I love mutton curry. From the first time I sampled it at an Indian wedding on the East Coast donkey years ago, I was hooked; you can keep your chicken and even your hassar.
In that vein, therefore, on my recent flight to New York to accept a Hall of Fame Sunshine Award for the Tradewinds band, and fortunately in business class, I was one happy camper when I noticed the lunch menu included lamb curry. Of course, you know how businesses these days like to present everything in flowery language, so the lamb curry was actually labeled “lamb vindaloo” (probably made by some banna named Vindal in Caroni) and the menu card told me that the vindaloo came with “potato, cauliflower, Indian spices and sauté spinach”. What kind of spices would you expect in a curry? Egyptian ones? Also before you start salivating over “sauté spinach”, understand it only means fried. By the way, the same menu had an item called “spinach paneer”, but I was afraid to ask what that was – maybe spinach grown in a tenor pan?
(For background, the Sunshine Awards is an organization started 22 years ago, by Trinidadians in New York, to honour Caribbean musicians in an annual affair (very fancy; black tie and so on) that includes a Hall of Fame roll. This year in that category they would be inducting Tradewinds, Trinidadian comedian/calypsonian Bill Trotman, and two steelband pioneers – Norway Adams and Alfred Mayers.)
So there I was on Caribbean Airlines, very smooth ride, hungry to kill, and I had on my lamb curry mouth. Imagine my dismay, therefore, when the flight attendant sweetly informed me they had run out of that item. Talk about disappointment! I mean, it wasn’t like I could have gotten off and made a swing by Shanta’s or Roti Plus. There I was, at 33,000 feet, with my lamb curry mouth and no curry.
That was the first bump.
The second one came at JFK. My friend Henry Muttoo, and his friend Alex Haley, were meeting me, so I bolted off the plane, and with only carry-on luggage, was outside in a shot, but no Muttoo. I had come prepared with a jacket for the deep freeze but you know when it’s blowing up there, 50 degrees can feel like 40, and my limit is 45. Anything below 45 degrees, I’m looking to light a fire. So I would slip out the terminal to the passenger pick up, scout a little bit, and head back inside to warm up and see if Henry was at arrivals. I did this about four times; no Muttoo. My cell phone had expired. I couldn’t call anybody. I was going back and forth, cussing Muttoo blind. On my fourth foray, about to get a taxi and head for a hotel, I spot Alex’s wife: “Alex is circling the airport and Henry is inside looking for you.” I neglected to mention that Henry is the classic absent-minded professor: he had wandered off to buy some vitamins – he’s big on that – and had missed me as I came off the plane.
Now compare JFK with Cheddi Jagan. Here, there is only one exit, not 44 as in JFK, so you can’t miss whom you’re meeting. Secondly, in GT you can park 50 feet from arrivals, and even sit in your car and watch your passenger come out. You don’t have to circle the airport, and even if you have to go round, it takes 3 minutes tops, and there’s no airport police in uniform yelling, “Move on, sir. Move on.” Above all, the passenger and picking-up friend are both in shirt sleeves in 80-degree weather; nobody is shivering and clapping his hands to keep warm.
You see the difference? All right: in JFK there is no taxi driver hustling you and nobody grabbing at your suitcase, but that aside, the experience at Jagan is way superior.
The third bump was on a trip Saturday afternoon with Monty Blackmore who was dropping me to the Axa Equitable Centre on 7th Avenue for the Sunshine Awards. I’m here to tell you now that 4pm on a Saturday in Manhattan is no place for somebody who grew up at Hague and Vreed-en-Hoop. I have never seen traffic so. A drive that would normally take 20 minutes took almost an hour. Getting around New York is a straight case of high-blood-pressure time. If you don’t know the city you are dead.
Monty lives there, and he has one of these GPS things that tell you what turns to make. Says Monty, “Without that, I dead.” Actually, even “with that”, we were nearly dead a couple times, but we made it finally.
The fourth bump was the Centre. A beautiful theatre, top-of-the-line equipment, and professional staff, but the place was a fridge; I thought I was outside JFK again. I was walking around inside with my coat on; my finger tips were getting numb. Drupatee from Trinidad was on the show, and now and then she would pass me with a big smile, but I see the cold was getting under her soca skin, too. Unfortunately, the AC control was in some inaccessible location, so it was a case of keep moving.
However, once the show started adrenalin took over. Organised by founder Gil Figaro the event went like clockwork. Original Tradewinds bass man Joe Brown is the musical director (been there for 22 years), and the mix included the lead singer from Tabu Combo, Drupatee from Trinidad, xylophone player Famoro Dioubate from Guinea, the Dancin Africa dancers, and MCs Nikki Crosby and Errol Fabien from T&T. The other Tradewinds guys were tied up in Cayman (I joked that one of them had three girl friends and could only get clearance from two) but I did my one-man thing, got into some picong with the Trinis, and sang a couple Tradewinds hits. It was a happy crowd, largely West Indians, and they enjoyed it all, including the stint by Chalkdust who has been the Chairman of the Sunshine Awards from day one.
I took a few moments in my acceptance speech to mention the need for us to generate more recognitions, such as the Sunshine Awards, to honour our artistes, to recognize our own, and I used the sudden sad passing of Barbadian PM David Thompson to reflect on him as one of those Caribbean standouts we should be proud of.
The highlight of the show for me was Alfred Mayers, a truly charismatic man. Speaking completely off the cuff, he captivated everybody with his charming recollections of growing up as a pan man, battling parents who hated the idea, and how he blunted the opposition by helping teach “the white boys” how to beat pan.
From there it was clear sailing. For one thing, during the time we were in the theatre, the temperature had gone up to almost 60; not quite GT, but getting there.
Also I met some wonderful Tradewinds fans, before and after the show, pictures like peas, got up-to-date with Joe Brown whom I hadn’t seen in 25 years, and I had a good gaff, too, with Chalkie who even tackled one of my songs during his time on stage.
It was a great time well spent. I touched base with some old friends, met up with some new ones, and had a lovely time on stage in that embrace that Caribbean audiences give you when you sing about them instead of at them, which is how many of my songs are. I headed home on Sunday in a great mood. Caribbean Airlines was on time, and with my carry-on luggage I was on the road to town before you could say “ahray bhaap”.
I have to tell you though: it was one o’clock Monday morning, and I was still grinding about that damn lamb curry.
