I love rainy days, and yesterday was a devilishly rainy day. During the
early hours of the morning many cœur faible (weak heart) St. Lucians
were rudely awakened from their sleep by peals of thunder, while the
lightning had others crying for their mommy; Lucians are such cowards.
The city of Castries looked like a dump and a sewer as it usually does
after any moderate rainfall; garbage was everywhere! Plastic bottles, chicken bones, dead rats, discarded jelly coconuts, plastic bottles,
plastic bottles.....oh, did I forget to mention plastic bottles? Jeremie
Street looked like the river Ganges with all it's filth. That
monstrosity in the Gardens designed to avert flooding in the city was
useless once again. At one point I saw what looked like an old Sebago
shoe with a rat inside, steering, as it floated by. I could swear that
rat looked me in the eye and shouted, "Land Ho!"
Many fans who had already purchased tickets for the sold out cricket
match between the St. Lucia Zouks and the Jamaica Tallawahs were praying
to the high heavens for a reprieve, "Oh God please make the rain stop so I
won't lose my EC$25." Blasted hypocrites, you still haven't said those
twelve Hail Mary's since the last time you went to confession. Anyway!
What is a St. Lucia Zouk? Somehow someone failed to inform me of this
new exotic creature which has suddenly sprung upon the St. Lucia
landscape. Could it have been a concoction of the great pharmacists
Kassav? After all, they were the ones who said 'Zouk la c'est sel
medikaman nous ni.' Is this 'zouk' thing, this creature, this
whatever-it-is, dangerous? Is it an endangered species? Sighhhh. I
digress.
After all the drama of obtaining a rare-as-gold ticket from a friend
of a friend I made my way to the Beausejour Cricket Grounds. Cars were
all over the place. Did I just go through the time tunnel and end up at a
Yankees game at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx? Last minute stragglers
were loafting (I know there's no such word) outside the main entrance
trying to sneak their way inside or find someone who had a ticket to
sell. I entered belle breeze. I had my ticket and nothing was stopping
me. Belelesh! Now to find a seat in the stands. To hell with it, even
though my ticket was for Laborie Stands I was heading to the Canaries
Stands. After all, Canaries is the village of my ancestors, and damnit, I
was going to be seen in the shabeen stands! Represent Nobbie,
represent!
You must be wondering what the hell is Nobbie going on about today, aren't you? Well wait no more.
2013
saw Ricky-T win both the Groovy and Power Soca titles for St. Lucia
Carnival. Hell, the man even won Road March as well. Quite a feat by any
standard. But by golly, our artistes always seem to fall short just
when you expect them to bring it over the top. Last night was no
exception. I keep wondering when the music industry in St. Lucia will
take things to the next level as far as image of artistes is concerned.
After the dismal losses and final loss last night by the endangered
Zouks, in true Lucian style there had to be an after-party. Damnit, St.
Lucia lost but to hell with anyone who even thought that they would be
denied a last lap jump up. To hell if Carnival had already closed it's
doors until next year.
Running through the lineup of
performers I expected that Ricky-T would perform. In anticipation I
asked a friend, more than once, whether he was slated. I mean how could
it even be possible that the vanquished were allowed to grace the stage
at such an international event without the presence of the grand master
himself, Ricky-T, with his now famous Sebago shoes ready to give
soulye'. The temperature at Beausejour was a balmy 79 degrees with no
rain from the heavens. It was a beautiful night. Sir Lancelot had just
performed. The crowd was waiting. The MC was hinting about Sebago shoes.
The crowd took the bait and were in a drunken, carnival-revived,
frenzy. The MC, a guy who sounded like he ate too many hot potatoes as a
child walked to the stairs near the back of the stage, and handed the
mic to someone out of view. I was holding my breath like a star struck
groupie. Damnit, the grand master was about to appear! From his
performance and presentation a few weeks earlier I expected to be blown
away. Rickt-T...Ricky-T....Ricky-T....I love you! Well not quite! That
was the girl next to me. The crowd was heaving; guys smoking marijuana
without a care in the world assaulted my nasal passages; little boys
walking around with their mouths screwed up trying to look bad pushed
through the crowd; little girls who should be in the company of their
parents were running wild. One zegeleg girl was seated on the shoulders
of a male friend getting a meg girl's view of the stage. The crowd was
ready in orgasmic anticipation. Then Ricky-T came up the stairs and
presented himself on stage.
I was aghast. Could it be that I was under the influence of those
marijuana fumes I had just recently inhaled? I know I had a malt,
but it could not have been that. What was causing that for me uh? Was
Ricky-T in a friggin bubble jacket? Wasn't I in St. Lucia after
departing from the grand old US a few weeks earlier? I mean even if he
had been in Brooklyn last night, by some strange time shifting process,
he would not be wearing a bubble jacket. What the hell are you doing
Ricky-T? I wanted to be dazzled. Some nice trendy suit; a sequined
pants; some kinda dazzling outfit by a St. Lucian designer like J'aeylu; something to rival your appearance and
performance for Carnival just a few weeks earlier. Instead you appear
with a kiss-me-ass bubble jacket! In St. Lucia? Booooo!! Were you
feeling cold my boy?
Stop pandering to the lowest common denominator. Step your game up
man and get into the business of real entertainment. And get some props.
You have admirers, groupies, followers. Get some Sebagos and toss them
into the crowd after you autograph them. It won't matter if they were
made out of cardboard. Glamourize your act and wow your fans. Get a
Twitter account, get on Facebook, take it to the next level for Christ's
sake. This malheureuse (malaway) mentality has got to go. Why do you
think Machel Montana is so big now? He's not only targeting the crowd in
Tunapuna or Laventille. Machel is now jamming clubs in Asia, Europe,
and around the world. For too long we have been lax in our approach to
entertainment and forgotten that it's a money making endeavour. At an
event with reporters from all over the world, TV cameras galore,
celebrities and other big name entertainers (incognito, and cognito),
you failed to be anything other than another on-the-block sensation. You
failed to step up your game last night. You should have rocked
Beausejour like you were putting a baby to sleep.
Instead you looked like any other little bum or gangster wannabe. You had no wow factor last night.
Wake up out of your daze Ricky-T.
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