Your name! Just what I always wanted!

This dude here? McLean? He wants to give me his name. Apparently that is the prize for me picking him up when he was down and being able to do a hell of a Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment impression and whatnot. Never mind that I already have a name that I may want to keep. Ah branding. The ultimate expression of love and affection.

I swear if I hear "independent ladies" one more time...

I'm out pretty often: parties, concerts, limes, general lolly-gagging in the wee hours. I've only recently embraced the notion that I do work hard (I grew up thinking that hard work had to involve hot sun, perspiration and calloused hands; anything else - even 20-hour days at a computer or in meetings with seats and coffee breaks - was a luxury and a fiasco), and so I should be able to engage in the types of entertainment that I enjoy.

When one is out as often as I am, one tends to notice certain trends in the ways people seek to entertain the masses. And though not as ire-inducing as some other trends, there is one in particular that makes me itch. Shall I present it as a question? I think I shall. Because I wouldn't mind having an answer, if any of you are amenable.

I ask you: what is up with this "independent ladies" bullshit? Were I a betting individual, I would very readily bet all my jewels and livestock that at any given party or stage show, some DJ or MC - in most cases a man - will take the mic and yell something along the lines of "Ladies if you know you independent, you got on your own clothes, you got on your own hair, your own underwear, you got your own house key, bullshit bullshit bullshit, put your hands in the air." Or worse: "Ladies if you know you independent: SCREEEEAM!"

I beg. Your pardon.

First, that last exhortation is a contradiction in terms. The fact that I (and by "I" I mean "Mar". The rest of you may scream in response if you like, although I have never understood it) may self-identify as an independent "lady" (more on that later) means that I do not scream at the say-so of some random stranger on a mic. That's not to say I will never scream in public. I scream all the time. I screamed just Saturday night when Lil Rick performed some of his old dub hits and made a delightful ass of himself on stage - as only he can do - in another one of his lessons on how not to take oneself too seriously as a performer. But I screamed or bellowed or made whatever noise I pleased in the spirit of general noise-making to show appreciation. There is something about a man telling a roomful of women to scream that makes me feel like he's trying to live out some kind of harem fantasy. Worse is when he tells the women to scream and the men to say "Blat blat blat!" So men's voices are to express aggression and gun violence and women's voices are to express either sexual climax or distress. That is lovely.

But even setting aside the general screaming commands, why the preoccupation with "independent ladies"? And what is an independent lady anyway? And who the hell is this subset of women up in the club wearing other people's underwear?

I have some theories. When I was growing up, I dare say that consumerism wasn't the beast that it is today. Yes we all wanted L.A Gear and bodysuits and whatnot, but foreign markets were not as accessible; we as non-adults had limited resources, and all that resulted in the trend of sharing clothes. I can't say whether women over the age of 25 did it, although I'm inclined to think so as they had similar market access issues, but among my friends, it was certainly done. In a time before snapping cell phone pics and immediately uploading them to Facebook so everyone could see what you wore to every event, people were less self-conscious about what their outfits said about their paycheque and status. If your friend had a hot new trend piece and wasn't wearing it that week, it was an option. But, with our matey culture, in which men's dominance is perpetuated by pitting women against each other along the lines of attractiveness, domestic skills, sexual adventurousness, clothes-sharing soon became a further point of comparison that men used. The jig was up. Now, and as consumerism began to take hold more, wearing your 'matey's' clothes was to be a source of extreme embarrassment and proof you weren't an adequate female person. After all, if you were worthwhile, if you cooked well and could make sufficient babies and fvcked like a porn star, surely you could keep a man who would buy your clothes and therefore you wouldn't have to beg and borrow.

From there, as women began to participate more in economic life and it came to be seen as perhaps not the worst thing that could happen, there came a shift from "be proud your man can buy you shit" to "be proud you can buy yourself shit" (although the former maintains its legitimacy in certain ways and contexts). This would not necessarily be a bad thing, except for the following:

1) In this scenario, women's independence or lack thereof is still being used to pit women against each other. The old divide and conquer. So those of us in the fête who are in fact not financially independent, who depend on the income of a partner because such is the division of labour ('productive' vs. reproductive), or because we may be out of a job, or for whatever reason, we should feel like shit. Because not only are women supposed to be fvckmasters and top chefs and supernannies, we are also supposed to be Bill Gates. What? You aren't all those? Leave the fête immediately!; and

2) It reinforces men's resentment of having to continue to contribute economically when they, in their perception, no longer enjoy the other markers of privilege. So some men were happy to maintain 'their' women and children when it was a guarantee that they also simultaneously got to command higher wages for similar work done by women; or be promoted more easily; or have greater access to political participation; or free reign to commodify women's bodies. But for some, we women just have to damn well choose. You want to be independent? Fine. You get to pay your own way. That's the price. And all the attention to "independent ladies" is a bit of a passive-aggressive fvck-you.

An extension of that idea is that financially independent women who remain commodities or commodified in men's eyes are a huge turn-on. It is the Holy Grail of the whole ordeal. It is the reason a man will boast of his sexual conquest of a woman and qualify it with "and I didn't spend a cent." So all those independent ladies in the fête who are still willing to scream on command? Oh man. That in itself is an orgasm. Because it means that as financially independent as you are, you still require my penis to be ultimately satisfied. You still take orders and I'm still in control.

Disclaimer time: first, there are men for whom interesting, confident women who have charted and followed their own career paths are very attractive. That is clear, and not under debate. But I don't think that sentiment is behind the whole "independent ladies, scream" shout-out in the fête. Second, yes, the whole "independent ladies" meme is not unique to men. In fact, it was made quite popular by Beyonce et al, and their treatment of it is not necessarily problem-free, but I would say it is less problematic than this particular treatment of it by men. It works infinitely better as a celebration among women than as a judgment by men.

Here is my bottom line: stop singling out women as "independent ladies" based on some bullshit basket of goods that you determine of value to women: weave and clothes and underwear. All the women in that particular show or fête are independent by virtue of the fact that they are adults with rights. And they don't need to scream at your command to make that so.

The best part of summer: the music of the Crop Over Festival

Tomorrow night I'll be on the internet TV talk show "Reason Deep" on CaribFyah TV discussing this season's musical offerings for Crop Over. Since there is never enough time during these things to say all the gazillion words in my head, I thought I would preempt the accusations of oversight by sharing a list of 15 of my favourite tracks for the season. This list is not exhaustive and is not necessarily in any particular order of preference. Or it might be.

Ooh. Intrigue.


Go Dung - Lil Rick
No Cheating - Tony Bailey
Sweet Soca Song - Red Plastic Bag
Charge Up - Skinny Fabulous
Mekkin It - Bobo
Serious Wukking - Gorg
Drop It - Mr. Dale
My Party - Mikey
De Way You Wine - Peter Ram
Foot on Fire - Blood
Sun Come Up - Statement
La La - Red Plastic Bag
Neighbour - Edwin and Patrice
Can't Stop - Brett Linton
Bounce - Lorenzo

Honourable Mention*
Strong Rum Something - Skinny Fabulous
Too Drunk - Statement


*Actually this mention isn't so honourable. The first two songs here are about not just alcohol, but alcoholism. And while they are extremely well written and delivered, the content is problematic. More on this in a subsequent post.

Look out for the discussion on www.caribfyah.com tomorrow Wednesday at 10:00 p.m.

Jazz on the Hill Robin Thicke in The Champagne Room

So remember I said I would review the second jazz event I went to, Jazz on the Hill featuring Robin Thicke? Well, it turns out I don't have much to say, but I made the commitment, so I aim to follow through. It also turns out that the performer who struck me the most was the much-hyped and anticipated Robin Thicke, but not for the reasons you'd expect. It seems I live quite a Bizarro existence, because the Nation covered this event, and mentioned that the crowd was apathetic to the first act, warmed up a bit by the second, and was all in and ebullient over the third. For me, the reverse was true. BwaKoré, the first band to take the stage, impressed me considerably, and I could barely understand a word they were singing. (Of course, the latter could also be said of Robin Thicke, but with far less favourable results.)

BwaKore's music is beautifully multi-layered and delightfully hard to describe. To my ear, and by 'my' I mean someone who does not even pretend to be an expert on French Caribbean music, it sounds like a fusion of Martiniquan biguine, zouk and jazz: the bold, clear Creole vocals typical of zouk; the rhythmic brass and drum combo of biguine bélè, and the smooth bass and sax improvisations of jazz. What all this amounts to is a festival on stage you so wish you were a part of, you (and by 'you' I mean I) start to clap and mumble along with very little shame about the fact that you neither know nor understand the words. The vocals of lead singer Max Télèphe are truly something to experience. I have now purposed to listen to all their music, and to see BwaKoré live at least once more in my lifetime.

If, as the Nation's review suggests, the audience was a bit apathetic to this band, it could possibly have had something to do with the language, although quite honestly, their sound is so fresh and complete, understanding the lyrics is not essential to its enjoyment. It could also have had something to do with the fact that there was no prep for the featured acts. In the early days of the jazz festival, the producers took great pains to showcase young, local talent as openers for the headliners. It gave young talent a chance to perform before a large crowd and us a chance to get acquainted with our musicians, but it also gave the foreign acts a bit of a buffer - a set of ambassadors, if you like - who would introduce them and give them credibility with an audience who might be less than receptive. Now, acts are made to start cold, with just a standard, uninspired emcee's intro to launch them. Throw in the language barrier, and it's a daunting task. But be all that as it may, there was nothing that BwaKoré could have done better. I can't wait to have them back for the next show. Perhaps by that time, the jazz festival promoters will have been clued in to the notion that eschewing local acts in the interest of saving money (?) does not foster goodwill among your local music fraternity or among your audience, who are made to listen to inappropriate DJ selections where young musicians playing live to fill gaps in stage action would have made much more sense.

I'm afraid I can't say much about the second act, jazz keyboardist Lao Tizer and his band, except that their violinist Karen Briggs is an exceptional soloist, but apart from that, the contemporary, keyboard-led sound, though obviously well-executed, is perhaps not my favourite brand of live music. I felt a bit like an uninvited guest at a closed jam session, which, who knows, may have been what they were going for, but I couldn't quite get on board.

After some more puzzling DJ selections and some just adequate (if that) emceeing, Robin Thicke took the stage amid - speaking of puzzling - women's frenzied screams. Seriously, I did not understand what was occurring, and I want to relate this next part as quickly as I can because just thinking about it again makes me slightly ill with embarrassment. So the host announces Robin Thicke with the tackiest Thick(e) joke (yes, I can in fact mean what you think I mean, and I do) you can imagine, women run screaming from the hills to the stage, and out shuffles Robin Thicke in the tightest black pants you've ever winced at, a black shirt unbuttoned to mid-stomach revealing some kind of necklace, and dark sunglasses. The whole mood was very Ed Hardy. So Thicke takes the mic; it's on the stand so what is he to do but angle his body suggestively around it? And I'm sure he does an intro but it's all drowned out by screaming women who seem not at all bothered that there's a Chippendales show going on at the Jazz Festival. The first song I make out is something that seems to be called (Amazon now tells me) Shakin it 4 Daddy. ([Explicit] in brackets. No kidding.) The song is so pedestrian, it's like something from a Justin Timberlake SNL sketch.

To wit:

Cause she shakin it for daddy

(yeah) she shakin it for me

She shakin it for daddy (yeah)

She Shakin it for me

She liftin up ha ass

And she drop it ta the beat

She shakin it so fast for the cash ching-a-ling

She ready

And she lookin for a bankroll

She move it round and round like a merry-go

She be like i be i be i be on that money shit

[...]

And then this other girl grabbed me and she whispered in my ear

She said this other girl aint doin shit its crackin over here

She put my hand on her booty and the jiggle made me woozy

Now we bout ta make a movie

In the club goin' stupid

You jazz musicians think you have angst? You don't know what angst is until you've had to choose between two strippers. In the club. Goin'...stupid.

All the while, Robin, whose pants are too tight for survival, is engaged in this hilarious Cool Guy Shimmy the likes of which I've never seen before. He cannot dance. And while this particular song is no Hallelujah, you can tell he can't really sing either. His vocals are breathless and thin. He's strongest on falsetto, and trust me, that is no compliment. There are other cheesy songs about him being The Sex and all the ladies wanting It, all of which I'm assuming are from this last, cleverly-titled Sex Therapy album, and on he shimmies.

His backup singers are behind him, two women also in their tightest black and biggest hair, performing old Supremes two-steps not nearly as well as the Supremes did. Nothing about this act's sound or look is modern. It's as if Robin Thicke hasn't had, seen or read about sex since the early 90s, which would be fine, if only he could sing.

By the time the laughter and puzzlement fades among my friends, we've all started moving towards the exits, and Thicke decides to abandon the hilarity and stick with what works (although clearly the bachelorette party act worked for just about everyone but us). He performed Lost Without You, which was much better, and a few others from The Evolution of Robin Thicke. By then, we were over it. And as we left the park still chuckling, Thicke announced that he had run over time and the authorities were shutting down the show, which was possibly the most welcome thing he had uttered all evening.

Happy Errol Barrow Day

Today, January 21st, is Errol Barrow Day in Barbados, and a national holiday. With our independence in 1966, Errol Barrow became the country's first Prime Minister, and was in fact one of the greatest champions of the independence process and of the integration of the Caribbean region.

I remember that immediately after his death in 1987, our primary school school class was asked to write an essay about him, and our teacher then asked if I'd like mine to be submitted to the newspaper. Of course I said yes, and it was published. My mother cut the article out and took me into town with her to the framing place so I could decide how I wanted it framed. I chose an off-white frame with gold detail, and a week later, it was ready to be hung in the dining room. The text was on the left, Errol Barrow's picture on the right, and the article stayed in that place for years and years, only taken down when friends came to the house and my mother forced them to witness the proof that her daughter had been 'published'.

I tell that story because through that experience, Errol Barrow became probably the only national hero with whom I felt I had a relationship, even though I had never met him. I looked at his yellowed picture in that article for years, and saw him as a kind of uncle/grandfather who had done some pretty awesome things. I think that kind of intimacy with the Errol Barrows of our region should be encouraged in the way we teach young people about their lives and work, so that they're not just some woman or man in a textbook (come to think of it, Barrow wasn't in any of mine. We learnt about him in primary school from newspapers and our teachers' stories. And in secondary school, forget about it. The Renaissance was apparently more important); they're people who had thoughts and visions like the rest of us, and made them happen.

A year before Barrow's death, calypsonian Johnny Ma Boy (John King) became the 1986 Pic-O-De-Crop calypso monarch with the song Tribute to de Skipper, in honour of Errol Barrow. It is one of my favourite songs of all time. I was hoping to find a video online, but couldn't, and I would post the lyrics in my head, but I don't want to risk getting any of them wrong. (If anyone has either, please post in comments.) So instead, here's another song honouring Bajan culture: Gabby singing "Bajan Fishermen". It has nothing to do with Errol Barrow, but I like it.

A renewed love affair with Cuban jazz

Oh right! I went to the Barbados Jazz festival this week, and I must tell you about it. The festival ran every day from January 11th, and ends tonight. I took in two shows: the dinner set at the Crane featuring Elio Villafranca, the Cuban jazz pianist; and yesterday's Jazz on the Hill with Martiniquan band Bwakoré, Tizer and Robin Thicke, yes the American dude, and no he's not a jazz performer but we'll get to that.

The dinner set was plenty swanky, with the proper amount of double-cheek kissing and wineglass brandishing before dinner. It was a mixed but generally older crowd of, say, my parents' generation. Everyone seemed happy to be there, and there was very little of the "I am so over this" eye-rolling that you find among the glitterati of my age group. That was a relief, but not enough of a relief for me to start hanging with my parents. I heard tell there was only one bartender during the cocktail hour, to the exasperation of some. Dinner was crowded and a little awkward to navigate, but tasty enough and well served by the staff, who seemed just as pleasant and mellow as the guests. There's something in that Crane air, I tell you.

At the start of the show, the host mentioned what was on everyone's minds: the earthquake in Haiti and the fact that the festival was engaged in its own effort to raise money for the country. There is a feeling of solidarity in Barbados and I'm sure across the rest of the Caribbean that is almost palpable in the wake of Tuesday's disaster. It's a sense that all we are is fortunate*, some of us more so than others, and that realizing this, there is no choice but to give, and what I hope is an extension of that, to stay committed to helping Haiti thrive in the long term.

When Villafranca took the stage with the rest of his quintet, he straight away set a very easy tone. We were all sat out under the stars on the Crane's stunning grounds, well liquored up and ready to hear some music, so his job getting us to loosen up could have been harder. Still, the unrehearsed, off-the-cuff introductions in his second-language English made us feel like we had wandered into his studio and were watching an oddly professional jam session, which was exactly as it should have been. His quintet included percussion, soprano sax and flute, congas and acoustic bass performing Cuban classics as well as original interpretations like Ogere's Cha from his debut album Encantaciones, and selections from his 2008 The Source in Between.

There is nothing ordinary about Elio's music. Even his take on the classics reflects the most refreshing amalgam of early Afro Cuban music like son and danzón, Latin and American jazz that you will ever hear. Throughout, there are shades of Hancock and Coltrane, and the clincher for me: an unmistakable Thelonious Monk flavour. He uses a light but steady hand as bandleader, and is always the star, even with the other instrumentalists' solos. Most of my Cuban jazz piano experience has included the dancey, more traditional sounds of Sacasas and Valdés, but if this is where new Cuban jazz is going, I'm definitely following.

A bit on Saturday's show in a subsequent post.

*There is a thankfully far less palpable sentiment of the Pat Robertson variety, which I'm quite happy to ignore.

And look how well that worked out for Buju

I've attempted to write this post so many times, and so far have not made it past the first sentence. Finally, last week, I saw an old friend - a Bajan reggae artiste - and although I intended only to do the hugs and catch-up thing, I ended up holding forth on this particular disappointment, while he, ever gracious and probably slightly afraid, nodded and smiled and looked around for an exit. So lest I alarm any more innocent passersby, here I go.

A few days ago, I went with some friends to see one of our local reggae bands perform. Their set was mostly covers of Sanchez covers, Beres Hammond and other usual suspects. Women were screaming in the front (I suppose Sanchez has that effect under the right circumstances and with the proper amount of alcohol), guys were vibing in the back, the place was nice. Then I heard a familiar riff and thought "No. They're not going to sing that. This must be something else." But sure enough, out came the lyrics to the infamous Boom Bye Bye.

Now, even as Buju sits in jail in Miami on cocaine trafficking charges, news coverage of the arrest invariably ends up in a discussion of the various ways in which this song was not the best idea for an artiste who wants to maintain a career outside of Jamaica. Yet, a Barbadian band, which let's face it could very well get by performing for a local audience without inciting hate and murder, opts to cover this song. I've been out before, recently actually, where DJs played songs with homophobic themes, and even while I yelled at my friends "What are you doing?! Don't dance to this!" (I know. I'm lovely), it was a sight easier to ignore than a live band inches away from my nose making gun signs and with a smile, encouraging me to kill gays and lesbians. The song got some forward, as we say: people cheered during the opening bars more, I would desperately like to think, out of nostalgia for younger days than because they endorse its message. But ultimately, it doesn't matter. Given that as responsible citizens we have to interrogate our own prejudices and privilege, it's no longer enough to say "but I just like the beat." And even though there were those who cheered the first few notes, even they quickly realized how uncomfortable it is to actually sing the lyrics of that song out loud, assuming you're not in fact a murderer of gay people. The song is very slow, the hate is unmistakable, and though we sadly know all the words because this is the music with which we grew up, most of the room still found themselves by the first chorus mumbling uncomfortably into their beverages as tourists drifted toward the exits. I'm not sure the band picked up on that, because they sang verse after chorus after verse for what felt like a thousand minutes, until finally the torture was over.

But that wasn't the only part of the performance that soured the night. As they went on, there were increasingly more and cruder references to women's genitalia, and even a charming joke in which one of the lead singers equated beating cancer to "beating nookie", the latter of which he thinks should earn him equal congratulations with someone who has done the former. He reminded me of this charming fellow, and also made it clear that I was not his target demographic. In fact, I, along with several other people there that night, was invisible. Because in all his homophobic ranting and simple-minded drooling about how much nookie he violently assaults, he's assuming a heterosexual, cisgendered male with criminal tendencies as his default listener. And the rest of us simply aren't there or don't matter. Or worse, and since he did acknowledge the women present in the first part of his set by repeating "this one's for the ladies" a bajillion times and then launching into syrupy sweet lover's rock tunes because clearly all women want is to be romanced by tired lyrics, he's expecting us all to be a party to our own invalidation. Yes, you're here, I see you. But you like it when I refer to you as your genitalia, right? No? Welp. Sorry. Them's the rules.

And what bothers me about this band is that clearly they have no philosophy. There's nothing they stand for. The fact that they could never engage in this mess at a national show, and they don't, means they acknowledge that this kind of performance is not for popular consumption. So they're clearly dialling up the stupid for an audience they perceive as base and rabid, which not only insults the people there, but even assuming this was the nature of their audience, also misses an opportunity to help people move beyond. These parts of the show, though highly distasteful, were small. Their set could have worked without them. So this image of the weed-smoking, gay-killing, nookie-plundering, one-love-promoting (ha) Rastaman that they're trying to perpetrate on an audience they assume is aspiring to nothing more is a fraud and is unnecessary.

So here begins my solitary boycott. I shall not return.

Racism and cultural insensitivity: the cornerstones of any carnival

So the Crop Over festival has just come to an end, and we're all in the process of shaking off the carnival vibe and trying to appear like normal human beings again. It was a good season, although I did think for a minute there that we would be doomed to party to the brilliant stylings of the likes of Salt and Stabby all season long. But eventually, the true talent of the festival became manifest, and musically, it turned out to be quite a productive year.

I have to make the obligatory disclaimer here: I like silliness in music too. I'm a Moxy Fruvous fan, after all. And my parents bred in us a healthy appreciation for the Clown Prince part of the calypso competition. Calypso music is not just about cutting, insightful, social commentary and pioneering mixes of steel, drums and brass; it's also about the comedy of clever lyrics, and sometimes just plain tomfoolery in the style of Malik, Cubba and even Contone and Pong at their best. But there's farce and then there's plain, old offensive idiocy. Salt was toneless and unremarkable, but at least brought back in his lyrics a bit of Bajan parlance that people seemed to really respond to: "see me and don't see me" is just one example of the sweet economy and poetry of Bajan English. Infusing the song with an actual melody would have been useful, but I suspect Salt knows his limitations in that regard. Stabby was...well...the man's name is Stabby. Let's not expect too much. I wasn't a fan of the work of these two, but I suppose there's a place for it, although I'd like us to keep that place very, very, very small.

Chow Mein, on the other hand, with his song The Chinese Connection, provided a healthy dose of that offensive idiocy we just mentioned. Here is this young man, dressed as what I assume he envisions a Shaolin master to look like, or at least to have looked like in 1972 when the film the Chinese Connection was made, complete with fake beard and a ridiculously sing-songy and mocking 'Chinese accent'. Now the premise of the song itself, in terms of some of its lyrical content, is not without merit, at least on the surface. He speaks as a Chinese man (the first glaring mistake, yes, but we'll come back to this) and sings of the disdain he encounters from people who stand in contempt of Chinese people. It's not an unfamiliar dynamic here in Barbados, where starting some years ago, we've been seeing significant numbers of Chinese workers mainly in the construction sector, along with quiet - and sometimes not so quiet - anti-immigrant rumblings among those who consider themselves newly disenfranchised as a result of this immigration. So his point is that while some may claim to want nothing to do with the Chinese, we still benefit from a large majority of imported goods from their country.



But his defense of Chinese people is weak and disingenuous, and is in fact only being used to encourage listeners to point and laugh at these outsiders with the strange outfits and funny accents. Were he sincere, he would have focused on some actual issues, or at least done a better job of satirizing the absurd reasons that people ridicule the Chinese. Instead, it is these very absurd reasons on which he relies for his punchline. with lyrics like "I don't eat dog," and "everybody knows that Chinese __ real small". The word that's missing there is penis, or some approximation. Because ridiculing an entire ethnic group based on the comparative size of their genitalia is the stuff of great comedy. The song is completely lacking in irony, which I'm actually hoping it was trying to achieve and simply failed. Irony would have made the bigots - rather than the object of their bigotry - the butt of the joke. Instead, he just comes off as a simpleton making fun of the Chinese, just another version of a black-face minstrel.

And even then, all the irony in the world does not give one leave to get into 'costume' as a Chinese person, because that act itself assumes stereotypes and makes a caricature out of a group of people based on nothing else but ethnicity, and a limited, racist understanding of the people and culture.

The chorus of the song manages to offend on other levels, because its not-really-Chinese hero is now exacting justice for the discrimination against him, with his battle cry being "you...want Chinese in you!" followed by the typical sound of kung-fu blows. So we should respect Chinese people not because they deserve respect and fair treatment, but because if we don't, they'll kick us to death. 'Chinese in you' in this instance seems to refer to a beating. But after the second verse, which talks about being scorned by women because of the size of his penis, the threat of "you...want Chinese in you" takes on another meaning, albeit a familiar one: a woman who rejects a man can expect sexual aggression as his response. A cranky, contrary, uninterested woman can be made agreeable by at least one sure thing: a penis, whether consensually or not.

And perhaps the most horrifying part of the whole fiasco is that the Bajan public has embraced this song with squeals of delight, even obeying Chow Mein's invocation at the start of his live performance to yell 'nyong', which to him means nothing in particular, but probably sounds Chinese enough. I suppose 'nyong' is the racially insensitive man's 'yeah yeah' or 'throw your hands up'. Some of my friends - my otherwise intelligent, socially conscious, culturally sensitive, beautiful friends - have been lost to fandom of this mess, and I must confess that I don't understand it. One of them said to me: "I don't think anyone believes he's really speaking for Chinese people." Well that's hardly the point. We know the man is not an ambassador for actual people from China, but that's the selling point of his joke; that in fact is the problem. He can't speak for Chinese people, because he's not Chinese. And worse, he's revelling in this false representation and using it to reinforce and glorify stereotypes. Others have said: "but it's funny!" To which I can only blink in response, because the act is so decidedly unfunny it makes me drool from boredom, once the incredulity has passed. It's an ill-conceived, poorly-delivered, racist, toneless, not at all clever portrayal, and I think those who find it funny should question the things that amuse them, and what that says about who they are.

Now it occurred to me that Chow Mein might be of Chinese heritage, in some part, and therefore feel justified in this. But really, that would hardly make it better. In fact, it would probably make it quite a sight worse. We have had comedic calypso acts get into character as people from other cultures; there's a way to do it, and this Chinese Connection of which everyone seems so enamoured is clearly not it. It seems we've become so comfortable with our intolerance of the Chinese, Guyanese and people from African nations who live with us that we now consider it something to be celebrated, rather than eradicated, and that realization has, for me, been the saddest part of this crop Over festival.
_______
ETA: A reader pointed out that he might be encouraging people to say 'ni hao', which is 'hello' in Mandarin. I thought that until I saw him live, and realized that (1) it doesn't really sound like 'ni hao'; (2) even if that were the case, no one in his audience understood that it means something; and (3) it still wouldn't make up for all the ching-chonging throughout the rest of the song. But yes, it could be 'ni hao'. In fact, I kinda hope it is.

What I did on my summer spring vacation bank holiday weekend: Beyoncé and Shontelle at the O2

This past Monday night, fellow Bajan Shontelle opened for Beyoncé at the O2 arena here in London, and through the magic of generosity and association, I went with (her and my mutual good friend) NP to see her perform. But as luck (and getting lost) would have it, we freaking missed her opening act! And I do not use exclamation marks lightly! We took our seats five minutes before Beyoncé came to the stage, and as her fans screamed their glitter off, NP and I looked at each other in a daze mouthing "I can't believe we missed Shontelle."

This may all sound odd to you. But the truth is, I don't count myself among Beyoncé's fans. I think she's talented and a great performer and looks lovely in shiny costumes and all that; and I thought that Destiny's Child 1.0 had the formula for girl group entertainment, and still enjoy their music: they were no En Vogue, but they were not a bad approximation. But you're not going to see me on YouTube in a black leotard and a cyborg glove wukkin' up. My love for Beyoncé does not run that deep. So I sat back and enjoyed the show - except for the cheesy pageant performance of some song that must have had something to do with the ocean because there were rolling waves on the giant screen behind her while she warbled away in a white hoodie dress that was being billowed by a mysterious breeze; Beyoncé is given to a Miss Universe-style cheesiness on her ballad performances that would put Celine Dion to shame - but I haven't much to say about it. The woman can sing, and dance, and has a body comprised of 90% legs pretty much as I expected. And I loved her all-woman backing band, minus the backup singers' feature performance that just had to fulfil the fat, oversexed, Black woman brief in a number where they called themselves The Mamas and described men from the audience they wanted to...um...meet. (It was bad. When are people going to stop making fat, black women 'characters' convince everyone that even though they are fat and black, they are hot and have plenty sex? Or stop reducing these 'characters' to big, fat vaginas, because clearly we couldn't possibly see them for who they are as just women who can sing the hair off your head.) But there were few surprises. Listen was great, as was Halo, and the Destiny's Child medley was probably my favourite part. Beyond that, all I was really occupied by was when I might see Shontelle again.

See, I'm anxious to see her live since she signed with Universal Motown, and make my own comparative assessment relative to her Roll and Colours days. Because I'm still waiting for that former Shontelle to emerge, and am hoping she doesn't get too bogged down by the old, familiar, first album rebranding that so many artistes have to rail against to let her own songwriting and vision really speak. It's easy to believe that she's just another Rihanna Ciara Tearra Christina (I didn't even do that on purpose, I swear) hybrid, but she's not; she has a great ear and a wicked pen, and I'm hoping people stick around long enough for her to show it. Because glory knows, although T-shirt and her collaboration track with conspiracy theorist and perfumier Akon are out there doing well, any number of R&B singers could have recorded those. Her album Shontelligence (I know, blerk), though, has some smatterings of what Shontelle's strengths are, like the feisty Focus On Me, which could use some stronger vocals (stronger as in 'rawr!', not stronger as in better, although 'rawr!' would be better), but starts to get it right. I know we've seen nothing yet.

So next time, NP and I are draping ourselves in the Barbados flag and getting comfy in the front row. And Beyoncé fans watch out, because the world knows by now that nobody can scream like a Bajan.

Hands up who wants to smell like a Konvict!

Akon, who believes that conflict diamonds are a figment of your imagination, is launching two fragrances. Via Jezebel and WWD:

Named after his top-selling album Konvict and his given name Aliaune "Akon" Thiam, the two scents will be produced in partnership with the singer's newly formed company, Konvict Cosmetics Intl.

Hmmm...the scent of the Akon brand: what would it be? What would it be? I say wadded up Kleenex from the floor of a stripclub bathroom and cheap whiskey, with topnotes of sweat and vomit. Perfect for the summer months.

"We are excited and honored to launch both Aliuane and Konvict with Akon," says Jack Aini, chief executive officer of Konvict Cosmetics.

If Jack managed to say that with a straight face, I applaud him. But then, he's CEO of a company named Konvict, so I probably underestimate his embarrassment threshold.

Industry sources expect the two scents to generate about $25 million in first-year retail sales. Aliaune, which is meant to target an older more sophisticated customer will be priced $55 for 3.4 oz. Konvict, meant to speak to a younger consumer, will be available in 3.4 oz. for $35.

Well, you old folks have missed your chance to be Konvicts. That's purely a youthful aspiration.

Stay kclassy, Konvict KCosmetics (Int'l)!

If it breaks your penis, it might not be a good idea

Explicit and potentially triggering content below.

I suppose I should be sorry that these fools are breaking their penises over this nonsense. But as I read the article, I think, if this sexual act is rough enough to fracture a man's penis against his female partner's pubic bone, it can't be any picnic for the woman. And even if no one is going to the hospital on a given occasion, how is it physically pleasurable for a woman to be violently and repeatedly 'stabbed' in this way? Well that's easy: it isn't.

"(So) during very rigorous intercourse, the penis slips out and in an attempt to ram it back in, the man hits the woman's pubic bone and pops the penis."

Ouch. There's rough sex, and then there's this.

For years, Caribbean music has reflected men's apparent belief that sexual prowess and - by their extension, masculinity - was defined by a violent approach to heterosexual sex. This has in some instances been encouraged by women DJs who competed with their male counterparts not on the basis of musical talent, of 'killing a sound' as the men have done, but by highlighting their own sexual freedom and bravado: their capacity to - in sexual and other implied terms - take whatever the men could dish out. So that while we've had songs like Cabin Stabbin from Super Cat et al, we've also had Stab Up Mi Meat from Lady Saw. Now arguably, the thrusting act that might be a part of sexual intercourse could be described as stabbing, if one were given to violent metaphors, which - given the prevalence of actual, criminal, sexual violence perpetrated both within and outside of relationships - I for one am not. But it seems like we're consumed with encouraging as much violence in sex as possible. 'Stabbing' has become too tame; now we have to call it 'daggering'.

And let's be honest: the whole stabbing/daggering sex simulation as a part of nightclub dancing* is nothing new. Caribbean dancing to calypso and reggae, while very creative, is very sexual in nature. Growing up, there was always the idiot in the club who - unsummoned - would decide to suddenly ram his pelvis against you, because somehow you blinked and this became acceptable behaviour in which two strangers might engage. It was odious, unacceptable, and what I would characterise as assault. At that time, though, and among my friends and most people present, he was shoved off, glared at by men and women alike, and in many cases removed by security. But there were too many times when in other instances, I witnessed other women being similarly treated, and their reaction was just to grimace and wait for it to be over, lest they be accused of being prudish or 'soft'. Now, though, it seems this kind of 'dancing' is being glorified more and more, causing officials in Jamaica enough concern to ban music in which it is featured.

Of course, two adults can decide jointly whether they want to engage in sexual behaviour that might break parts of their person. But I wonder how many women out there are grinning and bearing it just like those women in the clubs did those years ago, and still do.

*The videos below feature the music by RDX and Mr. Vegas that helped make this activity famous.
The final video features RDX live in concert, giving their own version of daggering. It is extremely explicit and this is a trigger warning.

The ghosts are coming!

Quick! Someone skip around in a circle while saying "Bailey!" three times or whatever you need to do to call Jennifer Love Hewitt! As Maya would say, we've got ghosts all up and through.

The majority of Britons believe in heaven and life after death, new research suggests.

The survey of 2,060 people showed 55% believe in heaven, while 53% believe in life after death and 70% believe in the human soul.

The study was carried out between October and November last year for the public theology think tank Theos.

It also suggested that nearly four in 10 people, 39%, believe in ghosts and 27% believe in reincarnation.

A further 22% believe in astrology or horoscopes and 15% believe in fortune telling or Tarot.

The think tank said the findings were "especially striking" when compared to the 1950s.

Then only 10% of the public told Gallup that they believed in ghosts and just 2% thought they had seen one.

I tend not to rule out supernatural encounters. Life is weird and mysterious, and just because we have not yet come to terms with something doesn't mean it's not going to jump out and yell at us sometimes.

I feel less certain, if that's possible, about heaven and hell. (The study, though, seems not to reflect the "if there's a heaven, surely there must be the opposite" belief of Christian religion.) Surely, even the most evil could be made infinitely more productive if they didn't just stand around permanently engulfed in flames wailing, moaning, gnashing teeth and whatnot. And if this is in fact just a metaphor, and we'll each experience our own personal hells, then mine would be a permanent loop of Samuel L Jackson films, Celine Dion and Enrique Iglesias duets on the radio and only celery and yogurt to eat. Just thinking about it is making me want to pray to someone.

Listen to soca? Congrats, you're a moron

CalTech graduate student Virgil Griffith has come up with the very poorly conceptualized Music That Makes You Dumb, which, using SAT scores as a proxy, correlates music tastes with intelligence. His methodology is to compare test results with people's favourite bands as declared via social networking sites, and the result is, as would be expected, absurd. Griffith calls them 'hilarity incarnate': apparently, suggesting that listeners of non-American/non-White forms of music (who are themselves often non-American and/or non-White) are intellectually inferior is pure, knee-slapping fun. I would normally not comment on this kind of pseudo-intellectual, self-congratulatory nonsense, but I wanted to show my readers this: cast your glance towards the 'painfully stupid' end of the scale. Recognize that four-letter word? Yep. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but if you listen to soca music, you are stupid, stupid, stupid.

Now I'm going to ignore most of the problems with this analysis - which are many - as I'm sure you guys, soca-loving though you may be, can figure them out straightaway. They have to do with definitions, the problems of using self-declared data, sample sizes, assumptions, lion and tigers and bears. Oh my.

But even accepting the widely-contested notion that SAT scores are a decent indicator of intelligence, the fact is that most of the Caribbean students I know who took the SATs (and these were many, since I used to teach secondary school) enjoy soca, and they all basically dispensed with the SATs as if they were a word search puzzle. With very little preparation, they took the test, scored high (anecdotally, almost everyone I knew scored above 1250), and got on with life. One might argue that were greater percentages of Caribbean students to take the SATs - if it were to be considered an academic rite of passage there as it is in the US - the results would be different, since those who do seek the test out are already the academically-minded ones who plan to obtain advanced degrees. Perhaps so, but the numbers who do take it still represent enough of a sample to make Griffith's findings bullshitary.

And notice where reggae falls? And jazz? The boy done lost his mind. If you want to take an unscientifically-rendered piece of research, declare it as such, and then have a laugh about it in the proper context, great. But don't present it as science. That just makes you dumb.

No, I do not want to see The Picture, but thanks for asking

If it didn't stick in my craw so much, it might actually be funny: while we blast TMZ (as well we should) for publishing post-attack photos of Rihanna, we at the same time seem to have no compunction at all about forwarding that pic or stories bearing it among our circles of friends. I question the motivation of those forwarding it. Are you that keen to do your part in spreading the news? If so, let me help you out a bit and hit you with some knowledge: those people you're emailing it to have the interwebs also, so they're going to see it if they want to. And while you put poxes on the houses of TMZ staff, it's exactly people like you that they're targeting; people they know are going to pick up that story and run helter-skelter with it.

Pictures like that are not only disrespectful to Robyn's ordeal (I tend to call her Robyn a lot because we seem to forget that behind the recording sensation is 20-year-old Robyn Fenty, a young woman recovering from a very bad thing), they are also triggering for millions of women who have been through similar experiences. So please direct your adventures in web journalism elsewhere. The mongoose is not interested.

She won't go, go, etc.

I don't smoke cigarettes cause it could stop I breath
I man don't sniff coke cause it would make I choke
All I smoke is the real ku-sheng-pen
Ku-sheng-pen make I count from one to ten
Pass the ku-sheng-pen
Pass it over

- Frankie Paul

It seems that Amy Winehouse, who has been on vacation in St. Lucia forever, is staying on vacation forever. The Sun (Sun? What? Who said that?) is reporting that she and her father are searching for a house there, and those close to her think it's a brilliant idea:

“Amy loves it over there and being away from it all has helped her hugely in her fight against drugs.
“She has been drinking and smoking cannabis but is still a million times better than she was in Camden.

Amy is doing it in true Caribbean style, just as Frankie Paul would have wanted. That quote above gives me pause and a bit of a giggle, but if she can in fact turn her poison into medicine, I'm all for it. Especially if it brings us another Back to Black.

Waiting for news

So, notwithstanding the Nation's poor choice of source and story, it seems all Barbados and the entertainment industry are abuzz this morning with the news of Rihanna and Chris Brown's withdrawal from the Grammys following allegations that she was the victim of an attack for which he was arrested and charged. While we await further news, I'm left to reconcile my initial anger that this familiar tale of physical abuse might be the biggest story of our little sister's already outstanding career, and of the most high-profile, young, black couple in R&B.

Barbados already seems to be gathering a posse to fly to LA and kick the ass of the offender. We're also hoping the truth is not as bad as it seems. Above it all, we hope Rihanna is now doing better than earlier reported, and is getting the necessary support to deal with it all.

64 years of Nesta Robert Marley

I have a BMW, but only because BMW stands for Bob Marley and The Wailers, and not because I need an expensive car. - Nesta Robert Marley

Bob would have been 64 years old today. The man's genius is undeniable. But for some reason, on this birthday, I'm reminded of his wife Rita Marley, who endured his numerous affairs that produced several children; and who, even while admitting that she had been raped by Bob during their marriage, remains dedicated to preserving his musical legacy. As the music world stands in remembrance of Bob today, I'm giving a thought to the woman and family behind the man and his music.

The mongoose's Barbados

Inspired by The Guardian’s Been There guest blog spot, I’ve decided to share some ‘insider tips’ on visiting Barbados. In a country that is 166 square miles, it might seem unlikely that anything could be hidden, but let’s just say this is my Barbados: the way I like to do it.

Most people who find themselves vacationing in the tropics will most likely have fled the winter chill, and Barbados is fantastic year-round. But there is no time quite like summer. The fares and accommodation are cheaper, the Crop Over Festival is in full swing, and the smell of party is in the air. Then, you get to jump for Kadooment, the all-day street Carnival; hear the calypso music – either in the tents or on the radio; and have your pick of events. You will never run out of things to do during the summer, and you’ll manage to avoid the hordes of frozen souls seeking respite. Hotels are not cheap. If you can afford it, I’ve always envied the rooms at The House and The Sandpiper when I snuck a peek while there for lunch, but if you’re going to be out and about, the cheaper ones in the Gap, or even an apartment hotel, are fine choices.

Barbados is among the top Caribbean destinations for haute cuisine. My favourites are The Mews at Second Street, Holetown, or Champers for a more casual setting with lower prices and delicious food. But for true Bajan fare, go to Moontown, the fishing village in St. Lucy, for all kinds of fish, sea cat (octopus) and other goodies. I prefer it on a Saturday afternoon when people are just milling about, and I always get a whole, steamed red snapper, and breadfruit cou-cou if they have it. But on Friday and Saturday nights, there’s a fish fry that’s more animated, and it’s a bit less overrun than the one at Oistins. Stick around and explore Speightstown, especially the produce market.

Also on a Saturday, The Village Bar at Lemon Arbor, St. John serves a mean pudding and souse. Get there early (around 11:30), order early, and hang out for a while. And see if you can get some Legendary fish cakes if you ever pass through Bank Hall.

With apologies to Chefette, it must be said that Tuck Away on the west coast has the best ice cream in the country, and possibly on the planet. They feature slightly wacky, all-natural flavours like soursop and nutmeg, but if you’re a nut lover, the peanut butter is hands down the best. They don’t keep a fixed menu, so cross your fingers that they’ll have what you’re craving.

If you happen to be there at New Year’s Eve, Esquire Entertainment hosts what is fast becoming the only holiday event that matters. Bliss (that’s the name of the party) is refined enough that you can wear that LBD that you dubiously packed, but Bajan enough that you won’t feel you could be at a high-brow party anywhere in the world. They also host a brilliant summer shindig. The talent involved are friends of mine, but there’s no shilling here. Ask anyone: it’s simply the best party around. At any other time, The Gap will give you a decent taste of nightlife. But you’ll need to keep your ear to the ground for one-off events, which are really the heart and soul of party life in Bim. Listen out for the name Brewster’s Road. They tend to stick to summertime parties, but if they have an event on while you’re there, do not miss it.
For contemporary culture that goes beyond the more predictable hotel or cabaret shows, see some of the spoken word performances by young talent like Adrian Green, Dempstu Simmons Jr, Selena Dodson and Yoshi. Around March to April, there’s the famous Holders Season, which features mostly imported but varied talent. I love it, but if you’ve just left London, you may not feel pressed to go to Holders for a play by the Globe Theatre.

Of the usual tourist haunts, I would recommend Harrison’s Cave and the Barbados Museum. But I’m not the sight-seeing tour type. I like to just get out and get dirty, which is best done in Bridgetown on a Saturday morning. Visit the markets, get jostled about in Swan Street (I no longer do this. I’ve earned my stripes) and drink a coconut.

You’ll need to rent a car to drive along the east coast, and to the Soup Bowl and pools at Bathsheba. Be sure to see Cattlewash and Bath, and get further into the interior like to Cherry Tree Hill and Morgan Lewis Mill in St. Andrew. Ragged Point lighthouse is another beautiful but under-rated spot for observing the east coast scenery. In Barbados, not much is far away. You’ll have plenty time to see it all. I usually take to horseback for some of my exploring: there are stables that will let you have an equine companion for the trek. But a car works as well.

For shorter haul trips, you’ll be encouraged to take a mini-van (public transport, not the SUV) for the novelty of it. They’re smaller, more frequent and a little more accessible, but more frenzied than I like to feel as a rule. Instead, I prefer to take the big, blue government buses when I can. When I was a child, I would sit among the vendors going to market on the bus and listen to their take on everything from cricket to the budget speech. It’s a calmer ride, and this is where the really interesting people are. You can plan your journey on their website.

So that’s it; that’s the mongoose’s Barbados. Come on in.

Coconut vendor pic compliments a fellow blogger.

Black February

Today is the oneth of February. I love February. It’s a great holdover month: if you’ve dragged your behind all through January talking about “...but it’s still the holidays,” February is close enough to the beginning of the year to still give you a chance to get things going right. And as I lay in bed last night considering what other magical properties the month of February holds (apart from it being fun to say Feburrery or Febbreeee), I remembered that it is also Black History Month. And then I groaned and flounced off to sleep.

The groaning and flouncing were for several reasons. First, the North American Black History Month celebrated in February is the only one anyone cares about, and black people in other parts of the world are all supposed to adopt it and be happy. In Barbados, where I’m from, there is no month so called that is our own, and in the UK where I live, it’s in October, and no one outside the UK cares. (Arguably no one inside the UK cares, but that’s another paragraph.) But as usual, the US invents holidays and we happily run off with them.

This in itself is not that problematic. I’m not quite so anti-imperialist and nationalistic as to refuse to celebrate holidays created by the United States. Then I would have a whole closet full of useless party dresses. But the origin of the occasion also determines its expression. Hence, black history month is African American history month, celebrated in February because in 1926, its originator Carter G. Woodson chose the second week of February as Negro History week, since it marked the birthdays of two Americans who greatly influenced the lives and social condition of African Americans: former President Abraham Lincoln and abolitionist Frederick Douglass. Our histories are of course tied. We all started as part of the same slave trade, although we proceeded on different trajectories. But African American history is not synonymous with Black history. Americans are of course free to celebrate black history in whatever way they want - although I take exception to some parts of their ‘celebration’ - and black people in other parts of the world must decide for ourselves what are the parts of our black history of which we will stand in remembrance.

Second – I’m still on the groaning and flouncing – Black History Month sparks the annual debate concerning whether black people even deserve a month. The white community begins to hold forth about the equity of a system that singles out one particular ethnicity to honour for an entire month in favour of others. And of course, the argument that the creation of the month was in response to the marked absence of a dialogue on the black contribution to mainstream culture and history, a contribution that at the time was significant compared to other communities, is met with “well now they can abolish it, or share it with Latino and Asian people or something.” Or why don’t we just call it Minority Month and throw cultural sensitivity completely out the window once and for all? And what does “well now” mean? “Well now that there is complete equality?” Because if so, we are not currently at a “well now” place.

Then there are the cries of “So why is there no White History Month? You see, this is just like Black Entertainment Television. If we had White Entertainment Television, we would be called racist!” It is at this point that I need to sit down. I feel weary. I counter with the standard “all history is white history” argument, and do my best to stay passionate and focused, but really, by this time, I’ve lost the will to carry on. What I fail to understand is how this even affects its detractors. Granted, I have limited experience as a white woman, so I can’t say for sure. But last time I checked, no one was forcing hordes of white people to cook grits or learn crunk. So what does Black History Month take away from the white community that they need to be so vocal about? I am now accepting responses.

But the argument goes on, and most of it I manage to ignore. What I cannot ignore is the fact that Black History Month still exists on the fringes, and is still cast largely in terms of slavery. If the aim of Black History Month is to reinforce the ways in which contributions made by black people have been and continue to be integral to mainstream narratives, where is it in the mainstream narrative? When I lived in the US, Black History Month amounted to a slew of plays and exhibits, a big production on BET but on few other networks, and the obligatory televising of Roots. People will say that the events are out there, and all I have to do is look. Well therein lies the problem: if I have to look, it isn’t in the mainstream. Here in the UK, Black History Month seems largely about sugar and slavery, and I would submit that in a country still so rife with racial intolerance (There, I said it. Now we can all stop pretending), it must be about more.

With President Obama in the White House, I am more optimistic that people will continue to see that history is not just the Middle Passage, the Abolition and “did you know a black man invented the egg beater?” History is also the evolving expression and experience of blackness all over the world. It is the exploration of failed governance in today’s Africa - which has existed and been building for decades - and its horrifying effects; it is the specific identification of black women who have fought for women’s rights and why this fight also needed a black voice; and it is a celebration of black culture in its own right - contextualized, yes - but not just within the story of slavery.

In Barbados, we observe Black History Month in February. A good friend once told me that growing up, Black History Month made him feel not proud of his blackness, but ashamed of the legacy of slavery and of his role in it. And this in a country that is 95% black, but that arguably still bears the power relations of black minority. We also televised Roots, and were told again and again the story of the American civil rights struggle. This is an important story to know, and it is undeniable that race relations in the US greatly affect those in other parts of the world. I feel solidarity with black people everywhere, but this is not our story.

Driven by Heroes’ Day and the celebration of independence, there has been some effort towards building greater awareness of a uniquely Barbadian black history, and this should be encouraged. What should also be encouraged is the discussion of blackness beyond the cerebrality of the Pan-African movement, which itself is marginalized and whose members are seen, unfortunately, as disgruntled and irrelevant. We too need to explore our evolving history, and to have the temerity to do so on our own terms - in the context not of cheap scandal-mongering masquerading as interrogatory, but of honest, public discourse. I think now is a good time to start.

Happy Black History Month.

Shabba!

Shabba Ranks is 43 years old today. There would be no Beenie Man, no Sean Paul and no Shaggy (yes, one of these things is not like the others but stay with me nonetheless) in pop music culture without Rexton Rawlston Fernando “Shabba Ranks” Gordon, the father of the deejay dancehall style. Reggaton may never have existed without the legend’s famous Dem Bow riddim, and though we may have our opinions on how his content treats women and sex, it is undeniable that this man helped make dancehall music visible and viable as an international pop music form. There were to be no entries today, but I had to pop in to say many happy returns to the self-proclaimed best baby father in Jamaica. Although he now lives in New York, so perhaps that no longer applies.

And yes, I’m posting this late in the day because I couldn’t figure out how to cut that famous ‘Shabba!’ audio clip until now. Silliness is a serious waster of time. Take a listen below to the still energetic Mr. Loverman performing at Madison Square Garden in 2007.

Edited to add: Some people seem not to have the right plug-in to play the file type I used for the automatic audio clip. Not to worry. Just sing "Mr. Lover Man - SHABBA!" really loudly twice, and the effect is the same.