Harry Belafonte was a big presence in my life growing up. No, I never met the legend. I first heard of him as a lad just three-foot-three, when my uncle sang a couple of his songs to regale my brother and me, and keep us occupied. I then found an old LP of some of his songs in my dad’s collection, and played it on an even older player. I listened to that LP every chance I got.
I sang along with Belafonte as he slipped into that inimitable, lilting “Me-say Day-ay-ay-o” before he went on to paint visceral images of large black tarantulas, back-breaking labour stacking bananas on boats, and escaping into a bottle of rum at the end of it. I felt bad for him when he sang about Matilda taking his five hundred dollars — and the money from selling his horse and cart — before running away to Venezuela. I paid heed as he explained why women were smarter than men in every way. His cockiness and cheekiness appealed to me.
I listened.
I learnt.
I learnt about Albert Einstein who Belafonte claimed told him about relativity. I learnt about Sigmund Freud, who Belafonte informed me, diagnosed him with neurotic sublimation. I learnt about the long walk of the Navajo and Colonel Christopher ‘Kit’ Carson’s role in it. I read up on the themes and characters he introduced, and the connotations of his songs. Most importantly, I learnt I could not carry a tune.
I listened to that LP so often it drove my mother up the wall. I listened to it till I scratched it, and could play it no longer (much to my mother’s quiet delight).
But I was not done with Harry Belafonte, nor he with me.
Other singers and composers came into my life. But his songs were always present in the background. They held a special sway over me. I have often turned to them when I was feeling happy, in the mood for a jig. They helped carry me through high school, and through graduation. I listened to him as I mooned over leaving one city for another, or sometimes when my heart was down and my head was turned around. I sang renditions of his songs as I sat around campfires with friends.
His songs were among the first I downloaded as I built a playlist on my phone. Years later, I played them for my son, and smiled as he waved his hands in time with the beats and giggled at “Mama look a Boo-Boo there”.
For sure, Harry Belafonte was a lot more than his songs. He was a crusader for equality and civil rights. He was a path-breaker and a trailblazer. He was an entertainer and a thought-provoker. He was outspoken and courageous, once describing former US President George W Bush as a “terrorist” for his stance on nuclear armament. Harry Belafonte was an icon.
Also read: Harry Belafonte, activist and entertainer, dies at 96
I admit, I didn’t think of him often. Sometimes I would catch his songs playing somewhere, and my mind would dredge up the lyrics. Sometimes my subconscious would decide I needed some fun, and I’d wake up with a song from his reportoire as an earworm. I’ve heard a fair bit of music in my life. I don’t remember the lyrics to any of those songs as clearly as I remember Belafonte’s.
When I read of his passing, I was sad. I felt like a part of my childhood had receded behind the veil with quiet finality. The King of Calypso will not jump in line and clap, snap his fingers and shout out to crowds anymore. But he will forever be one of my fondest childhood memories. He will be the string that draws me back in time, cocoons me in familiar comfort, and tugs me onwards saying, “Daylight come, an’ me wan’ go home.”
The angels in heaven are having a right royal Calypso party now. It’s their turn to experience a little bit of Island in the Sun.
I sang along with Belafonte as he slipped into that inimitable, lilting “Me-say Day-ay-ay-o” before he went on to paint visceral images of large black tarantulas, back-breaking labour stacking bananas on boats, and escaping into a bottle of rum at the end of it. I felt bad for him when he sang about Matilda taking his five hundred dollars — and the money from selling his horse and cart — before running away to Venezuela. I paid heed as he explained why women were smarter than men in every way. His cockiness and cheekiness appealed to me.
I listened.
I learnt.
I learnt about Albert Einstein who Belafonte claimed told him about relativity. I learnt about Sigmund Freud, who Belafonte informed me, diagnosed him with neurotic sublimation. I learnt about the long walk of the Navajo and Colonel Christopher ‘Kit’ Carson’s role in it. I read up on the themes and characters he introduced, and the connotations of his songs. Most importantly, I learnt I could not carry a tune.
I listened to that LP so often it drove my mother up the wall. I listened to it till I scratched it, and could play it no longer (much to my mother’s quiet delight).
But I was not done with Harry Belafonte, nor he with me.
Other singers and composers came into my life. But his songs were always present in the background. They held a special sway over me. I have often turned to them when I was feeling happy, in the mood for a jig. They helped carry me through high school, and through graduation. I listened to him as I mooned over leaving one city for another, or sometimes when my heart was down and my head was turned around. I sang renditions of his songs as I sat around campfires with friends.
His songs were among the first I downloaded as I built a playlist on my phone. Years later, I played them for my son, and smiled as he waved his hands in time with the beats and giggled at “Mama look a Boo-Boo there”.
For sure, Harry Belafonte was a lot more than his songs. He was a crusader for equality and civil rights. He was a path-breaker and a trailblazer. He was an entertainer and a thought-provoker. He was outspoken and courageous, once describing former US President George W Bush as a “terrorist” for his stance on nuclear armament. Harry Belafonte was an icon.
Also read: Harry Belafonte, activist and entertainer, dies at 96
I admit, I didn’t think of him often. Sometimes I would catch his songs playing somewhere, and my mind would dredge up the lyrics. Sometimes my subconscious would decide I needed some fun, and I’d wake up with a song from his reportoire as an earworm. I’ve heard a fair bit of music in my life. I don’t remember the lyrics to any of those songs as clearly as I remember Belafonte’s.
When I read of his passing, I was sad. I felt like a part of my childhood had receded behind the veil with quiet finality. The King of Calypso will not jump in line and clap, snap his fingers and shout out to crowds anymore. But he will forever be one of my fondest childhood memories. He will be the string that draws me back in time, cocoons me in familiar comfort, and tugs me onwards saying, “Daylight come, an’ me wan’ go home.”
The angels in heaven are having a right royal Calypso party now. It’s their turn to experience a little bit of Island in the Sun.
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