributions that this country has made to the world.

I caught the revue Season Rice (written by Amba Chevannes and Karl Williams and directed by Michael Daley) recently. Season Rice featured sketches with two of our national heroes – Paul Bogle and Nanny of the Maroons. These sketches, hilarious pieces which lampoon modern Jamaica while attempting to contrast it with the modern situation, come to mind now. In the piece with Paul Bogle (played by Rodney Campbell) the statue attempts to correct the ills of the contemporary Jamaica – offering a swift kick in the butt where necessary only to be shunted off to storage. The piece on Nanny I had a few problems with as the sketch spoofed her as well, and I thought that the hilarity of a roadside hairdressing attempting to bleach out Nanny’s dark complexion (cause “maroon naaw wear again) would be even more hilarious if Nanny was played stronger and straight.

Nonetheless, the sketches highlight how irrelevant our heroes and their sacrifices have become to contemporary Jamaicans as we attempt to chase the not too mighty (Jamaican at least) dollar and shove it down the constantly hungry throats of the SUVs clogging the streets. Maybe, these heroes can no longer help us. We give token credence and memory to Sam, Norman, Paul, Nanny, Marcus, George, and Alexander, but we pay them no real heed. We cannot seem to see, what their sacrifice and work has to do with us. 

Maybe then we should look to Batman. The dark night has done so much for Gotham, including sacrificing his own status as hero. And clearly, Jamaica is filled with too many jokers, even more menacing than Heath Ledger’s performance. More than any other superhero, it is Batman whom we may need. Yet, Natalie Barnes was certainly on to something with her Justice League painting which portrayed popular figures in Jamaica as varying Super Friends. Of course, if she is, not even Batman may be able to help us. 

Alas, as Jamaica prepares o celebrate its 46th year of Independence with the return of the street parade and grand gala, we might consider that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, one that will not blind us, but will instead give clarity. Maybe, the ignorance spewed forth in the article mentioned above is in the minority. Maybe, the strong sense of self witnessed in our culture is not an illusion or veneer. Maybe, the violence ripping our country apart has nothing to do with self-hate, or poverty, or hopelessness. But then again, I still believe in Sam, Paul, Nanny, George, Alexander, Marcus, Norman and Batman.