Making it to Bay

To most people the Westerners are a “scrap group”. We’ve always called ourselves “Old Time Junkanoo”. I’m not going to quibble about names. More and more the Big groups, and the general public for that matter, tend to dismiss “scrap” as irrelevant to the modern parade. Thank goodness for the PIGS and STING, who have managed to buck the tide to keep the scrap tradition alive. There is always the undercurrent among the big groups that scrap groups don’t belong on the same parade – there have even been suggestions that there be separate parades. Scraps aren’t even allowed on the parade until quite late in the morning.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not anti organized, big group junkanoo. I am a proud member of one of the major front-line A groups.

And I don’t want to turn this into an exposition on the virtues of scrap or into a debate over who are the real tradition bearers or a bashing of big group junkanoo; I’ll address the scrap/organized junkanoo debate elsewhere.

I guess what I resent most is that when we debate and argue about what is more important to junkanoo, the history or the future, because that’s what the debate is really about, we are putting the cart before the horse. The question shouldn’t be “How important is scrap to junkanoo” but rather “How important is junkanoo to scrap”.

What I’m getting at is you can’t assume that just because you spend ten months preparing costumes, music, dance and performance for the parade, rushing is more important to you than if you spend ten minutes throwing together a scrap costume.

The feeling is the same both ways. Scrap or big group, no matter what the cost, you’ve got to make it to Bay. I’ll tell you a story.

I always thought the funniest, weirdest thing to see was a drummer rushing down Bay beating a burst drum. You don’t see it that much these days with all the Tom Toms and what-not, but in days gone by you’d be sure to see several burst drums being played in scrap and in the big groups. I could never figure it out – especially being a drummer myself – why would you continue to rush when your whole purpose for rushing – making music – was over?

I didn’t get it.

Until one New Years parade.

We were all over at Sue Moss’ house on Augusta St getting ready for the parade. That was where we used to start out from. This was much later on – I was probably in my early twenties by then. The Westerners group had been in decline for many years. In fact by then, Uncle Johnny and Sue were the only original members. We were still hanging on though because Mark, Adrian and I had recruited a couple of our friends and family members to join us. I remember that year, we had a pretty strong Bethel contingent, Timothy, Margot, I think Nico was there that year too. In the grand scheme of things, that our family (including my father) got so into Junkanoo is quite remarkable really, especially knowing how strict the Gospel Hall was in the old days. Now though the group was small – seven or eight or so, we would manage to hook up with other friends once we got to Bay. I don’t know how we managed it, there would never be any firm plans. You’d just be rushing and look over and you’d be surprised to see this one or the next one. I remember for a stretch there every year we used to hook up with Minky Isaacs and his crew. I remember him particularly because every year, no matter how cold, he would rush in shirt with cut-off sleeves, shorts and sandals. Or we would just hook up with one of the bigger scrap groups, or with the PIGS, or with one of the semi-organized groups, who would recruit Adrian and I when they needed drummers. Those were years when we went out alone. It was always fun rushing with Chippie – he was always somewhat of a celebrity in the parade. You could alway see him because those feathers would stick up above the crowd.

Anyway, the story. A real junkanoo has to make it to Bay. It’s an all consuming desire. That year, for some reason, we had missed Christmas. So there we were, heating up the drums on a small fire near Sue’s. I was tuned up and ready to go. To tuned up as it turns out – I wasn’t paying attention and when I looked at my drum the skin was flapping in the wind. I didn’t even hear when it burst! If you’ve not been in that position, it’s the same kind of feeling as being at the altar and realizing that you don’t have the ring, or getting to the airline counter and realizing that you don’t have your ticket or passport. That sick feeling of “oh no, no, no! this thing that I’ve waited for so long, I’ve thrown it away through carelessness.” I mean, good grief, to wait a full year for the next junkanoo? I was despondent, inconsolable.

But only for a moment. There was nothing for it – I had to figure out how to get to Bay. I couldn’t just go to Bay with nothing – I was musician! That was what rushing was all about for me. I had to find an instrument – a drum. I think someone offered me a cowbell – I couldn’t take it (I had not so fond memories of my youth when Aunty Sonja and Mummy would make two of us share cowbells – each person with one cowbell. Back then I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t just let each of us have our own pair. Of course the cowbells were tied together with a long string, having each child hold one cowbell meant that we would never get separated!).

Than I remembered, I had brought an extra drum along because one of our friends had asked to borrow it. Problem was, it was an old time wooden drum, made from a cut off salt pork barrel. The thing was heavy! Whoever it was who was to borrow it said no thanks! and taken a whistle or a pair of cowbells from Sue.

So faced with waiting a year and totin’ the wood drum, it was a no-brainer. Of course heating up those wood drums take an age – I couldn’t ask the others to wait, they were ready to go. They went ahead, Margot stayed and waited for me. I can remember how grateful I was. I don’t think she realized how much it meant to me that she waited. For her it wasn’t a big deal to wait fifteen minutes. I didn’t know how it was going to turn out. Metal drums are much easier to get a good sound out. You really had to play wood drums, not just beat them. And the thing was really heavy. Anyway when the drum was warm, I stuck a cigar in my mouth a la Chippie and we set off. That was one of the best rushes I’ve had. That parade, beating that old wood drum, I really learned how to play drums. I don’t remember whether we hooked up with anyone we knew, probably did – we always did.

The thing is, for a junkanoo, whatever the stripe, the need to be on Bay is all consuming. In this we are united. Now when I see someone beating a burst of flat drum with the same passion as it were just off the fire, I understand a little better.

In the end, junkanoo’s not about costumes, it’s not about dancing, it’s not about the music even. When it comes down to it, junkanoo is about making it to Bay.