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Carnival musings
Posted: Sunday, February 3, 2002

By Donna Yawching

IN RECENT weeks, I've written about nothing but politics. But now, Carnival is upon us, and in this place, at this time, politicians must inevitably take a back seat—despite the fact that our so-called leaders are giving new meaning to the term "ole mas": if Mr Manning swells up any more with smug self-satisfaction, he's liable to explode like a puffer fish pricked with a pin; and if Mr Panday becomes any more feral, he risks giving himself rabies. Just for today, let's ignore them both.

As usual, Carnival issues run the gamut from the ridiculous to the sublime. An example of the former is the Rachel Price/Iwer George face-off: two riff-raff entertainers insulting each other—does this really qualify as news? Bluntly speaking, they're both right: Rachel is fat and Iwer is talentless; so what? They both make money from their shortcomings; isn't that what counts? Why all the passion? On the other hand, the audiences are hugely entertained as they make spectacles of themselves, so perhaps this is a plus.

The perennial debate over costuming trends continues. One side laments: Where has all the design creativity gone; costumes are no more than a few beads and feathers, just enough to fill an air-mail envelope; we're being Rio-ized, etc, etc. The other side defends: This is what people want; bandleaders have to make a living too. The tug-of-war hasn't changed much over the past decade.

I'll admit frankly that I am no longer particularly interested in looking at mas, the way I used to be: it really doesn't seem worth the trouble to go into town, if you're not actually playing. Pretty as they are, one set of beads looks much like another. But what's the use complaining? Carnival, like any organic entity, evolves continually to suit the needs and the tastes of its participants. If it didn't, it would be dead: a museum-piece staged solely for tourists.

Its current incarnation—flashy and soulless—says something vital about our people, our society, our values and our preferences. The truth is, if we were to turn back the clock and have a Carnival consisting exclusively of Midnight Robbers and Pierrot Grenades, Jab Jabs and Dame Lorraines, everyone would be bored silly, and participation would probably plummet.

We've been there, done that, and moved on. Only a dead festival stays static. The evolution will continue, and it is not inconceivable that one day, design and originality will regain their importance. Or, for that matter, the opposite. The deciding factor will be us—the players, the watchers, the dreamers.

The costume debate has been relatively muted this year; but the wining debate has grabbed the spotlight, thanks to Anna Mahase. Ms Mahase announced her determination to curb lewd wining in the Children's Carnival, and this unleashed a minor spate of "we-culture" protests. Wining is an art, one letter-writer proclaimed, raising serious questions in my mind as to how we define art in this country; and he (I'm sure it was a he!) somehow concluded that Ms Mahase was destroying children's "innocence" and "tainting" it with shame. Another writer invoked theology, David Rudder and the Ministry of Education, to prove that children should wine as much as they want.

Personally, I'm with Ms Mahase on this one, though I cannot begin to imagine how she is going to enforce her decision. We can raise as many disingenuous arguments as we want: there is indisputably a point at which jumping up, dancing, wining, jamming, etc, crosses the line from exuberance into crudeness. I've seen couples at Jouvert "jukking" to such an extent that the only thing preventing it from being sex was the vestigial presence of clothing.

Adults, I accept, have every right to be as vulgar as they want; but is this really what we want for our children? Even as we huff and puff about "we culture" (which, I've discovered, is usually raised in defence of our most primitive habits, like obeah and wife-beating), we also bemoan the high rate of teenage pregnancies, teenage Aids, and the slipping "morals" of our youth (though, in fact, politicians are more immoral than wining).

To steal a line from a recent movie: Wake up and smell the pheromones. If we encourage our children in overtly sexual behaviour before they even know what it is, how are we going to discourage them from it when they do? If anyone is trying to restore innocence, it's Ms Mahase. Unfortunately, I don't think she stands a chance.

And finally—pan! Music of the gods, if you get close enough to the tenors. I was on the Track for both the Panorama semi-finals and the North Zone finals, and this is the definition of true exhilaration. Nothing compares to being in the bowels of a full panside.

Competition, at the top rungs of any activity, is always a distortion of reality. Is there really any substantive difference between two Olympic runners separated by a fraction of a micro-section? Or between top steelbands like Despers, All Stars, Phase Two, or Renegades, my band, win or lose?

I don't think so. A breeze, a breath, a note: these may make the difference between winning and losing; but in reality, they're all sublime. Renegades may not have made the top three in either competition; but on the Track on Wednesday night, their rendition of Merchant's Caribbean Connection was a gateway to heaven.

It's a great shame that, after the Panorama semi-finals, many steelbands drop out of sight: there's nowhere for them to be heard, and no reason for them to keep practising. This is such a waste.

Why don't we have (government-sponsored) steelband concerts at the bandstands, the promenades, the amphitheatres, the market squares, every night until Carnival? It would keep the "losers" focused, and do wonders for the "Carnival atmosphere" we spend so much time proclaiming in our tourist brochures. Best of all, the music would envelop us throughout the season. It's an idea whose time has come.



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