I left Tobago after seventeen days, having gained a solid foundational understanding of the island’s African heritage, and the impact which slavery had on the Caribbean region’s developing social consciousness. I came to Antigua, which sits roughly 520 miles to the north, intending to stay for only forty-eight hours before moving on to Puerto Rico.
My flight out of Barbados was delayed, so by the time I touched down at Antigua’s V.C. Bird International Airport, all the local Internet cafes were closed, along with any store where I could purchase credit for my mobile phone. With no communication opportunities and a hobbled right foot, my options were limited, so I cut my losses, jumped into the only shuttle bus still waiting outside the terminal, and booked a night at the Airport Inn. That evening, in a noisy, lonely hotel room, I picked up a tourist information booklet and discovered, much to my embarrassment, that I had unknowingly arrived during Antigua’s Carnival season. Given the nature of my historical-cultural-musical project, I decided it would be foolish for me to not at least give the festival a look. I went to bed and set my alarm clock for 8:00 a.m. the next day. After a fitful, mosquito-plagued night of sleep, I awoke early and topped off my phone credits at the hotel’s business desk. Then, I placed a call to my mother back in St. Louis; before leaving Tobago, I had emailed and asked her to contact her friends on the island—she vacationed here exactly forty summers ago—and see if they could find me a cheap place to stay for one night.
As it turns out, one of her contacts, a man named Winston Derrick, is a major cultural figure on the island. He owns a radio station (The Observer, 91.1 FM), a newspaper (also called the “Observer”) and hosts a three-hour talk program every weekday. I got his contact info from my mom and dialled his mobile number.
Winston immediately sent somebody to pick me up and bring me to the radio station, where he was preparing to go on-air. I waited in the lobby for thirty minutes before he came out to greet me. After chastising me lightly for almost missing Carnival, he asked about my project and what kind of success I was having. As I described my efforts, Winston eyes began to light up, and when I finished, he said “Come on, let’s talk about it on the air.” Five minutes later, I was speaking to Antigua live, telling the Observer’s listeners about my reasons for coming, and asking for suggestions about who to contact and what to see.
I only got one caller—Winston’s show is mostly about politics and there was much corruption and inefficiency to discuss that morning—but it turned out to be exactly what I needed. The man suggested that I contact Dobrene O’Marde, a local musical historian and Chairman of the Commission to Commemorate the Abolition of Slavery. I left a message for Mr. O’Marde, and when he called me back the next afternoon, he graciously offered to come to where I was staying and let me film our discussion. I told him all I had learned about slave conditions and early folk music in Tobago, and asked if he could explain the conditions and circumstances surrounding these traditional elements’ evolution into the modern forms of Calypso and Soca. He responded with an eloquent yet succinct history of his island’s culture from the mid-1800s to the present.
Among other points, Mr. O’Marde emphasized the continuity of Antiguan music’s status as a vehicle of social commentary and political awareness. Calypso, which originated in Trinidad, first began to emerge as a distinct musical genre around the turn of the 20th Century. Before that, traditional music on each island had emerged independently (Tambrin in Tobago, Chantey in Grenada, Benna in Antigua, etc.), based on rhythms and traditions preserved by slaves brought from West Africa. Despite the lack of contact among their inhabitants, these islands’ musical styles were quite similar to each other in terms of form, rhythm and purpose—the latter being for slaves to communicate, commiserate and preserve their sense of identity without their masters’ knowledge. Therefore, when Calypso, which took its early structure from the meter and simple four-line configuration of European poems and hymns, began to spread north from Trinidad, it easily took hold in parts of the Caribbean whose colonial experiences were similar. Since then, it has served as a unifying force and means of expression for a variety of social movements, including independence campaigns, black power awareness programs, political populism and those who wish(ed) to criticize their elected officials. It also gave rise to Soca—less politicized, though musically similar “party music”—which is now the dominant genre in the region. But, Mr. O’Marde concluded, in a cultural melting pot like the Caribbean, cultural dominance is fleeting, since no music can stave off outside influence for very long. Soca is now being influenced by the very roots that created it, along with outside elements like Reggae, Hip-Hop and Chutney. He feared that this vigorous mixing, along with the new technology which helps to create and spread it, might lead to a loss of those roots which have been maintained for so long, through so many different eras. But, he concluded, there is no way to stop the movement of ideas. “I guess we’ll see,” he sighed, throwing up his hands as we concluded our on-camera discussion.
And so, it seems that the question which remains, both for myself and Caribbean music, is: “What next?”
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