Calypsonians akin to journalists

Referring to some actors in his play Hamlet, Shakespeare put those words in the mouth of the man, Hamlet: “Will you see the players well bestowed . . . let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time; after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.” Arguably, Shakespeare envisaged one of the chief functions of his “players” as being akin to that of the genuine modern day journalist. Now, in a manner of speaking, our calypsonians can conceivably claim — collectively, at any rate — to perform the function of the journalist or can be seen as sometimes achieving a journalistic function, in the Shakespearean sense, without being fully conscious of that role or accepting any commitment to the responsibility which it presumably entails.

As a matter of fact, whereas the journalist is, in the nature of things, read or listened to, once or twice — if so often — the popular calypso could be heard over and over again, seeping into the national subconscious mind, thereby shaping a general perception, irrespective of the intrinsic value of the message. In which case, the medium not only mediates the message but itself usurps the function of the message. The late Prime Minister Dr Eric Williams was seen to be quite liberal and tolerant of the political and even personal barbs of the calypsonians. I suppose that he could have afforded to be since he was considered “a favourite son.” When some over zealous members of the party’s women’s league sought to urge the Doc to put Chalkdust under “heavy manners,” because, in their opinion, he was going too far with his calypso criticisms of the Doc, he simply dismissed their concerns with a “Let the jackass bray.” But, as Luta warned, “Listen to what the jackass say.” While it can’t be proved conclusively, Lord Relator had reason to believe that his rather benign calypso imploring the Doc and his party “to take a rest” cost him “a trip to China.”

I suspect that Dr Williams was not above courting “the calypso empire,” when they seemed to be straying too far from unqualified support for him and his party. At a time when Sparrow appeared to be somewhat disillusioned with Dr Williams and the party, Williams sent “greetings” to Sparrow, on the opening night of Sparrow’s tent “wishing Sparrow well” and admitting how much he was impressed with and was influenced by the words of Sparrow’s calypso. The Doc did that? Yes, I swear that he did. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not faulting the Doc for being on good terms with the so-called “calypso empire.” As a matter of fact he was largely responsible for improving their lot as far as the prize rewards were concerned. However, that didn’t prevent a number of them from slamming him and his administration when they felt that “water was more than flour” and, like Nero, the Doc was playing the fiddle or whatever, while Rome burnt.

He didn’t even ask us “to pray and repent” as Shakespeare said “even the devil can quote scripture to suit his purpose.” You couldn’t find a more “politically correct” or dyed-in-the-wool PNM-ite than Lord Kitchener, but even Kitch seemed to be voicing some mild elements of disillusionment, for example: They looking for Jericho, Jericho ain’t there . . . Oh what a country! . . . No more Freedom” . . . and one or two others. As journalist Raoul Pantin claimed, Dr Williams had his car stop alongside Kitchener and in the familiar staccato mode of speech simply addressed the Grandmaster thus: “Mr Roberts, I see that you’ve been singing some interesting calypsos these days.” And Williams need not have said more. Aldwyn Roberts got the message.

The calypsonian, like the politician has his/her political constituency. As a matter of fact, some calypsonians consider themselves to be leaders of their constituencies. And I don’t mean the much tainted and politically exploited so-called “community leaders.” Yes, yes, I know that there are many who consider calypsonians as “men of straw with, shall we say, a mattress mentality.” But calypsonians consider themselves to be men (I’m excluding the women here) of “considerable fibre.” Valentino, I believe, once claimed, with more than an element of truth, that the calypsonians are “the real political Opposition in the country. And when we take a critical look at the antics of the “political sadsacks” in Parliament, it’s difficult to challenge that statement. For every irresponsible, puerile, reprehensible and unseemly conduct of a calypsonian, one can point to any number in our Parliament — and those guys and gals are brazen enough to demand payment for same. Good Lord! please put a hand, and a foot as well, if possible.

I’ll volunteer to tell you where to plant that foot. As a boy, I must have seen the movie The Flying Dutchman. I must admit that it was beyond me. The flying saucer made more sense to my simple mind. But “The Flying Teacup?” Gimme ah break! The circus now start. Our professional comedians — who, incidentally, have to work damn hard for their living may not realise this, but if parliamentary behaviour deteriorates much further, which I expect, they (the comedians) would be hard pressed to make ends meet — especially if their foreign bank accounts are not mysteriously swollen by financial tsunamis of one kind or another. As we know, calypso and bacchanal sometimes go together. But Lord Shorty might have crossed the line when he sought to lecture Prime Minister Dr Eric Williams — publicly, I might add — on “The Art of Making Love,” as if the Doc belonged to the “make love not war” crowd.

Whether Williams took personal offence at this pipsqueak of a calypsonian seeking to invade his privacy or suggesting that the PM needed such advice, I can’t tell. In the event, the then Attorney General Karl Hudson-Philips sought to institute legal proceedings against Lord Shorty. I can still hear Eric telling Karl: “They can make me a villain, I can live with that, but a laughingstock? I’d die a thousand political deaths! If yuh want to make a blooming idiot of yourself where the calypsonians are concerned, for God’s sake please leave me out of the bacchanal.” Calypso had the last laugh in, “Ah Fraid Karl, the dress designer from Maraval.”