The groovy, the inane

Weary from an earlier swim session, I had nodded off during the first performance of the Groovy category of Friday’s mega soca show. But when I had awakened to the scene of a man entering a booth to chat with his family, I assumed that somehow I had changed channel during slumber and that Tyra had launched cycle 22-guys and gals, booches and tooches. The phone booth/confessional has been the reality show’s fixture from inception.

Then I heard commentators and contestants alike pronounce the cubicle’s appellation, “Truth Booth” as “Trut Boot” and I cottoned onto the fact that I was tuned into Trini, and I pondered the silliness of converting performers into a gimmick. From stage to call booth they dashed, pausing en route to greet two presenters whose sole job seemed to be to steer participants toward the compartment where they spoke with mammy, tantie, granny. Very peculiar.

Are we so dumb-downed by execs and advertisers that we are expected to be tickled by allegedly analytic artistes, some of whom, with back to camera, gushed for a couple of minutes, pushing perfectly predictable post-performance platitudes?

Deep gratitude to Ricardo Drue who admitted he had taken a shot of puncheon before entering stage right. His confession was somehow endearing. Because you wondered how many others had sought Dutch courage but had been too embarrassed to disclose their pre-show pick me up. Me, I would take one for the booth because no way I could soberly become a performing seal for a subvention. That chimp chore must have been cemented into the contract, in bold or boldfaced font. Nowadays no one even bothers to distance the distasteful. If not indigestible, certainly questionable is the rationale governing the disparity between the prizes for the Fantastic Friday contest, the Groovy Soca King or Queen rewarded half the pouch of the Power Monarch. Aren’t we by these skewed mathematics affirming that Groovy Soca is pseudo-soca? Aren’t we establishing that soca has to be frenetic to be soca?

Of the two categories on Friday night, Groovy was the victor. Machel was typically professional, technically superior and mighty. But not magical. And with a few exceptions, his competitors were somnific. The bar for the night which no one could touch had been set by Olatunji, who electrically precise, was the beloved star. We all bawled out and called his name. Ola Ola Ola Ola ola ola ola ola ole.

Groovy not worthy of the status of Power? “Phenomenal” is music to the ears, to the waist and to the feet. No doubt Benjai believes his “groovy” soca is as potent as “power” soca:

“Make me jump and fete fi hours,

Soca does give meh meh powers

Drink meh rum and share with others

Fete fi hours, soca powers.”

He’s not singing specifically and solely about the music of Machel or Iwer, and were it not for the innate assumption that Power soca trumps Groovy, Olatunji would have trounced Machel on Friday night in a soca-off.

From the ridiculously biased to the ludicrous. Police warning for Carnival 2015: dressing in body paint and engaging in lewd behaviour can land you in jail. For real? Man, look you might as well shut down the Carnival. Because artistry absented, utter abandon and orgy is, like it or not, where TT Carnival is at. You’d think that given the annual murder toll police would understand that for two days of the year, people have decided to shed every burden, and near nudity is symbolic of that unloading. Who needs or wants the police to police morality on Carnival Monday and Tuesday?

My favourite Carnival 2015 absurdity? The police instruction: Don’t wine on the officer! You don’t say! So, the officer must, ignored and lonely, stand and swelter in the hot sun, watching beautiful, sexy, sweet headed revellers leggo and then to boot-not booth- arrest and charge the winer girls for lewd behaviour? Cruel and unusual punishment. For the officer!

I am trying to remember if I ever saw a policeman outraged at and object to the attentions of the gym sculpted woman in little else than body paint. Or haul one before the court on Ash Wednesday! We are joking right? Which self-respecting policeman or woman is going to arrest a masquerader for salacious behaviour during a festival which by its very nature, naked or not, is erotic, sexual?

The combo of sun, alcohol, and soca induces lust, and there’s no way to douse the flame, except to terminate the festival. Subtract or extract sex from Carnival and the “trut” is that Trinbagonians would plunge from cloud nine to ground zero. Like a fired boss.

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