The vibe at the Pelican Inn that night was unfamiliar to me. Unlike the many Carnival fêtes and concerts that I had attended in Trinidad, this felt more inti- mate, as though the people present were part of a close-knit community. The patrons at the Pelican Inn that night were truly representative of the ethnic mélange that is Trinidad. There were people of African, Indian, Chinese, and European ancestry of all ages, from young children to the elderly. In the crowd could be seen members of Trinidad’s artistic elite and representatives from the media, as well as a solid core of intellectual and creative young adults. A stage was set up in the corner of the patio area, and the venue was ‹lled to capacity, outside, inside, and even on the second-›oor balcony overlooking the patio. Those who had arrived early were lucky to ‹nd seating in the white plastic arm- chairs set up in rows in front of the stage or at the wooden picnic tables scat- tered along the periphery of the patio. Others were standing about or sitting on the ground. Self-consciously, I set up my tripod and video camera, positioning myself next to the cameraman from Gayelle, Trinidad and Tobago’s new televi- sion station, whose commitment to programming with 100 percent local con- tent was revolutionary. I sought to capture on ‹lm that which Edward Schieffe- lin notes is so elusive: the creation of presence in the performance moment through the interaction between the performer and the audience.5I hoped, somewhat in vain, to record the emotion and spirit of the evening, but settled for what I could accomplish with one camera—one ethnographic gaze.
The night air, though much cooler than it had been even a few hours ear- lier, was still quite warm, but very comfortable as it enshrouded us under the open Caribbean sky. Sheldon Blackman was in concert to launch his new CD, Re-Loaded. Sheldon’s father, the late Ras Shorty I, had been a proli‹c calyp- sonian and is recognized as the man who blended elements from classical and devotional Indian music in Trinidad with calypso, a musical genre tracing its roots to Africa, thereby creating soca, which has evolved to become the musical energy that drives and sustains Carnival. But that particular evening was not about soca music or about Carnival. It was about Sheldon’s particular brand of
rapso, Jamoo6 rapso, and, more expansively, about alternative music in Trinidad. His music re›ected the in›uences in his life, being indigenous, with a calypso rhythm, but simultaneously international, folksy, and jazzy, with smat- terings of rhythm and blues and rock. Sheldon, backed by his multitalented family, sang songs of revolution, songs honoring the beauty of African women, songs of love and spirituality, and songs evoking the Trinidadian land- and seascapes. His music was conscious music, Trinidad-style, with a message of love and transformation.
It was April 28, 2004, a date celebrated in Trinidad and Tobago as the Na- tional Day of Rapso. Sheldon’s concert was part of a larger program celebrating Rapso History Month. How ‹tting, then, that Sheldon would acknowledge and respectfully call to the stage the man who embodies the spirit of rapso: the poet, social activist, and educator, Brother Resistance.
In the tradition of the chantuelle,7Sheldon drew Brother Resistance for- ward through song, chanting a verse and chorus from Resistance’s song “Ring de Bell” and priming the audience for an engagement with the charismatic rapso leader’s call and response performance style.
C’mon, c’mon brother leader
It’s high time that we summon up de power This time we ring it in de earbell
Look, ah have a story to tell
Well it’s a long, long time that we ‹ghting for freedom Victory bound to come
Assemble de people with sight of de mission Leh we rock de rapso riddum
The chorus was sung in call and response fashion. (Call) Ring de bell, ring de bell … (Response) Ring de Bell De bell down dey . . . Ring de bell
De bell for culture . . . Ring de bell De bell down dey . . . Ring de bell De bell for freedom . . . Ring de bell De bell down dey . . . Ring de bell
De bell for de rapso riddum . . . Ring de bell De bell down dey . . .
Looking toward the rear of the audience, once could see Brother Resis- tance’s signature tall leather hat that contained his ›oor-length dreadlocks emerge as he made his way through the densely packed crowd to the stage. Af- ter embracing Sheldon and greeting the other musicians on stage, he began to sing “Ring de Bell.” Midway through the song, he signaled for the volume of the music to be lowered and addressed the audience.
Dis is de spirit of rebellion
De ‹re dat blaze in de heart of de youth De sound of pride and determination In de heartical8search for de truth . . . Rapso
Rapso is de attitude as we rock against de colonial order To create a new vibration for us all in de region . . . Rapso Rapso is de signal dat de struggle ent done, Trinidad and Tobago You know why?
You know you love jamoo so much and you cyar9hear yuh music on de radio
You cyar see yuh picture on a TV show (well except Gayelle)
So how you want de world to know dat all this beautiful music comin’ outta Trinidad and Tobago?
So you see, as Lancelot “Kebu” Layne would always say Don’t believe what foreigners do
Is better than you, because that ent true Is ah mental block dat hard to unlock It hard like ah rock and with it you don’t work Yuh go live with illusion . . . tryin to be anodda man So don’t believe what foreigners do
Is better than you, because that ent true
And if a man want to set false standards for you to follow To he, what you say?
(Audience responds) Blow ’Way What you say
(Audience responds) Blow ’Way Blow ’Way
So I tell you, we all have to come together to ‹ght for our music on de radio Pick up yuh pen an’ write. Pick up yuh telephone an’ call.
Let us rally together, Trinidad and Tobago, so we could hear our music on de radio
So your artists and dem could live, and feed dey family, and make more music By de grace of de most high God, you all have a responsibility
I didn’t come here to preach to you all tonight, but I’m telling you
Sheldon Blackman and all these musicians here is anodda generation again! We cyar wait no more Trinidad and Tobago
Make it your personal pledge
You must ‹ght to get your music on de radio
You will ‹ght against piracy10in dis country? Eh? Yuh sure? Returning to song, Resistance sang,
And ah ring it and ah ring it and ah ring it and ah ring it Ring de bell for Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X and Buzz Butler11
Ring de bell . . . He concluded,
Because we make a music to build bridges across humanity We make a music to break down de walls dat divide we May God bless each and every one of you
Stand ‹rm for yuh culture Stand ‹rm for yuh culture
I want de call and response vibration De poet and de people
De chantuelle and de band
As he exited the stage, the audience joined him in singing, Stand ‹rm for yuh culture
Stand ‹rm for yuh culture
When Sheldon Blackman began his introduction of Brother Resistance by singing one of the signature rapso songs, Brother Resistance’s “Ring de Bell,” he foregrounded the spiritual aspect of a performance environment that already combined artistic, progressive politics with Afro-Caribbean, Rastafarian-in-
formed Christianity. “Ring de Bell,” with its call and response repetition, in- voked the spirit of the Spiritual Baptist12preacher, ringing her bell between the rhythmic phrases of her prayers. Brother Resistance extended this performance by picking up the song where Sheldon Blackman had stopped, continuing the singing-chanting of the verses and chorus for several minutes, then shifting the tone of the performance from repetition and chanting to rapso poetry. In the tradition of the rapso artist, he honored the elder, the ancestor Lancelot “Kebu” Layne,13by reciting from his stridently anticolonial song “Blow ’Way.”
After honoring the ancestors and calling forth performances of worship and rebellion, Brother Resistance shifted the performance yet again to rapso di- alogue, exhorting the audience to be social activists, demand local images in the media, and support local artists. He expressed Pan-Africanist consciousness— through references to Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, and Uriah “Buzz” Butler— and simultaneously expressed the nationalist sentiment to “Stand ‹rm for yuh culture.” Embodying rapso authenticity, Brother Resistance had the audience on their feet, with arms raised, dancing to the rhythm of his music and the rhythm of his words. This performance was passionately executed, displaying several of the styles and themes of rapso performance: chants, songs, poetry, di- alogue, call and response, and themes of resistance, spiritual independence, self-determination, and activism.
Brother Resistance’s activist-oriented rapso dialogue illuminated several as- pects of the current state of Trinbagonian cultural politics. That the era of an- ticolonial/anti-imperial struggle has not come to a close in Trinidad and To- bago is evident, and although the struggle is no longer for independence from direct colonial administrative governance, it continues to take place in the arena of culture, identity, and political economy. The phrase “it’s a long, long time that we ‹ghting for freedom” references various historical struggles for freedom in Trinidad and Tobago—freedom from slavery; freedom from colo- nial domination, from neocolonial (Afro-Saxon) bias for white and/or Western social and cultural forms; freedom from U.S. imperialist control and occupa- tion—as well as contemporary struggles for equality, respect, and social and economic justice. Brother Resistance invoked the spirit of the chantuelle, one of a complex of Trinidadian Carnival ‹gures of resistance, and called the audience to action with his exhortation that “de struggle ent done.” This conscious asso- ciation with local, historical symbols of indigenous strength and warriorhood is an expression of the politics of resistance inherent in rapso performance and activism.
rap and soca, but both rapso and soca were evolving from calypso in the 1970s. Soca evolved from Ras Shorty I’s experimental blendings of calypso and Trinidadian versions of the traditional music of India. Rapso evolved from ca- lypso also but traces its roots to the oral traditions and masquerade characters of Trinidad and Tobago: the chantuelle, the Midnight Robber and the Pierrot Grenade. The chantuelle sang the praises of a particular stick‹ghter as he bat- tled against a foe in the gayelle.14The Midnight Robber sang his own praises, weaving long tales of conquest together with descriptions of his fearsome countenance and character. The Pierrot Grenade broke large words down into syllables and told a story about each syllable, bringing the stories to conclusion in an artful and comedic fashion to inscribe in the memory of those present an appreciation for play with words.
All of these traditions and characters express rebellion and assertion of self in the face of cultural, social, economic, or political domination. The chantuelle’s boasts of prowess in the stick‹ghting arena in an era of slavery and European domination were acts of rebellion not only against the institution of slavery, with its laws banning public gathering among slaves, but also against the idea that to be black was to be inferior and powerless. The Midnight Rob- ber’s speeches de‹ed not only man but also the forces of nature to dare chal- lenge him in a war of words or might. Indeed, his badness was outright rebel- lion against any form of containment or limitation, man-made or otherwise, and symbolized the physical and metaphysical power that could be summoned by the oppressed. The Pierrot Grenade attacked the distinction made between Standard English and creolized English by infusing words with new associa- tions that are rooted in local experiences and ways of speaking.
In addition to the legacy of these classic performances of the oral tradition in Trinidad, rapso built on the work of the calypsonian Lancelot “Kebu” Layne. Layne disrupted the musical ›ow of sung calypso by speaking verses that he felt were especially signi‹cant, so that the message would not be lost on the au- dience, who may be more attuned to the music rather than the words of sung calypso. “Blow ’Way” was written during the turbulent early period of the 1970s Black Power Revolution in Trinidad, when Black15people demanded a revolutionary change in the social and economic order that had been in- scribed during colonial rule and that continued to exist after national inde- pendence. Rapso was a vehicle of protest, and Lancelot “Kebu” Layne, Brother Resistance, and Brother Book16were some of the rapso chantuelles that were chanting for freedom in the frontlines of the wars for Black rights and work- ers’ rights.
Cheryl Byron, considered the “Mother of Rapso,” was also an important ‹gure in the history of the genre. She took the stylistic practice of Lancelot “Kebu” Layne a step further and broke tradition by performing poetry, rather than singing calypso, within the calypso tent.17An ordained Reverend Mother in the Spiritual Baptist religion, Byron brought African diasporic spiritual con- sciousness to the calypso tent, a performance arena noted for sexual double en- tendre and humor, as well as social and political commentary. In contrast to the typically male-performed masquerade characters that signify resistance prac- tice within the Carnival context and that are historical symbols of an ethic of empowering stances in opposition to domination, Cheryl Byron’s poetic per- formances made visible the female acts of anticolonial resistance that were car- ried out in spiritual and religious practice.
The cultivation of Black consciousness, the inscribing of absent histories, and the ‹ght against social injustice were fundamental aspects of early rapso ideology. It was into this sociopolitical climate that the ‹rst wave of rapso artists emerged. Carnival spaces and traditions were reclaimed and reinter- preted as conscious and deliberate acts of self-representation and postcolonial agency. The rhythm of indigenous language, wedded with the emotions of everyday life experiences and the politics and performances of resistance, gave rise to rapso, a unique poetic and musical form. The rapso artist was a warrior of the word, ‹ghting for equality, for consciousness, and for the downpressed.18 When rapso artists acknowledge that there is a relationship between rapso and rap and dancehall but assert that rapso did not evolve from those forms, they are rejecting a global ordering of Black performance practices that locate American forms (such as rap and hip-hop) at the center and presume that African diasporic forms such as dancehall and rapso are Jamaican and Trinida- dian versions of American rap. They argue that rapso is a musically poetic ex- pression of the Trinidad experience, brought forward in a Trinidadian voice. The self-pride that comes from using one’s own voice, of stamping artistic ex- pression indelibly with one’s own identity, is a fundamental tenet of the rapso practice. Rapso is “de power of de word in de rhythm of de word” and af‹rms Trinidadianness.
Stephanie Sadre-Orafai writes that “language is the ultimate site of authen- ticity for rapso,”19yet as I have argued, rapso authenticity is equally de‹ned by tracing particular lineages and through strategic associations with select local cultural forms. Rapso must also be discussed in terms of ideology and practice. A socially conscious message and social activism are integral aspects of rapso practice. One without the other renders the rapso practitioner insincere.