THE BEAT OF A DIFFERENT DRUM

The coupling of Chutney and Soca is a movement, drifting now in the Soca direction, now in the Chutney
direction, like dancing partners, none too skilled as yet, in an uncrowded ballroom. In the Calypso season
they move, in numbers such as Drupatee's "Mr Bissessar," towards the Afro-creole end of the floor. As
Rikki Jai sang in a tune which was also, like Drupatee's, not written by an Indian, "Hold the Lata
Mangeshkar, give me Soca."

Other times, at the large Chutney shows in Central and the deep South, in the music of men such as Anand
Yankarran and women such as Geeta Kewalsingh and Prematee Bhim, the movement drifts towards the
Indian side.

There have also been men who wholeheartedly embraced the musical culture of the other group and made
significant contributions in the effort. The Mootoo Brothers formed one of the most important back up
bands for Calypsonians in the 1950s, while Bobby Mohammed of Cavaliers and Jit Samaroo of the
Samaroo Jets have been central to the development of steelband. The Hindu Prince has sung some
marvellous calypsoes in the vein of traditional social commentary. Similarly, Johnson Blackwell and Roy
Cooper were important exponents of Indian classical singing.

The contribution of such men was not in fusion, however, at least not directly: their submergence into the
other man's culture had been too complete for that.

Still, it started a long time ago, the crossover of African and Indian musics. And the first moves came from
the black side. Calypso storytelling had begun using music to enhance its narrative; and calypsoes about
Indians in Trinidad often incorporated an Indian 'sound'. Beginning in the late 1920s such calypsoes would
string along Indian names or words, or be sung in a pidgin English

"Me work for me money, me go back to me country," sang Tiger in 1939 in a calypso which resembled
many Guyanese Blend Songs, "Gi Sita Ram Gi."

Using Indian rhythms, Killer made a hit in 1947 with: "Every time ah passin gal, you grindin massala."
That very year, perhaps prompted by the Indian rhythm of "Grinding Massala," Albert Gomes pointed out
that, "the calypso singer has begun to announce in his songs that our ethnic 'potpourrie' is a reality."

But not every skin teeth is smile. So too, miscegenation in our Afro-European world didn't begin with love,
whatever exotic and exciting hybrids may have resulted. And many of these early "Indian" calypsoes
celebrated bigotry and exploitation. Hindi words and Hindu names, real or invented, were ridiculed by
black calypsonians: "Long ago was Sumintra, Ramnalawia," sang Killer, "Bullbasia and Oosankilia."

Black participation in Indian feasts, weddings and religious celebrations, the main arenas of racial
encounter, formed the background of many of these calypsoes. KillerÕs ÒGrinding MassalaÓ takes place
at a wedding while Fighter's "Indian Wedding" takes place at Phagwa and Executor finds "My Indian Girl
Love" at Hosein. "Indian Dinner" by Killer and "Indian Party" by Fighter are self-explanatory. There Indian
food was consumed, sometimes through trickery, while the hosts and their culture were despised for being
gullible and eccentric.

It was part of the general disparagement of anything different. Vincentians, Bajans, Guyanese, Grenadians
got their share, as did Chinese, Portuguese, and everyone else. In a young, unformed society it was like the
insensitive cruelty of schoolboy nicknames writ large. And Indians, being one of the most distinct groups in
an Afro-Western society, were subject to the greatest contemptuousness

And they reacted to suit. "Nigger, nigger come for roti, all the roti done," goes a children's doggerel which
evokes the Indian resentment towards such encounters: "When the coolie come for roti, all the nigger run."

The freeloading and stereotyping in calypso died in the 1960s, perhaps because a patronising "tolerance"
had become the national motto, and today the rawness of colonial wounds are plastered over. The
enthusiasm with which people jumped onto a "One Love" bandwagon in the 1980s shows an eagerness to
heal, although the sore was hardly lanced.

Consequently, much to the chagrin of Indian traditionalists, the modern "Indian" calypsoes have drawn on
motifs of spicy Indian food as symbols of the sexuality of Indian women. "I have a tabanca," sang the
Mighty Trini before listing the hottest Indian foods, "curry tabanca."

With greater subtlety Sparrow managed to raise the hackles of Hindu brahmins by choosing to sing of
saucy, tasty "Maharajin" at a time when Indian women had begun to shuck off the worst forms of sexual
paternalism, often by embracing creole culture: "Ah go work the land and gi you all me pysa," he sang with
uncharacteristic sentimentality, "An will even drink your juta from the lota."

Sparrow was doing nothing he hadn't done before with far more mischevious humor. But Hindu leaders
complained, letters were written to the press. Niala Maharaj in a recent essay thinks that, "In choosing the
name 'maharajin', Sparrow, probably consciously, reached for the most sacrosanct figure in traditionalist
terms. The notorious promiscuousness of the calypsonian is inherent in the lyrics: women, in Sparrow's
world, are always items of consumption, enjoyed in the prodigal short-term fashion stereotypical of the
urban Black's attitude to material pleasure."

By then, however, Soca had over a decade under its belt. And Sparrow's 1985 "Maharajin" became so
popular, not only at Carnival but also at the mainly Indian Phagwa that the Calypsonian returned the
following year to court with equal success "Maharajin Sister." How was this possible? How had Afro-creole
music become so amenable to Indian culture? How had Indo-Trinidadian society become so amenable to
Calypso?

In 1971 Lord Shorty "the love man," embodying the traditionally promiscuous ethos of the black
calypsonian, sang of "Indrani" Ñhis old Indian chick: "So bony, skinny like a whip." Killer had come from
Barrackpore, Fighter from Guyana, but it was Shor¬ty, who spoke Hindi and had grown up in Lengua
breathing Indian music in the air around him, whose Calypso was borne along on a sinuous Asian melody
and the hop-and-drop Indian rhythm of a dholak drum:

When she come from the lagoon

And she start up she ole Indian tune.

Soca is a catch-all category embracing many up-tempo rhythms with diverse roots ÑBaptist, Shango,
Cadance, Reggae. Indeed, Shorty's calypso "Soul of Calypso" incorporated a North American Soul sound.
But Shorty had been experimenting with Indian rhythms since "Indian Singers" in the 1960s. And whether
his was one of the influences which introduced a new bounce into Calypso, "Om Shanti Om" set a standard
which is yet to be surpassed, either lyrically or musically. And socially his timing was perfect

Between skinny Indrani from the lagoon and Marajin the queen of beauty an oil boom had intervened.
Money flowed; country Indians moved to town; Indian women, educated and independent, broke away;
Shorty turned to religion; the nation partied, and Calypso, its step quickened, became simplified into
SocaÑa dance music. And the dholak sound in Indrani's music, played on the bass guitar, took root.
Calypso, an Afro-creole folksong, through one of its Soca avatars, moved closer to India.

To consummate the embrace, however, Chutney, an Indo-creole folksong, needed to come of age.

The Indian culture brought to Trinidad has a wide variety of folksongs, some of which are closely
analagous to the Calypso. A Biraha, for instance, according to U. Arya, "may be composed instantaneously
by any person on any subject. It may break all bounds of propriety and social rules. It may protest against
any practice, custom or person, or may praise these."

In addition there are Hindu devotional Bhajans and ritual Sohars, Muslim Gha¬zals and Cassidas. There are
Chowtals sung at Phagwa and erotic Chatthi songs sung by women six days after childbirth, and many
others. On the public farewell nights at weddings some of the traditional women's songs were lifted out of
their context and accelerated to a traditionally rapid breakaway rhythm to the sound of the harmo¬nium, the
dhantal iron and the dholak drum.

"Rosie gal, whey you cookin for dinner," goes one of the first of these suggestive women's songs sung in
English, "She makin choka, it ent have no salt."

These up-tempo versions still form the substance of Chutney, but they they had to evolve to become
compatible with Soca. And as late as 1971 only five of 88 compositions in a Mastana Bahar audition were
local. Enter Sundar Popo.

With a string of hits that borrowed from local Chutney and Indian film music, in particular "Nani and
Nana," he showed the way. His melodies were simple, catchy, and his lyrics in a blend of English and Hindi
were in the most part comprehensible to everyone though sung in an Indian style:

Nani goin behind

Nana drinkin white rum
Nani drinkin wine

Sundar Popo would have been impossible without the work of Harry Mahabir, the leader of the BWIA
National Indian Orchestra. Although Mahabir's labour would have followed steps taken by Indian film
music, it is important to understand the distance which had to be travelled to make Indian music compatible
with Afro-creole music. Indian music focusses on melody, the line of the individual instrument, as opposed
to Afro-creole music which uses European harmony, chordal structures, and African rhythm. Furthermore,
whereas western octave has twelve semitones or notes, Indian music has 22 and they cannot be played on
most conventional western instruments.

Mahabir, though trained in India, used western instruments which therefore played on a Western scale; he
simplified the Indian rhythms from their irre¬gular, shifting patterns into a consistent Afro-creole beat; he
adapted Indian linear melodies to western techniques of harmony. And he did this with almost every Indian
singer in Trinidad through the show Mastana Bahar.

"It was Harry's clean sound, his electric instruments," explains musicologist Mervyn Williams, "that made
Indian music palatable to all Trinidadians."

Yet the result was no less Indian for that. Usually there was some characteristically Indian
in¬strumen¬tation, tassa drums or a harmonium. Lyrics, even when in English, were sung in the nasal way
of Hindi phrasing, with the cheek bones not the chest. Certain melodic lines had a distinctive Indian
flavour, but even when they didn't they could be played with Indian lilts. "I remember an Indian man
playing Blakie's ÔSing a Simple CalypsoÕ on a sax," says Gordon Rohlehr, "and he make it sound like an
Indian tune."

The 1970s made Chutney ready for Soca as it made calypso ready for Chutney. But social life in Afro-
creole Trinidad is a stage, and for Indians, who have tended to be private, defensive, to some "clannish," the
idea took some getting accustomed to. Especially because unlike Calypsonians many Chutney singers are
women who are even more enjoined to public modesty.

Mastana Bahar and the annual Indian Cultural Pageant, when it began to include a Chutney segment, had
helped here. Indeed, many contestants performed Calypso-type Indian songs. But it was the weekend
Chutney shows with their wild and almost orgiastic atmosphere, a cross between Calypso tent and Carnival
party, that groomed Indian singers for the public stage.

Indian music had grown up in the large weddings which were the main social functions of rural Indian life.
But for socia and economic reasons, these were now in decline and the gap was filled by a more public,
more commercial function - the Chutney show. There Indian music found its new venue in the mid 1980s.
This, however, was still a private Indian affair.
Then Kanchan visited from India to sing "Kayse Banie" with Sundar Popo. She performed her hit "Kuchi
Gard Bad Hai" rewrite of Arrow's "Hot, Hot, Hot," "Tiny Winey" and other Calypsoes. That was what
opened the door for Drupatee to call on "Mr Bisses¬sar" in the tent to roll up the tassa:

A section from Debe

Join an start to play
Indian lavway and they
Jammin the soca.

On both sides the music is still rudimentary. Catering for dancers, like most popular music since the 1970s,
Chutney Soca or Soca Chutney with few exceptions is banal in its lyrics. Crazy's "Nani Wine" represents an
all-time low in popular taste. In its melodies it is still primitive. Mungal Pattasar, himself an important
musical innovator, for instance, in his Sitar improvisations with Boogsie Sharpe, points to the continued use
of old melodies in Chutney tapes and suggests that Indian musical creativity in Trinidad is hampered by
most musicians ignorance of the classical ragas, just as a jazzman would be hampered by an ignorance of
jazz chords. The unifying feature of this dougla music, rhythm, is simple, up front, the as yet untutored
lowest common denominator.

But to hear Andre Tanker's "Jumbie Walk," or Shorty's "Om Shanti" is to savour a potential sweetness, a
pungency that is only waiting to be mastered. And when that happens the people of Trinidad and Tobago
will taste the true sensuousness of the Orient.