It’s 4 am in the city that never sleeps. I’m writing this here in New York, as the dawn is breaking with a summer storm and the lightning cracks and thunder ripples through murky skies.
The heat is stifling despite heavy rain through the night, and the Long Island Rail Road trains clatter past the back of the house at regular intervals.
Through the open window I’m looking over lawns of houses with white picket fences—some have the stars and stripes flying from their front porches. Quaint mailboxes on the lawns bring back memories of the Paperboy computer game. Garages, barbecue sets, basketball hoops in the yard—all the quintessential material culture of American suburbia.
I’m staying in deepest Queens in a neighbourhood called Laurelton that’s mostly African-American and has a large Caribbean expat population.
On our first morning we visited Trinciti Roti Shop in the neighbouring suburb, Jamaica, where the queues are long, the doubles are amazing and the mild chaos and abundant Trini accents make you feel like you’re back on the island.
A huge poster of Machel Montano on the wall advertised his concert in July and there were flyers for a boat party on board the Princess Charmaine setting sail from Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, at midnight.
If all that wasn’t Trini enough, we went to a panyard in the evening. I say panyard, it’s really just a backyard with a marquee for liming and a converted garage. God knows what the neighbours must say about the noise. This was the official home of Pan Ivory in Rosedale, Queens.
New York has held its own Panorama competition since 1972 with bands like Despers USA, Pantonic and Sonatas dominating over the years. And Pan Ivory is the cultural association that develops, supports and teaches pan stateside.
The “ivory” name apparently refers to a 1969 recording by a band called Pan Am Jet North Stars accompanying the Trinidadian pianist, Winifred Atwell.
“(The record) created history in black and white,” writes filmmaker Dalton Narine on the Pan Ivory We site. “Yet, like an Earl Lovelace novel, it exists in colour.”
Navigating the mazy grid of roads through Queens, I watched the street signs until we found 243rd St and 135th, right in the flight path of low-flying jets heading for JFK airport.
The sartorial elegance that greeted us was a sight for sore eyes: Elder statesmen Trinis in pleated trousers, hats and suede shoes.
The band, much younger in years, sounded sweet. Curried chicken was being sold for the fund-raising event and a makeshift bar serving rum made a small fortune.
In the first few days, my first New York experience has had a very Trinidadian flavour, but I’ve also had a little bite of the bigger apple out there.
On Sunday night we caught the last concert of the Brooklyn Northside Festival in the birthplace of hipsters, Williamsburg.
In a large, shabby, outdoor concrete space called The Inlet, overlooking the East River with views of the lit-up Empire State Building and run-down gas holders, we watched the ultra-cool, very brilliant hip-hop duo Run The Jewels.
Killer Mike and El-P enjoyed themselves as the skies burst and summer rain began to fall as soon as the opening beats of their self-titled anthem ripped across the city.
Brooklyn-born El-P was particularly hyped and emotional as he told the crowd that the show was “basically the culmination of my childhood dreams.”
I don’t know what the NYC kids were taking but we saw three of them hit the deck in the course of the evening.
A big guy fainted and fell backwards right in front of us and we helped him get up and be carried away. Later as we watched three kids chug their beers a boy suddenly pushed past hauling his semi-conscious girlfriend through the crowd, her heels limply dragging across the floor. Moments later a pale-faced boy propped up on friends’ shoulders made his way to the medical tent where another chap was having both hands bandaged.
The beers on sale weren’t even full-size, let alone British-sized pints. I can only imagine recreational laughing gas (nitrous oxide in balloons) a festival staple, but soon to be illegal, was to blame.
As the rain fell harder and the set ended, the crowd dispersed jubilant and buzzing.
We ended up in a bar showing the NBA Finals and Women’s World Cup. All eyes were glued to the Golden State Warriors but we found the France v Colombia women’s game transfixing.
Outside, it bucketed down like rainy season in Trinidad. We needed this—in the sticky humidity I had begun to feel like Spike Lee’s pizza delivery boy in Do The Right Thing.
I thought of the De Niro quote in Taxi Driver: “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets…All the animals come out at night—whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers…I take people to the Bronx, Brooklyn, I take ’em to Harlem. I don’t care.”
Who knows what Travis Bickle would have made of those neighbourhoods in 2015.
I have two more weeks here and I want to explore all the boroughs like Bickle, but without the Mohican and weapons arsenal.
If I see any skunk pussies, faithful readers, you’ll be the first to know.