Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (Third Part) - Calypso

Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (Third Part) - #Calypso
by K. Omodele

African traditions and customs are in the heartbeat of Caribbean culture; so, its not surprising that the African tradition of storytelling drums so deep within many forms Caribbean music, none more so than calypso. Matter of fact, whenever I think of calypso, I think first about lyrics - the buildup, the punch line and the reflection. Niceness. As a wordsmith, I marvel at the wordplay of the great calypso storytellers. Whether the lyrics be somber-social, political or commentary; or, whether they're witty and precocious slackness, or just straight, belly-bussing comedy, this Caribbean music with its roots planted in the African oral tradition is art, pure art, plain and simple.

A Short History of Calypso Music

Like many forms of Caribbean or West Indian music, Calypso's roots were dug up from Africa, then transported to the Caribbean on slave ships during the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. The slaves in Trinidad and Tobago weren't allowed to speak to one another while they slaved in the fields, so they sang to communicate. They kept the freestyle (improvisational), functional elements of West African kaiso as a form of covert communication (separate from the overt language of the slave massa). This early predecessor to calypso was rebellious chanting about their conditions and the status quo, i.e. plantation life. They were songs with clever lyrics about social conditions and often mocked slave masters or political leaders.

The French Influence: Carnival and Canboule 

Spain had first colonized Trinidad, but up to the 1770s the population was small, less than 3000, two-thirds of them Arawak. In 1770, a Frenchman made a proposal that would bring the French, their slaves and some free blacks from the French colonies/islands of Dominica, Grenada, Guadeloupe, Martinique, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent, to heavily populate Trinidad, which would help develop the plantation economy. These French (and blacks from French islands) turned the slow, undeveloped, Spanish colony, into a culturally French dominated one. And they brought the carnival and canboulay festivities and traditions.

Kaisos were now performed by griots and/or chantwells (from the French word chantuelles) at canboulays (harvest festivals, from the French cannes brulées), which was the black alternative to carnival (which neither slaves nor free blacks could attend). As a result, Kaisos and canboulay music became the voice of the people and  were the music blacks performed and listened, under tents at canboulays. 

In the old West African ways, the chantwells  often told stories that challenged each other in competition, boasting and ridiculing, while also challenging the audience to "keep up" with witty wordplay and double meanings. Sometimes songs were quick to make fun of adversaries within the griot fraternity - like free styles battles and clashes today. In other cases, the stories would be didactic, or cleverly packed with sexual undertones, or just analytic or critical of the authority and power structure. These early calypsonians were skilled wordsmiths, slamming, slicing and nudging each other with sharp verbal skills.

 

Spoken Word and Storytelling 

When you check the various components that make up calypso, storytelling and commentary are functional. The calypsonian (the calypso singer) is most definitely a spoken word griot, a djele. He or she is a storyteller in the true sense, relaying his or her take on social and political issues of the society. That calypso derived from African oral tradition is obvious and undeniable when you consider this music's functionality.

"A Calypsonian is a poor man newspaper."

 "I consider the Kaisonian  as the old African storyteller..."

Chatting Lyrics: The Oral Tradition of Storytelling

The Oral Tradition of Story Telling 

(Spoken Word in Dancehall)

By Kaya Omodele

(first published as Lyricist Chat for Method Mecca @ZigZee)

The oral tradition of storytelling is intricately woven into African culture and throughout the ages griots/djeles/jelis have relayed didactic stories, ripe with history and moral values, from one generation to the next. Since many cultures in Africa had little or no written archives, these storytellers were revered, as it was they who transmitted the peoples' history, knowledge, wisdom, and moral understanding. An essential component in African oral tradition is its integration of music, which has continued in various cultures throughout the African Diaspora.

The spoken word aspect in dancehall, calypso, soca and other genres of Caribbean music communicates message, experience, social commentary and parody, much like the griots/djeles of old. And when it comes to dancehall, I rate an artist by lyrical content, first and foremost, even more than feeling the vibes of the song. Captivate me first with spoken imagery- make me think; then, the vibes in his/her style and flow can hold me.

Now don't get me wrong, I have liked songs now and again, when the artist not really saying nuttn much, but he/her is riding the riddim with style. And sometimes a song will grow on me if the lyricist's words have a great flow; because after all, it's not just what you say, it's also how you deliver. Like:

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, school bell ring/dee-jays' ears cock-up when them hear boom riddim... - Shabba Ranking

However, I highly rate the spoken word-sound as power; and since lyricists are supposed to be masters of words, I hope dancehall artists will continue the oral tradition of storytelling. Dancehall culture should never stray from the early years when dee-jays were street commentators, reporting the mood of the people live from the street, relating their experiences and carrying the flame of the African griots, the original sounders of the oral tradition, spoken word.

ABENG CARIBBEAN POETRY: CALYPSO (in TENNESSEE)

Caribbean Poetry: Calypso (in Tennessee)

       copyright 2014 K. Omodele

 



So, they're footin' it, side by side, shiverin'

'cross this Chat Town bridge with

pinkened lights, above, mellowing the

late-October dusk.

When they stop, toe the rail

overlookin' a docked-

grounded riverboat hotel,

she whispers, "It 'pose to be possessed; y'know, like haunted."

Then in her smile's incandescent wake the runnin' river shimmers

and the whole surroundin', suffocatin' city lights.

Then when she clutches his arm and

enwraps nippy fingers with hers,

it's like love-cravin' legs, like thighs,

her ankles encircling his back,

drawin' him in close, urgin'

"I'm try'na leave. Nex' time you go home,

PLEASE, take me with you!"

And this is the moment she begins, finally,

easing through his board and zinc fence.

Slips in, slow-ly, inching her way in

for the first time- she, spirited songbird

coos down his soul, entwines their thoughts,

titillates dreams, massages his need

to be needed; caressing wanting.

"Ain't no rush," he'd told her a while before

but both now realise she can masquerade no more

her lingering itch- her longing for

stimulating moments brimming over with Being

followed by endless wide-eyed

world-wide, whirl-wind tomorrows.

Now, face to face, their breathing flutters

hummingbirds suspended

       mid-air

her excitement building,

hovers-anticipating

long, deep-strokin', Rapture-floodin'-a

moon-soaked beach-in-a-hammock-under-

his-palm-tree nights...

             WHEW!

Temperature risin' now, beats throbbin' hot

Rubbin her up- this tropical riddim

tweakin' her treble, reverbin' her bass

pumpkin pumpin', pulsatin' her sumthin'

gradually sweetin', she- ripenin' papaw-

Tempo increasin', gatherin', growin'

now hurricane surgin'

'pon Carnival steel, pulse

pan, pangin'; pannin' and bangin'

slammin and rammin'

jammin' steamily

yearnin'. for. MORE:

BambooFireBurnin'DesireLifeLight

Stars Bright

Moonbeams SPARK

gush thru she heart

Now gallops settle and trot

trembles. sighs. still, now.

Eyes fill with wonder

mind graspin'

pantin'. gaspin'.

She breathless,

Kai so ca lypso

all up in she

Tennessee.

Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (First Part)

Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (First Part)

copyright 2011 K.Omodele

West Africans didn’t rely primarily on writing to document history and preserve culture. Like many African cultures, they emphasized an oral tradition in which Griots /Jelis passed down stories and accounts of events from one generation to the next. These storytellers were relied upon to educate the masses on their tribal history, religion and give the people a sense of identity.

“I acknowledge immense debt to the Griot (tribal poet) of Africa--where today it rightly said that when a Griot dies, it is as if a library has burned to the ground.” - Alex Haley

Integrating storytelling with music is an essential component of the African oral tradition. As music has played a significant role in African societies, the spoken word has been a firm basis for relating wisdom and moral values in rhythm/song. Historically, African music was functional and had to be effective in its purpose–songs are customarily designed for everyday occurrences like farming, harvesting, washing, childbirth and rearing, marriage and death announcement, revering ancestors, exalting martyrs; there are even tradition songs about fertility and virginity.

The music’s functionality united with collective participation- an active audience was vital in giving life to the spoken word. For instance, call and response in African music cannot exist without significant involvement with the audience. The storyteller, music, audience participation were, and still are, dynamic components that make up the African oral tradition.

“Music in the West Indies has always been about the people; communicating how they feel to each other- it’s perfectly true what they say that it is the ghetto’s newspaper. Calypso and mento was about that; ska and rocksteady highlight the Rudeboy era. Reggae was celebrating independence and the optimism of the time, then the Rasta movement and the roots music showed up the general dissatisfaction at what was going on. It’s the same today, the dancehall reggae directly reflects the mood of the people, whether you think that mood is positive or not.” –Jimmy Cliff (Bass Culture, Lloyd Bradley)

African oral tradition survived the slave ship and plantation despite the slave owners’ discouragement of most forms of African culture. The prohibition of slaves from academic schooling contributed in preserving the culture of African-based oral tradition through storytelling, folktales and the African-sentiment phrased in similes and proverbs. Instead of learning from written texts, slaves learned culture and mores through Livity-the activity and practicality of living, which is comprised of oral tradition.

In the Caribbean, we've kept this oral history culture alive to the extent that we have even documented history in music and song through mento, calypso, reggae and dancehall. True artists document our stories, giving social commentary on daily happenings just like griots of old.

 Spoken Word Griots (Part 2).
Spoken Word Griots (Part 3)

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The Under The Mango Tree

©2009 K.Omodele

In Nineteen Eighty, poor people couldn’t stop talking bout young Natty Fidel and the newspapers couldn’t stop writing about him. The capital city was a barrel of gun powder with a slow-burning fuse, and the people of the city squeezed their eyes tight and corked their ears.
The Under The Mango Tree was little more than four gray, cinderblock walls, with a fifty-five gallon drum grill planted outside the back door. Inside was a vinyl covered bar counter with a sink behind it. In one corner, a beatup jukebox offered 45’s, selections from an era that had slipped away-the time of Desmond Dekker, Sam Cook, and The Mighty Sparrow. Overhead, a bare forty-watt bulb with a pull chain hung precariously, a threatening hangman’s noose.
A ruby glow snaked from behind the counter where the owner was bent over stocking the freezer chest with beer and stout and Malta. She pretended to ignore the two plain-clothes regulars huddled at a table by the juke box. She was a single mother of two and still attractive in her early forties. Her hands and feet were calloused and her heart tattered by pieces of shattered dreams.

Mid-day approached and she methodically prepared for the after-work, happy hours. Friday evenings were typically her busiest. The bar was a skip and jump from the city’s East-side police station and so it was like an officers' clubhouse. And so, in the surrounding ghettos it was known as the “Babylon Bar”.

Rising from the freezer, the owner wiped her hands on her apron and scooped up two plastic containers on the way out the back door. A minute later, spices dripping on embers sizzled and popped. Roast fish aroma wound through the door tantalizing the two men drinking at their table.
“Ms. Lorna,” shouted the older one-the detective sergeant. “I telling you, your hand coulda resurrect Christ. I need two piece a fish.”
“Coming deh, Mr. Pruitt.” This one was a killer, f’real. He was manatee large and deliberate in his movement. When he explained things, his voice was bogged in impatience.

Ms. Lorna scurried back outside and in few seconds flashed back behind the counter with two fire-hot fish in brown paper.
“And bring a next round,” the younger detective added, waving a long arm. He was a light post with a razor-bumped face.
Miss Lorna answered. “No problem!” and threw a pan of ice in the sink behind the counter. She ice-picked it and fixed two more rum and coconut water. Tossed a splinter of ice in her mouth, savored the coolness, and dabbed her forehead and neck with her handkerchief. Then she pressed her lips into a smile and went over to serve them their fish and drinks.

“So, where in the hell this little careless girl could gone?” the detective sergeant was inquiring. “Must be with the boy.”
Lorna placed the fish, then the drinks on the table and cleared the empty glasses.
The younger man snatched his glass and swirled the drink around. “She mussy left Town and gone out to the country.” He removed his nine-millimeter from his side and thrust it beside his food and drink.
Lorna wrapped a glance around gun and shuddered. Flashed a plastic smile then spun on her heels. As she retreated to the counter, she could feel the young detective’s eyes burning her backside.
“Is a week now nobody see this girl? You think she with the boy?” she heard Detective sergeant Pruitt ask. Before the young detective could answer, Pruitt slammed his hand on the table, jumping the man's gun . “Damn these hooligans! Running ‘round town like some leggo beast. I’m telling you Owens, is the politicians making them feel like they important. Me and you know where the guns coming from.”
Young detective Owens nodded in agreement. He stroked his gun metal and could barely conceal a twinkle in his eye.
Pruitt continued. “You can believe this? The gangs, they have better artillery than we. And still, the police force supposed to clean up this mess?"
Smirking, Owens leaned toward his supervisor and lowered his voice.
“Mr. Pruitt, I know where the boy going tonight,” he said, and then leaned back smugly.
Pruitt’s eyes riddled holes through him.

Behind the counter, Ms. Lorna strained her ears and threw her eyes down on a spot on the floor...

">(To be continued)

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