THE BIG YARD ON ANY GIVEN SUNDAY

PATRICK ARNOLD would have squeezed his massive brow into a frown, which he would have directed at me.
For I had done the unpardonable, and on a Sunday! I had parked my car at the eastern end of the Savannah, fondly known at Carnival time as “The Big Yard” or “de big yard,” depending on who, or whom, was speaking.

I was headed for the Track, the long, wide tarmac in the eastern Savannah where pans and engine rooms were checked and fine-tuned before they took off for the Big Stage. Like the regular Savannah vendors, the idea that the Track was now a western pan village had simply not sunk in. Not after all these years.

Both my body and car were on annual autopilot. Ironic really, given that I was probably one of the first people in TT to hear about the country’s steelband association’s new concept for Panorama. The messengers: a pair of colleagues, who found me, seconds after Pan Trinbago made its announcement of an eastern village/mini-track, with entrance fee and all. “You’ll have to pay for pan now,” they declared triumphantly. “No more Track this year!” Their inference was clear: I was a cheapskate who didn’t go to the Stands to listen to pan because you had to hand over money to get in there. (Never mind that we all had media passes during Carnival time!)

I was not bothered about their low estimation of me.
That and more I could, and had lived with. However, the attack on the Track was unacceptable. “I’d go to the Track if it were more expensive than both the Stands combined,” I retorted. “You couldn’t pay me to sit in the Stands. Not even $1 million of the best British sterling.” A bold statement, I know, because I did not have a thousand TT in my savings.

No journalist does. Nevertheless, I felt that my indignation had been clearly communicated to them. I wanted to say much more though, but they were cynics, products of their trade.
Things such as, in my estimation, the TRACK WAS PAN! It was a place where a thousand symphonies, melodies, orchestras enveloped you. This tenor here, that guitar there. Oh god, listen to that bass.

You didn’t have to be a musicologist to grasp that the Track became a remarkable melodic world when the pan men and women were on, and around it; waiting, practising with might, but not too much- they had to save their all for the Big Stage.

And theirs was an audience that didn’t turn its backs to them while they played. Not like the bourgeoisie or wanna be bourgeoisie in the North Stand last Sunday at the national semi finals. The Track enthusiasts did not enter their outdoor concert hall with tassa drums and iron, but with a mixture of ecstasy, envy, excitement, anticipation, respect, and awe.

They knew people did not go to shows with their own instruments. It was rude, disruptive and particularly asinine.
No one had to beg the people on the Track to stop playing anything when the bands were ready to start their renditions. They ceased their chatter and banter to listen carefully for that first electrifying “ping” of the iron, the signal to judgement time.

They did not break the concentration of the players; subject these to several “pings” that seemed to ring out from the north, south, east and west. Somehow on Sunday, it was difficult to reconcile the efforts of Pan Trinbago to change the image of Panorama and pan with its permitting rhythm sections to enter the North Stand. Really, one had to wonder about its vision.

I had been doing some wondering since last year, when Pan Trinbago proclaimed its intention to put the preliminaries in the pan yards. I was not as enthusiastic as most. It wasn’t that I did not love the idea.

However, there was no talk of transport to, and infrastructure, for the pan yards.
How were the yards and their communities to benefit? Similarly, this year, I had no prejudice against further change to the show, but felt that it had to be organised modification for good reason. On Sunday, the old Track was a ghost yard. It broke my heart.

Moreover, the so-called pan village could no nothing to erase that desolate image. Beyond a giant portal that declared the new pan scheme, there were no more than a few tents scattered here and there.
But there was plenty bedlam from having
too many bands rehearsing in a small area.

Furthermore, as the trucks bearing the pans rolled in through the gigantic village gate onto the narrow strip, which awaited them, many walked in free.
Surrounding the paved slither that was the new Track, was muddy grass. It disappointed. It also caught many off guard: the more attentive Grand Stand audience was seen often looking expectantly in the wrong direction. As I have indicated, there is nothing wrong with change, but it had to be a sensible, planned shift from one scheme to another.

Patrick Arnold said he gave the vendors three months notice to adjust, as if this were time enough for everyone to understand and participate in the new notion. I also pondered, as I gazed at the mud on Sunday if Pan Trinbago would now demand that Carlos pave its piece of the Savannah. Why not? Demands were the name of the Carnival game.

Such a requisition would no doubt lead to each “interest group” ordering their piece of the Big Yard pie. We could see the rise of roads in the Savannah, asphalt paths, which led to all points of the compass.

Tracks would cut their way through a Bigger Yard like the spokes on the wheel of a bike, as everyone raced to get to the stage. Dotting them would be an assortment of booths. sI did not feel too bad on Sunday about where I had parked. I might have been on stupid autopilot, but no one had a clue who was driving the Carnival big truck. Just that everyone wanted on the bandwagon.

Suzanne Mills is the Editor of the daily Newsday.