JOURNAL 2nd February 1998
Tojo dem see what dem say:
'Butch', Renegades and Jit
JOURNAL 2nd February 1998
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Went to Renegades yard about 06:30pm to collect some data for a profile on the band; however the person in question did not turn up.
Spotted Bertrand 'Butch' [and sometimes called 'Birch'] Kelman the tuner, for the first time; hammering away at a bass. He is due at Harmonites yard tomorrow. This is a busy man; as from the little data I have collected about him so far, he is also the tuner for Skiffle Bunch, Fonclaire and his home band Southern Marines Steelband Foundation. Time will show who else he's with.
Came back to the Renegades yard at about 07:30pm in hope of contact again but no luck. Hung on to watch the practice and was back on some excellent 'corn soup'. The whole 'tenor' rack which held the entire section was way out beyond the spectators seats at the front; hamming away at one of the new segments of the tune Pan for Carnival. The rest of the band was at the same time doing the same piece, out of sink, without them.
A short middle aged rasta, with dreadlocks down to his waist, was dancing about in front of the main band 'conducting'. He appeared to be a fixture, as no one paid any attention to him; but he was part of the good vibe going around.
A displaced TV crew, down from the recent cricket disaster in Jamaican now rescheduled for Trinidad, and hailing from Oz(1); were collecting 'local colour' poking their light in every bodies face. The missed 'the real thing' however, when the 'tenors' reformed with the band some time around 09:45pm.
It started slowly, discordant and uncertain and repeating the new piece over and over. Rasta was getting excited and got closer to conduct, pausing when it fell flat and pointing straight up for a 'get ready'. By this time about 8 extra 'tenor' players had appeared out of nowhere, and lined themselves in-front of the basses on the south side. Then it began to speed up. A teen with a harmless head on, had moved in a pace behind rasta and he was dancing with his body, his head somewhere else; exploring the sounds.
It went quiet slowly as an unseen 'master' beat 'time out' on the side of a pan somewhere in the bowels of this steel giant. The small crowd in attendance went expectant. Rastas finger pointed straight up.
The hollow beat of the 'tock tock' called in the tune and they were off at a pace and in earnest. Pan for Carnival unfolded its glory as it grew form a bud to a flower and as it revealed itself through each little movement to the next with the freshness of the rains passing. At the end of it, the crowd let out its breath. The 'tenor' players were massaging their wrists and grinning. We heard it all a second time with no less enjoyment, then the orders changed and they were back at slow practising; everything still humming.
At this point I left the front stand to go and work my way round the back of the band to try to hear and understand the sounds of each section individually. While lightly leaning between the near horizontal drums of a 9 bass, my hand up holding the rigging between, and watching the drummers of the guitars; a diminutive man passed by slipping through and disappearing along the crack between the south wall basses and the cello stands inside. By the way a pair of 'back band' listeners were gesticulating to each other, because you can hardly hear above the sound, I guess that it was Jit Samaroo who just went by.
Moving over to the men, my guess was confirmed by a shout in the ear. Now in a new position, to the south of the back of the band, I stand clutching my notebook to my chest my back against a wall, looking up at the 'engine room' perched high on its platform in the middle of the band. The metaphor is apt, it feels like I'm in the bowels of a ship with all this sound reverberating around. The white painted scaffolding of the trestles with their sound directing metal canopies and the lofty perch of the rhythm section all support this illusion. And the sound goes on.. I am not hearing 'music' any more, its pace is too slow, and the complex harmonies that Jit is inventing in slow motion are too new for me to recognise. I have only just arrived to spectate in earnest, wide eyed and expectant in wonder to its earlier presentation; only the steeldrummers know its true tongue. This experience is unique to me; as the sound swells and falls, in the harmonies of bass and cello, I am totally transposed and at sea.
Jit emerges from around the corner and appears startled and suspicious on seeing me here. I have been forewarned that he is a timid and sensitive man who shuns exposure and confides only to a few who are close to him. I stand quietly and still in respect to his sensitivity, and watch with no little concern, as he makes his way towards the forward guitar pans at the base of the 'engine room' muttering "no, no..". Is it I or the band that is bothering him? He is a timid man. He taps lightly with his stick to call 'time out', but only a few have heard and seen, and the rest carry on. Jit presses forward to the base of the 'engine' tower to tap on it to get their attention, and slowly it all halts with a helping call and some tapping by others. Jit then issues new instructions and they start up again from a different phrase.
As I move out of the south side of the band to watch the bass players; I wonder how such a gentle mouse of a man can control this great legend that is Renegades. I realised on reflection that I had observed two particular things.
The first was that the composition of the band members were of all ethnic persuasions, more men than women, and just ordinary people, determined and with a remarkable musical talent; over a wide age spread, but late teens for the youngest. This is a much mellowed group compared with the 'fighting force' of old.
The second of course concerns Jit himself. Dr Blake must have seen this too when he commented about the bands acquisition of ( both 'Butch' and ) Jit, where 'the coup was complete!' particularly 'with Jit's powerful arranging talents'. Indeed it is, fore what I saw that nails this so firmly on the head is that Jit walks around with a musical score in his hands. This allows him, and goodness knows how few steelbands here have this facility, to hold the memory of his tune in his hands, to which he can add and not forget.So the little Mouse with the Lion brain, plays Renegades with Panorama.
© 1998 tobagojo@gmail.com(1): Oz = Australia.
http://www.seetobago.org/trinidad/pan/journal/1998/02/j980202.htm
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