.png)
Reverberations from the floats and the sound systems have faded into memories and boarded windows of local businesses have come down. Litter is being cleared from the streets, portaloos deconstructed, and life has begun to return to normal in the Notting Hill area of West London. Despite this, the conversation surrounding carnival hangs in the air. As a Ghanaian British person, I try to listen as much as possible to discussions about the carnival because I don't think it's a time to take up space. However, I think that when so much of the discourse descends into Africans vs Caribbeans diaspora wars and racist dog whistles from the mainstream media, a more measured response from people with African heritage would be helpful.
(Photo by Dan Kitwood/Getty Images)
But that is not my only stake in the conversation. As you may know, if you have read some of my articles here, I have a super nerdy interest in tangible musical diasporic links and always manage to find some pretty funky connections. I am also an instrumentalist, and despite my principal study being keys, the first instrument I actually started playing was the Steel Pan at around the age of six or seven, which deeply informs so many aspects of my musicianship to this day. This connection makes Notting Hill Carnival so significant to me, and I find it fascinating.
A steel band playing at the Notting Hill Carnival, London, August 1994. (Photo by Steve Eason/Hulton Archive/Getty Images)
"Notting Hill Carnival is not just a street festival"
'Notting Hill Carnival is not just a street festival!'. This is one of many common critiques of the event. Perhaps a difficulty when a cultural export is able to exist without constant reference to its cultural origins. Simply put, it is possible (rightly or wrongly) to understand and engage with Notting Hill Carnival without fully understanding the various carnival cultures from the Caribbean islands. They are, to an extent, untethered. When a cultural export exists without constant reference to its artistic origins, it can be challenging to maintain its identity, which remains in the continual process of becoming. So, whilst a typical correction is that Carnival is a celebration of Caribbean culture, which I think is right, there is room for more nuance. The ongoing critiques about playing genres outside of calypso and soca on floats and hearing afrobeats at the event highlight that more dialogue is needed.
A return to the history and genesis of the carnival will help us understand its reasons for existence and have better conversations about who the event is for, what is reasonable to expect, and what it means to preserve its integrity.
In August of 1958, violent racist attacks ensued in the Notting Hill area. White residents in Notting Hill, grew increasingly more disgruntled with the growing Caribbean population in the area and their cultural presence represented in food, music, and recreation. The embers of this burning resentment were stoked by Far-Right groups who wanted black people to return to where they came from. This all came to a head on the last weekend in August in 1958. Every night of the last week in August, West Indian migrants who populated the area, had their homes attacked by a white supremacist mob known as the Teddy Boys, following a public argument on the street between a black man and his white girlfriend.
First hand accounts described 'hand to hand fighting' and 'blood-spilling', as West Indians from across London showed up to help support and defend black people in the area. Petrol bombs were thrown through the windows of black houses, many of which were houses of multiple occupation, with people sometimes sharing three or more to a bedroom and still being charged extortionate rent. It was out of this unconscionable violence that Notting Hill Carnival was born, and therefore, cannot be divorced from its origins as a reclamation of the public space in response to white supremacy. This history also adds context to the presence of Africans and African music in Notting Hill Carnival.
10th September 1958: White youth clash with British police during the Notting Hill race riots in London. (Photo by Express Newspapers/Getty Images)
There is something inherently Pan-African about diaspora, especially when it exists in colonial metropoles like England. Very quickly, geographical regions can become homogenised -- exemplified in sometimes useful but generalising references to "Caribbeans" or "Africans". Beyond this, people can be thrust into community with one another through their own 'other-isation'. For better or worse, a shared experience of racism, state violence, etc., will often place one in a direct and tangible relationship with others who have been treated in the same way. The violence and anti-Caribbean xenophobia that took place in Notting Hill in August of 1958 was a manifestation of a broader anti-Black racism.
In Ain't no Black in the Union Jack, Paul Gilroy describes a 'new racism' that emerged in Britain in the post-war twentieth century. This new racism synthesised ideas of patriotism, Englishness, Britishness, xenophobia, and gender, giving racism a new meaning. It can be said then that Notting Hill Carnival is a celebration and assertion of Black presence and culture in the UK through Caribbean culture.
In January of 1959, the first Caribbean Carnival was held in St Pancras Hall. This televised event was founded by Claudia Jones, a Trinidadian-born activist and founder of one of the earliest black publications, West Indian Gazette. After several successful annual Caribbean Carnivals in halls across London, the Notting Hill Carnival took to the streets in the summer of 1965. Since its inception, Notting Hill Carnival has always featured elements of carnival cultures from the Caribbean islands. Notable examples include, the introduction of the Panorama steel pan competition to carnival in 1978. This staple of Carnival in Trinidad, is part of the glue that bonds the steel pan to Carnival as its quintessential performance venue. In recent years, greater attention and discussion have also been drawn to the Jab Jab Mas character found in Carnival cultures in Grenada and other islands.
Trinidad-born journalist and activist Claudia Jones (1915 - 1964) at the offices of The West Indian Gazette (WIG) at 250 Brixton Road, Brixton, south London, 1962. Jones founded the newspaper in 1958 and was its editor until her death. (Photo by FPG/Archive Photos/Getty Images)
"Carnival is for Soca"
Another common, and perhaps more contentious, criticism of Notting Hill Carnival is that It should only contain soca music. I have also heard variations of this criticism that specifically ask for there to be no afrobeats at Carnival but seem to be okay with other non-soca genres. Though it can be easy to have an emotional response to these kinds of conversations stemming from trying to defend your right to exist somewhere, I get them.
The global reach of Jamaican culture is without question. Forget about reggae, jerk, and Bob Marley. If you didn't already know, all and every DJ culture, including Hip-Hop, comes from Jamaican sound-system culture (I'll speak about this in more detail at some point!). So, having such a cultural beast in your region may result in a certain kind of homogenisation or ignorance that can feel like erasure. All throughout the year it can be pretty difficult to go to a dance and hear soca, unless you go to a soca dance. So, for the other Caribbean islands where soca really is the ubiquitous music, the presence of soca can also be a way of feeling represented. In addition to this, soca, as a musical descendant of calypso, also has a relationship with Carnival and the street as the quintessential performance space. Arguably, unlike dancehall, which may have a closer relationship to the sound system or bashment party. However, at Notting Hill Carnival, I saw a kind of polyphony also related to space and movement, which I find fascinating.
Notting Hill Carnival, London, dancing in the streets to music from a sound system, August 1994. (Photo by Steve Eason/Hulton Archive/Getty Images)
Notting Hill Carnival is a combination of the perpetual movements of Carnival floats, bands, and people playing mas, and the stasis of the various sound systems. Floats occupy the main carnival route, moving through the area, whilst sound systems and their stages are often found in squares and side streets off the main route. Whilst some sound systems will remain true to the origins of the culture, many reflect the full breadth of sound-system descendent musical cultures. It wouldn't be Notting Hill Carnival if you didn't hear garage, grime, jungle, drum and bass, soulful house, dancehall, Hip-Hop, and UK Funky house -- which is also influenced by soca, amongst others. In the past, these kinds of stages and sound systems have hosted the likes of Jay-Z, Destiny's Child, Lil Kim, and Busta Rhymes.
Notting Hill Carnival is my favourite time of year. It feels like the last hurrah before the official end of summer. It also feels like a musical heartbeat in London again for a long weekend. We get a glimpse of days gone by when there were endless motives to choose from every weekend, and they were all reasonably good; no need to have an expensive private members club membership just to have a good night! When I think of the historical and political legacy of the event, it really is a testament to its founders and the culture that it has continued to bring so much light to the city. Carnival shows us that resistance can also take the form of reasserting your presence, and we have Caribbean culture to thank for showing us a unique way to do that.
Comments