Yes I said it. Hova is Overrated. Fact.

I will probably be crucified but I must admit my dirty little secret: I really don’t get what’s the big deal about Shawn Corey Carter aka Jigger aka Jay Z aka Hova, the Queen Bee’s sidekick for life.

To clarify, I do not speak of or doubt his cunning and business acumen: it takes a whole lot more than luck and an awful lot of balls to be able be one of the most successful businessmen of all time- I love the fact that here is a young boy from Brooklyn with buck teeth who has managed to amass a net worth of $150 million and a very diverse portfolio- from ownership of his own clubs- the 40/40 Club, to part-owner of the New Jersey Nets to investing in Carol’s daughter, to establishing Rocawear, to becoming CEO and President of Def Jam Recordings, to becoming co-brand director of Budweiser Select. Considering that this is a guy who dropped out of George Westinghouse in Downtown Brooklyn, his career is seriously ill. I am not going to even talk about how he looks. Money makes him look mighty fine to me. I also love the example that he offered to our young people: when you find The One you wife them up- not breed em or shack up.

I speak of his A-game, his claim to fame as one of the best rappers of all time. I am sorry, but this is where I depart from most – his trademark “uh uh” and a “cough” just does not do it for me. Yes, “Hard Knock Life” was my anthem in 1988 and yes, the Blueprint album that contained the trilogy of “Girls Girls”, “Izzo”, and “Song Cry”, was a really good album, but I am at a loss to knowing why Jay Z is so revered among so many die-hard hip hop aficionados to the point that he is referred to as a musical genius. Yes, The Black Album was one of the best rap albums featuring again another great trio “Change Clothes”, “Dirt of Your Shoulder” and “99 Problems” but was it the result of the genius of Jay Z or was it because of the monied combination of excellent production, a kick-ass hook line from the best songwriters as opposed to Jigger’s lyric-busting prowess? I do not for one minute subscribe to Billboard’s analysis of Eminem, Nelly and 50 Cent as the top rap artists in the game but what makes people consider that Hova’s rapping skills are so special, over Nas, Common, Lupe Fiasco?

Hova’s fans always protectively proclaim that he does not write down his lyrics, as if this ascribes him super-nova Superman status in the world of hip-hop. I admire his rhyming and his ability to free-style but to be honest, lots of his songs could have benefited from editing, reworking and redrafting- no one is infallible except the Pope (smirk). A bit more thought would have prevented a lot of his hits from sounding unconsidered, banale and repetitive. I am increasingly ill at ease with spending good money on some rhymes that appear to have been recited before. It is telling that his four number ones on the Billboard Hot 100 have been for collaborations with other artists- Mariah Carey’s Heartbreaker, Beyonce’s Crazy in Love, Rihanna’s Umbrella and Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind.

Maybe the fact that he does not write is lyrics down is linked to my second criticism- Jay Z always sings about himself. The theme of Me has been done, redone, overdone, pre-done, in second, third and special edition. A 40 year old man telling me how great he is and how well he has done is, quite frankly, tiresome. I need a new story, a new idea, something to make me ponder and reflect- where is your poetry in hip-hop? Yes, I get that your worked hard and came from Marcy and made it to be a huge multi-millionaire brand, I get that you are not a businessman, that you are the “business” man, but can you probably sing about maybe the effect of having a black President on black America a la Nas, or maybe spit at our underachievement and how the lack of fathers render our kids powerless? I am grateful that at least it isn’t bitches and hos and p*ssies but I cannot settle for the lowest common denominator. Exhibit 1 is Jay Z’s ruining what was meant to be Kanye’s special dedication on “Never Let Me Down”- Jay Z turned a song which was meant to be a tribute to God into a Jay Z Part 101 on how great he was. And because Kanye is still one of his foot soldiers, I guess it would have been rude to simply say “Mate, you are off topic!” I would have deleted his verse. Straight talk: bad manners.

I am admittedly an amateur hip-hop listener but I must admit that the people complaining that Hova’s flow has become ordinary after the Black Album have not really listened to the previous albums carefully. They are all extremely similar so I do not blame his ability on a lack of fire in his belly. I have always found his flow ordinary- when I listen to 1990’s hip-hop it appears to me that Tribe, Wu-Tang Clan, CL Smooth, Souls of Mischief, Lords of the Underground, Redman, EPMD and yup- Biggie and Snoop kept it tighter than the Jigga Man. What I do not doubt is that his marketing abilities far exceeded that of his contemporaries- in my eyes he was the latter day Fifty Cent, trading on a story and songs with great production. I dare say that Kanye West, even though his rap style is commercial and cheesy, appeals to me much more because of the honesty of the emotion, his ability to tackle issues such as consumerism, heartbreak, religion- he straddles all aspects of our lives.

What crowns it all off is that Jay Z hosted his retirement party in 2003 and I bought The Black Album and tried my darndest to go to Rocafella Centre to see him perform for what was meant to be the last time, and now, 7 years and two albums later, he is still rapping- choosing to headline Glastonbury last year and Wireless last week. As CEO of Def Jam, haven’t you already reaped the benefits? Have you not gleaned all there is to be gleaned from the starlights and the status? Isn’t it time to fall back and to give a few of your protégés some shine? There is something quite lame about a 50 year old rapper in baggy jeans (and yes, despite decrying them he still wears them). I am over it.

For the Want of Rum

"Hey ... listen mister Shankar,
you sayin' I is a drunkard,
you doh want me to marry yuh daughter.
Yuh doin' me a favour,
I ain't want yuh daughter
she too damn ugly anyway.
More rum for me,
more rum for me, more rum for me."

The above are the lyrics to a popular calypso. Rum is an inextricable thread of the fabric of Caribbean life. Just like blistering sunshine, azure skies, warm turquoise waters and the odd chant of "dey-o" from an old man's guitar form part of the mounted tapestries of island life that are sold to the West by slick travel agents and well-heeled tourism companies,  this heady fermented anointing extracted from the sweet juice of the sugarcane is an essential component of the islands. When a baby is born, glasses are chinked to celebrate good health. A few drops are made to sprinkle the floorboards of humid rumshops, as offerings to gods that have long been forgotten. At funerals, happy hours are not complete without a traditional rumfest and the ceremony of Nine Nights constitutes a veritable indulgence of lashings of liquor, matched with traditional poor man's fare of Crix and Corned Beef, straight from the tin.

Over the last few years in the Caribbean, we have had our traditional griots, the calypsonians composing odes for the Love of Rum. They are not the first. The rum disciples-Bound to Drunk, Fig and Oil, Waltz, Bughole, and Souse sang these odes almost daily from seven a.m. at Merwin's rumshop- they groaned, the sipped, they knocked back, but they never chased- that would be breaching the code of honour. Like prescription medicine it was one shot every three hours, or whenever they got back from a hard day's mountain toil, scraping the last drops from the worn glasses just as they scraped the earth of the ground to pluck hard yams and cassava, days, hours, moments, before- their memories faltered so I cannot vouch for accuracy. They courted rum with an intensity with which they did not even court their lovers (I call them lovers although I am sure that rum sponged all the love out of any relationship they managed to cultivate). They pursued her sweetness morning, noon and night, they spent their last few dollars on one more shot of Special Dark and they often indebted themselves, or rather, bankrupted themselves in order to ensure that there was always one "last" bottle at home. The calysonians have echoed this unwavering passion in their songs- Poopa Leendi's "Rum Oh"  laments "Rum Oh, whey yuh dey? Clarke's Court is gonna kill dem boy.. we drinking rum till we die!" In Trinidad and Tobago, chutney soca is characterised by tunes which feature rum: "Girl you know I was a drinka- you cant change me no way!" and "Bar Man give me a bottle of puncheon". One of the more popular songs over the past few years was Bunji Garlin's " You could bring it in a bottle, you could bring it in a glass, you could bring it in a cup, you could bring it in a flask, I want me rum in the morning, I want me rum in the evening". Rum is our tonic, our spiritual viagra.

The word rum comes from the latin word saccharum- meaning sugar. Others say that it is a shortened form of the word rumbullion- meaning uproar or tumultuous.The first distillation of rum took place on the sugarcane plantations of the Caribbean in the 17th century. Plantation slaves first discovered that molasses, a by-product of the sugar refining process, could be fermented into alcohol. Later, distillation of these alcoholic by-products concentrated the alcohol and removed impurities, producing the first true rums. Tradition suggests that rum first originated on the island of Barbados- a 1651 document from Barbados stated, "The chief fuddling they make in the island is Rumbullion, alias Kill-Divil, and this is made of sugar canes distilled, a hot, hellish, and terrible liquor".

The popularity of rum is undoubted. Its flavours are strong, deep and meaningful, the opposite of vodka. It comes in many different strengths and flavours. Light rums are usually used as the base for cocktails and other lighter alcoholic drinks such as mojitos and pina coladas. Rum can also come golden or spiced and flavoured (ie Clarke's Court Lemon Rum, Malibu Coconut Rum) and it can also come aged, as dark rum with a molasses or caramel flavoured overtone. I am more interested, however, in the lack of popularity in premium rum- carefully aged rums which are assiduously produced. I say this because in the Caribbean a rum connoisseur is known as a "rumbo" and someone who likes rum a wee bit too much is swiftly regarded as an alcoholic of the lower class, part of the great unwashed. The upper classes,even in the Caribbean, tend to drink Courvoisier, Moet & Chandon and more recently, Johnny Walker Black, in the up market clubs and at all-inclusive parties, These spirits are all imported, and their popularity arise undoubtedly because of colonial reasons because to be honest, apart from Moet, JWB and Courvoisier cannot even come close in a taste test when placed alongside the good old sugar cane extract. Is it possible that rum can occupy a hallowed spot in our Caribbean cultural establishments, can we lift it out of the rumshops and into clubs, tikibars and megabars as ubiquitous as bubbly or other fine spirits on the tables of celebrities and rockstars? Will we have rappers endorsing our Caribbean's finest in their hits?

We certainly already have the product. A cursory search on the internet revealed that there are long existing vintage rums. El Dorado Superior is a vintage liqueur. 10 Cane Rum was commissioned by the House of LVMH five years ago - that's Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey- it uses the copper pot stills legacy of premium cognac and is distilled twice for that extra special flavour. Like cognac, it is aged in oak barrels. It won't be long before each island produces its special blend of premium, high quality, gold label rum. Cuba has already invested in a 50 million distillery for golden aged Havana.Euromonitor International charts a 17.9% volume rise in global rum sales to 119.7m 9-litre cases over 2001-2006, broken down into a 15.9% increase for white rum (to 37.1m cases) and an 18.8% increase for golden and dark rum (to 82.6m cases). Italy and Spain are the market leaders for these exports and there is the feeling that it is the product to replace flagging whisky sales. Rums are certainly sexier, what with the rise of specialist tiki bars that even the royals love to frequent- Mahiki being case in point. It is certain that to take the product to the next level, that our local industries need to capitalise quickly on the premiumisation of the brand that was started by products such as Cacique and Barcello. Are any of our islands investing in the rum industry in a significant way. The smaller islands, with boutique industries, are ripe for producing signature brands imprinted with handcrafted quality. Or are we simply content to let this liquid gold  penetrate the market as smuggled goods in overproof form?

And even on a most basic level, can our love for premium spirits be transcended to rum? I mean, after all, it is not in every region in the world that these lyrics would be considered acceptable or even popular:

"Rum kill mih mother,

rum kill mih father,

rum kill mih whole family.

Rum kill mih brother,

rum kill mih sister,

now it want to come and kill me.

But I doh really care what people say...

oh, ah drinking today and ah drinking forever..."

(Pic from http://www.zazzle.co.uk/)

Eedyats!

“A group of thugs were lying in wait in a car as15 year old Zachary Olumegbon arrived for lessons.


The gang leapt out and chased the youngster and a 14-year-old pal into an alley. They cornered Zachary and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest before chasing the other lad into the school grounds. They knifed him in the arm before fleeing from school staff.”

The Sun.

I usually relish my role as an apologist for young black boys who I believe are dealt a raw hand by British media and British society in general. I deplore and I am usually the first to protest at the myth of the peculiarity of “black on black crime” as often propagated in the media and transplanted into our psyches when we all know that poverty is the overriding determinant. I agree with Professor Ben Bowling that this seedling of an idea -that black men are inherently evil, bestial, inferior, unintelligent, ruled by desire and prone to violence- has been hawked since Elizabethan times and continues to be promoted. I often quote Baroness Scotland, our then Attorney General, who debunked this old wives’ tale with cold hard facts and statistics a couple of years ago: fact is that eighty six per cent of homicides are committed by white people against white people. I use the example that when white Derek Baird tragically shot his brother and many other white victims in Cumbria, race was not a significant criterion- no one spoke about “white on white crime”. I made a written complaint when Rod Liddle, last year, in his Spectator piece asserted that “the overwhelming majority of street crime, knife crime, gun crime, robbery and crimes of sexual violence in London is carried out by young men from the African-Caribbean community” and was glad to see him being fined for presenting his puerile, stereotypical, unfounded opinion as fact. I was happy that Dr Tony Sewell criticised the underreporting of crime when the victim was black.

So convinced I am of the root cause of crime among black youth being social exclusion, I wrote an entire treatise on the subject entitled “The Audacity of Despair”. Young black boys, I argued, are overrepresented in the criminal justice system because they are more likely to be stopped and searched, and three quarters of them are on the criminal DNA database which makes it easier for them to be convicted. I argued passionately that young black boys are disproportionately subject to socio-economic disadvantage and underlined the fact that there is significant educational underachievement and disaffectation because of an educational system that marginalises our young men and tells them that there are regressive and aggressive from the age of 3. To the Tony Blair outburst on taking responsibility for black crime, I countered that our boys live in a society which expects very little from them and which reminds them of this every day. I argued that the absence of fathers and the vacuum in discipline (we are told that traditional punishments are not suitable for Western Society without being offered a suitable alternative for our children) played a very large role in the numbers of young men who joined “posses” and street gangs. I posited that poor housing, the overrepresentation of black families on council estates, the and the desire to earn money by any means necessary in the face of endemic deprivation was a but for cause in the pipes of violence that occasionally spurted on London’s streets. Disenfranchised, without our own businesses to pass down to our children, quality education that would remove them from the laps of poverty and a sense of community, wasn’t it predictable that there would be blood?

I am, however, tired of apologising. My lips are now pursed in a giant “steups” every time I hear about stupid little tiffs and arguments involving black boys over postcodes that in a few years time their parents won’t even be able to afford . I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Is this why Rosa Parks decided to move from the back of a bus to the front? Is this the reason why Martin Luther King wrote that one day little black children would roam the streets freely and be judged by the content of their character? Is this the reason why Malcolm X died? So that young black boys would have the right to join street gangs, to create “beef” over trainers, the colour of their headscarves, a random “diss” and illusionary territories? Just outside the school gates, in my borough of Lewisham, this young black boy, ghettoised as “Lil Zac” and a member of the “T Block gang” was fatally stabbed a couple of weeks ago, by a group of boys. This was the 13th stabbing to take place in London this year. Most involved black youth. Where are the parents in this equation that refuses to be balanced? Have West Indian and Caribbean parents lost a grip of their children? It was telling that this school was a school that was constructed specially for the rehabilitation of excluded children. The teachers and cleaners in that school reported that there were frequent fights, systemic bullying and no respect at all for authority. In short- a mini jail, a prep-school for the University of Prison. It enrages me that the minority of these little boys who engage in gun crime actually have a great impact on our reputation and perception in the UK: these twenty one boys make the nation believe that our families are facing a great existential crisis, hence the reason the media found it derisible that Diane Abbott claimed that Caribbean parents would go to the wall for the children. They should not have or be entrusted with this power.

It has been recognised that many steps should be taken to counter the root causes of exclusion- including changes in the education system and housing allocation. However, in my opinion, it is imperative that whilst we wait for these changes to filter through, radical next steps should be taken to ensure that these silly battles do not persist. It is evident to me that if these boys only had a rich sense of our culture and our history, they would never act in a way to compromise what is our long standing culture of respect for authority. It is obvious that there is no pride in culture and pride in roots- we were never a warfaring people, in fact the black race has always placed a premium on the spirituo-cultural.


Black boys who are at risk should be made to complete a mandatory course in Black History and Culture so they can have pride in something other than the “freshness” of their trainers. This should be followed by voluntary service in deprived areas: earthquake ravished Haiti, the refugee camps in Somalia, so that they can fully comprehend the real battles human beings face on a daily basis and learn that the fight is against something bigger than their own myopic disagreements. I fully support initiatives such as rites of passage for young black males as advocated by The Institutes for Rites of Passage- which would equip adolescents with social, economic, behavioral and other life skills. This would serve as better rehabilitation than any Park Campus school, where all children with all types of behavioral problems are lumped into the same wreteched facilities. Our estates also need to return to the concept of a village raising a child. Community watches and community organisations need to be established forthwith and any evidence of illegal activity need to be reported. For this to be successful there needs to be a culture of trust between law enforcement and residents. And a culture of trust among the residents themselves that rides above lines of allegiances of Nigerian, Jamaican and Somali.


The effect of displacement of fathers also needs to be addressed head-on and right now. It is also true that black men from the Caribbean are still learning to be fathers; most of them never truly learnt how as they themselves probably did not have fathers and their fathers in turn did not know how to be fathers- legacy from plantation life. Child benefit and social housing and other forms of state help should include a criterion of involvement in a child’s life. For young black males who are at risk, this involvement should be made mandatory- at least 5 supervised contact hours a week. This enforced parenting might be unconstitutional but I do not care about the constitution when our society is on the brink of committing a self induced holocaust- this would certainly assist in easing the parenting pressure of black women who work longer hours than any other ethnic group in Britain and provide young boys with some measure of stability and visibility.

These are only my suggestions but I am sure that the experts have many more. The success of any scheme will depend solely upon our collective will. Are we ready to take ownership of our boys and by extension, our streets? Or are we resigned to the fact that they will keep on needlessly killing each other- as Biggie chillingly prophesied: “just another one?”


Do consider giving a monthly contribution to one of these charities that support the anti gun and knife crime initiatives in our communities and support positive mentoring:


The Damilola Taylor Trust


The Disarm Trust


East Potential


The Black Leadership Initiative

Sorry, I don't like Ghetto Couture

                                   


The fashion industry has always been rife with accusations of discrimination. There is a palpable paucity of minority ethnic models on the catwalks of Milan, New York and Paris with the exception of a few household names -Naomi Campbell, Chanel Iman and Jourdan Dunn. This is not likely to change anytime soon, even though Vogue Italia’s Black Issue championed the cause a couple of years ago and was the fastest selling issue of all time. The experts explain the bias as a pure mathematical marketing decision: we are not the target demographic, we do not have significant purchasing power, so there is no demand. Tell this to Next and asos.com who use models of every hue and who posted significant increases in turnover. In spite of this snub, I still fall in lust with the Mulberry Alexa, I salivate and drool over the latest Chanel croc, and I hallucinate over the prospect touching (not even owning) a real-life Birkin: it would be like touching Michael Jackson. Seriously. When did this small town girl who grew up with kids who sometimes placed their schoolbooks into plastic bags pick up this strange luxury goods obsession? I do not know. I am ashamed of it because I really should know better: purchasing these products does nothing for my community, my self esteem and my development. I am working on it.


This is why I was very proud to see black owned businesses getting into the mid market of luxury goods. Finally some brothers with common sense! I hoped that we could learn a few lessons from the Asian and Jewish demographic, where there is a very strong sense of cohesion and community: finally brands I can support and wear with pride knowing that it was for us, by us and that funds would be channelled back into areas that need the investment. Needless to say- for me this has not been the case- I have been consistently disappointed and let down by the persistent and relentless pushing of what I call Ghetto Couture.

Ghetto Couture is what is termed “street fashion” the credo of put-some-bling-on-it-and-black-people-will-buy-it. The designs are loud, brash and bashy. The end result is often tacky. Take Nelly’s Applebottoms- the Apples on the back of the jeans are encrusted with plastic crystals and 90% of the jeans on the website have some sort of gold diamantes pasted onto the back. The rest of the collection consists of various items in coloured cheetah prints and tops and vests in bright orange, pink and blue. Kimora Simmons’ Baby Phat is no better- perfectly good fitted dresses are ruined by a huge golden cat on the back. Gold and bling is the primary theme. The colours are a bit less loud, but only marginally so. Rocawear ‘s handbags thrive on a similar concept- there are often very cute little pieces- but there must be some element of gold or silver logo inspired hardware. In fact, Beyonce’s House of Dereon collection (not the diffusion line Dereon, which is virtually identical in its love of fabulosity) is the only fashion label that I found that offered clothing that had some semblance of being tasteful and elegant.

I don’t like Ghetto Couture because it operates on the assumption that the target black market is obsessed with bling, gold and loud colours, almost perhaps in homage to Big Daddy Kane and the gold infestation of 1990s hip hop. This might be true for some people but it is certainly not true of a lot of people I know. I like my share of fabulous and I love bling - I have my own theories on it- it was our way to claim and stake visibility in a world which often renders us invisible but I hate Ghetto Couture because the collection is always “street”: what about clothing for our professional black women who wish to be stylish at work in a corporate environment? Where are the worksuits and leather handbags and briefcases? What about a cruise collection, a holiday collection? We go on holiday too. Why are we limiting ourselves to clothing that are only suitable for the street or for the club? These are negative stereotypes that we perpetuate ourselves. Are we saying that we don’t deserve tasteful, elegant things?

It is telling that many of the espousers of Ghetto Couture do not wear their very own brands. I see Victoria Beckham marketing her own dresses on every single occasion. I have never seen Kimora wear Baby Phat on occasions other than jogging or walking to the store. Beyonce only wore Dereon once on the red carpet and it was an epic fail. I have also only seen her once or twice with products from her husband’s label, Rocawear. So question is, if your very own products are not good enough or fresh enough for you, why should they be good enough for me?

There is only one other thing that irks me more and that is the new corollary of Ghetto Couture- the championing of brands that we are not paid to market, and with which we have no natural affinity or connection. In the days when Hova was Hova it was Cristal- until the Foederer brand said that it did not wish to be associated with rap artists and that there were dissipating the value of the brand. Then there was Timbaland: Timbs were the go-to shoe brand for people of colour until they started limiting the stock in Harlem and other ethnically diverse areas –they were just a little bit too popular.

Now it is the turn of Clarks- Vybz Kartel has dedicated a Holy Trinity of songs to Clarks- a brand that has no luxury kudos here in the UK-. He admonishes “Clean out ya closet. Deposit de Clarks... every crep get a fling... straight wallabees... deposit the thing”. Clarks, probably not wanting the Jamaican attention and connotation because of all the Chris Coke inspired violence, is on the record as saying that it has not noticed a significant uptake in the sale of its shoes as a result. Unless the versions of the Clarks sold in the Caribbean are all knock –offs (which they very well might be as I have not seen Clarks in those colours in my local Lewisham depot), this is absolute bollocks: it is the latest item that is on all request lists out here in the Diaspora for the past two years. The song tells it all “whey yuh get that new style Daddy? The Queen of England haffe love off Yardie”.

It would be amazing to me, if just as Kartel developed the concept of the Daggering condom, the effort could be placed into designing, manufacturing and promoting his own brand of footwear instead of singing about an old- stuck up label. As long as it is not encrusted with crystals and scattered with random flecks of bling- I would probably buy it.

The Marginalisation of RnB

Who remembers Brixton in the 1990’s and the early Noughties? This was before black music was called urban, and before Peter Andre was trying to sound like Usher- this was the heyday of sultry TLC, sexy Keith Sweat, and the ballads of Boys II Men. Mary J Blige was not yet in her self-help Oprah mode- she was caught up in the drama and we loved it. Gangsta rap was not quite so gangsta- Jah Rule’s vocals were blended in with Ashanti’s on “What’s Love” and it was Trevor Nelson’s Lick charts which really were The Lick. This was the era of Jay Z – he was not yet Hova or Jigga. If BET was the Holy Grail, Brixton was Mecca. Z bar was one of our favourite haunts, I have memories of Friday nights there spent close to the speakers with a glass of Appleton and Coke (Courvoisier was not yet popular). The air was often fragrant with sweet sensi. We often migrated after a few drinks, when a nubile, promising night was on the verge of becoming geriatric to The Fridge where DJs actually scratched hip-hop records and didn’t reel punch buttons on a laptop linked to an Itunes playlist. We, for reasons I should not confess, were also legless. Brixton, then, had a latent sense of excitement and freedom.

Nowadays, I would not know Brixton if the riots came back and hit me and punched me as hard as a police man’s baton on an unsuspecting Rasta. Plan B churns out a series of rock concerts on an almost weekly basis. Their “exciting new music programme” seems to exclusively feature funk and disco and their music promoters who promise a South London night-time renaissance appear to feature mainly techno and house, with ole-skool hip hop that appeal only to a very select crowd (usually posh yuppies who want to appear cool). Yes, Erykah Badu and Bunny Wailer are playing this summer at the O2 Academy, but this is amidst the choking excess of young indie bands that have become suddenly in vogue. The Fridge Bar still plays RnB but it is dwarfed by The Fridge which caters mostly to a audience. Mass, to its credit, does a fair mix but it is still primarily a live music venue churning out angsty rock and techno hits.

This phenomenon is not unique to Brixton. In central London, clubs that once churned out Usher, Justin Timberlake and Missy as the music of choice are now keeping it confined to the VIP rooms, allegedly because they do not wish to attract a “certain clientele” for fear of brawls. There is no rnb on the X Factor or on Britain’s Got Talent. RnB singers do not headline festivals or concerts. Trey Songz and Jodeci sing at the Indigo2 instead of the main stage at the O2. It is clear to see that there has been a palpable demise in the popularity of rnb but what has caused this paradigm shift?

The people who do not like it (who coincidentally have no rhythm whatsoever) say the combination of predictable, sickly lyrics about sex and love, set against an electronic, mass produced, churned out beat is enough to cause a chunder-fit. Others blame it on MTV for promoting very specific type of songs, which led to listener fatigue. Some say that the introduction of a softer genre of hip-hop (Lupe Fiasco, Kanye West) made rnb irrelevant. Industry loyalists say that the mass production and mass marketing came at a price. Young people are drawn to the alternative and to the rebellious- rnb simply became too ubiquitous. This failure of rnb to appeal to the “cool” kids was evident at the Capital Summertime Ball- the rnb fans were the pop fans- young, immature, squealing kids- too green to appreciate good music. The new school rnb is like bubble gum- chewy and sweet at the moment, but never quite assuaging that biting, griping hunger pang and doing very little to satisfy.
I think that is fair to say that RnB is largely responsible for its own fate, it has committed its own suicide- openly. It is hard to imagine that the R&B began its life as rhythm and blues- birthing songs like Otis Redding’s classic- I’ve Been Loving you Too Long, and Percy Sledge’s iconic- When a Man Loves a Woman. Even when rnb paired with hip hop in the early 1990’s the songs were still meaningful- Nas and Lauryn Hill’s if I Ruled the World was virtual poetry in my eyes. From its halcyon days in the 1940’s to mainstream dominance in the 1960’s with the emergence of Motown which featured the prolific Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and Aretha Franklyn to Chaka Khan and Sade and then through to R. Kelly (before THAT case), Mary J Blige and Toni Braxton in the 1990’s, rnb used to be fiery.

We have now got to the point in rnb when a chart topper is a song that has the title of a goofy OMG- ohmigod- the teenage, illiterate, expression of surprise that could be attributed to anyone or anything. Gone are the days of classic soul ballads: we now have Tiny Tempah’s Frisky to replace these classics. Is it then any surprise that now in the top 100 Billboard charts there are virtually very few rnb songs? The blues in rnb seem to have been replaced with bass- voices are now secondary to the beat. The disdain I have for the electric machine music is only matched by the disdain I have for the industry puppets who continue to be manipulated by media giants. The continual emphasis on cookie-cutter, identikit image over vocals makes the genre weary.

R&B has become a modern day bastard, a whore of a genre in that it has lots of its confidence and mojo and has now cross-bred with so many other types of music, it is fair to say that it is now a cockeyed deformity of its own self: it is not now possible to distinguish it from contemporary pop and the recent tag of the genre as “urban” has contributed to this homogenisation. Rihanna’s Te Amo, for example, is on the Billboard chart as an rnb song although the beat is undoubtedly latin. If the definition of the genre is so fluid and nondescript, it is no surprise that its heartbeat is so embarrassingly weak. All the gloss and ice and bling and video hos and lasers can’t hide the fact that rnb is no longer bringing something new to the table: there is nothing delicious to savour. There is no fresh subculture, no pride, no new style. Same old same old. There are very few charismatic acts. No swing. No rhythm. No syncopation. No blues. In fact, I think it is fair to say that rnb is becoming strikingly commercial and dance-focussed, a smoother version of house.

I am no sooth-sayer however. Like Timbaland, I agree that Coldplay and Radiohead are “ill” but I hesitate to say that this is the end of rnb like Nas predicted the death of hip-hop. A few artists continue to surprise me. Like Janelle Monae who crosses categorisation and who is truly inspirational. Like Erykah Badu, whose album defies the gravity of contemporary music. Like Maxwell and Sade whose albums are critical and commercial successes. The future is bleak, but not one without bright sparks. I just hope that somebody, somewhere, will see it fit to resuscitate.

Can you be Christian and Carnival?

I am not the most qualified candidate to write this piece. I am the first to admit this. Somebody “pas han’ on me long time- I have a special Carnival obeah that resurrects with each strum of the bass of a soca tune, which persists throughout and during the Carnival season and which does not even ebb away at the end of the festivities, so rabid am I in my enjoyment of the pageantry. I stand resolutely in the pursuit of fun- fetes, all inclusive, drinking, eating, jamming, playing ah “marse”. My (limited) wining skills are tested to extremity by many a reveller.


My religious grandaunt and her best friend Eileen often warn me of Carnival’s pagan origins- they admonish that it began as a spring festival to the god Dionysus and that my revelry is the ultimate honour to the God Bacchus, hence bacchanalia, so ergo sum: it is not at all possible to be Christian and to partake in Carnival. With a fluid wisecrack retort, I remind her of its decidedly Christian appropriation (like many Catholic rites)- it is the extension of the jubilee of Christ’s birth before we say farewell to flesh and sombrely remember his death, as the Romanesque Italians would say: “carne vale” (farewell meat). The tension of the Church and its response to Carnival was epitomised when I was but a wee lass in Grenada- our church had a Carnival band, we sponsored a calypso tent and one of the priests would play jourvert. However, there is always the belief that even if one attends church, pays tithes, reads the Bible and try to abide by all the Christian edicts, one cannot really be a true Christian if one takes part in Carnival. As Granny says- you can’t serve two masters. My response: you are wrong, I am the master of Carnival, it does not master me. I have only one master and that’s Jah/God/Jehovah.

It is true that Carnival became Christianised only after the church realised that it could not be suppressed. Some say that “carnival" really stems from "carrus navalis": the "naval car" or ship, which carried the Celtic and Germanic Sea-God from his Northern abode to the winter feasts. It is mentioned that the medieval Church reinterpreted this as the Ship of Fools, on which all kinds of sinners sail to their death. Others say some elements derive from the Romans Saturnalia, or Lupercalia- traditional festivals with lots of food and drink, dress-up and parades. The societal order was reversed and rules of behaviour were suspended: higher classes had no authority over lower, masters waited on their slaves, men dressed like women. From the mid 1140s Carnival included a host of fertility rites, agricultural and hunting rituals, and forms of sun, river, or mountain worship. A temporary King was crowned and everyone had to abide by his most ludicrous whims. There are others who ascribe an African element to the Caribbean type Carnival, shrouded it may be under the European cloak of pre Lenten festivities. Commentators like Grisso (www.theafrican.com) argue that our West Indian carnivals have decidedly Yoruba roots like the throwing of talcum powder as a disguise and the dressing in similar colours to constitute a band. Others argue that it is linked to the worship of ancestors- the use of colourful clothes and masks were a way to appease the spirits to return among the living and to accede to prayers.

I must admit that I do not care very much about the initial origins of Carnival very much, as I am very sure I do not worship the ancestors when I parade in the streets. I prefer to live in the now as much as possible. Carnival and mass (masquerade) today have little to do with the traditional European Christian celebrations that evolved from the wealthy and landed plantocracy of the sugar estates. Yes, we have returned somewhat to the past as there are balls in wealthy homes catering to a certain class (ie Lara fetes) but it is now fair to say that it has evolved into a festival of abandon, a kaleidoscope and a riot of colour and glamour. Our vestments are no longer elaborate bulky costumes and masks- we are acolytes of the beads and bikinis. We bear staffs instead of candles and we wait in anticipation for the altar of the “Stage” to strut our stuff. Our celebrants are the King and Queen of the Bands and their sermons are delivered by the vicarage of the kaiso and soca artists- jump and wave, misbehave, get on, wine, jook, palance. Religious leaders often condemn Carnival today as promoting idolatry and immorality and a mere excuse for drunken debauchery. The ones who take themselves ultra seriously quote Jeremiah and Ephesians and liken it to the rampant behaviour of Sodom and Gomorrah. They warn us that it will provoke the wrath of an angry God on a nation. Jourvert (Jour Ouvert) they say is the typification of all that is wrong with Carnival- the dressing like black devils at the crack of dawn is true idolatry of Lucifer.

In my eyes, Carnival is a mirror of the society in which we live. If it is immoral, it means our society is immoral, if it is hypocritical and debaucherous, it means that our society tolerates debaucheries. It is true that drink is consumed in copious quantities, but the same could be said of wedding celebrations- sanctified by God. Fact is that in Caribbean society, alcohol is often freely consumed and Carnival day is no exception to the rule of a drunk. Carnival no Carnival some of us do not drink to excess and Carnival no Carnival some of us do. Others warn us that nakedness and “wriggling bodies” are advertisements for sex. Oh save us from the evils of sex that will grasp up in its claws, unawares in a Carnival Band! The last time I checked most of us are thinking adults. It is impossible to ascribe sexual licentiousness to a festival: it is impossible to be sexually loose for one day and to live like a hermit for 363 days. If anyone is free with sexual favours around Carnival time, then it is highly likely that those favours were fast and loose (no pun intended) all year round. Character speaks louder than reputation or even behaviour- in spite of my less than holy Carnival behaviour (memories of those cheese sandwich wines live on), I have never ever been propositioned for sex: the individual in question would be certain to be the subject of a flying kick! To be honest, if one has participated in all the feting and excitement of the day, sleep is the only word with s which will be sought at the end of the evening.

As for J’ouvert, anyone knowing its true origins would be loathe to call it idolatry. It is the ultimate irony : the portrayal of the slave masters as black devils. More than anything, it is a rejection of veneration, a sarcastic and mocking cultural role play of the slaves’ masters at masquerade balls. The criticisms rivalled at Carnival today seem to represent a very colonialised view of culture and is reminiscent of the fears of the planter class who reported after emancipation “ in our towns, commencing with the orgies on Sunday night, we have a fearful howling of a parcel of semi-savages emerging God knows where from, exhibiting hellish scenes and the most demoniacal representations of the days of slavery: then using the mask the two following days as a mere cloak for every species of barbarism and crime” (Philip Scher, George Washington University) when they themselves committed one of the greatest atrocities on humanity. Who were the real savages?

They were fearful of the ceremony of the Cannes Brulées and stamped it out of carnivals in Trinidad and Grenada. Cannes Brulées was the ex-slaves’ nocturnal journey through the streets, burning the canes, symbols of their oppression- a re-enactment of the slaves’ tasks to put out the fires of the burning cane (sometimes set by them) and so dousing their freedom so to speak. Jouvert is the only time of the year when the hoi polloi, the great unwashed, are engaged in satirical political commentary on the rulers of the day through “Ole Mas” : they represent figures in the community and in traditional Caribbean folklore with cunning and tact. The Dame Lorraine, the Neg Jadin, the Burrokeets, the Short Knee, the Wild Indians, the Jab Molassie and the Moko Jumbies all have their own stories to tell. The calypsonians regale the year’s activities and serve as the omniscient narrator of the most newsworthy stories- they were the first bloggers of Caribbean life. Didn’t Jesus come to set the captives free? How can I separate myself from my cultural identity in the pretence that it would make me a better Christian? Or do I simply separate myself from the wining and jamming and what is termed lewd “dancing” that is not at all Christian-like? But isn’t this a part of the general fervour of the celebration?

I pledge allegiance to Carnival because it is a great equaliser. It is the only time of year when superfluous titles of lawyer, doctor, cleaner and politician are all erased and we are all just human. We are unified only by the pulse of music and march onwards with one spirit, together. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, isn’t this the meaning of Christianity- that we are all one flesh? Isn’t it a fact that Ecclesiastes 3:1 says that for everything there is a season and a time under heaven- including a time to dance? The Jamiesson Faucet Bible Commentary believes that this means that there is a time for all earthly pursuits. And isn’t Carnival simply the polar opposite of the solemnity of the Passion of Christ?

True Christianity is to live as Jesus lived. Jesus walked. Among all. He came for all men- Jew as well as Gentile, slave as well as free. Maybe it’s my image of this man as a free spirited individual, chanting “fire burn” on the Scribes and Pharisees, overturning the tables of the den of thieves in the temple, rolling twelve deep – with some close “brethren” for disciples, getting more wine when it ran out at the wedding in Cana that makes me feel that he does not appear to be a self righteous, prescriptive, egoist.