Barriers of Concrete and Traffic

Staying in my new London turf during Carnival is interesting. Venturing out to buy gnocchi becomes a cross between running an urban obstacle course and participating in an unfolding vision of English hoodoo. Even picking up Lebanese cucumbers at the store opposite the Portchester means navigating a liquid flood of Red Stripe fueled whistleblowers, sequin bikinis and emasculated policemen.

During the day a constant barrage of sound – all dueling sound systems clashes and Baron possessed crowds – interrupts the usual droning rhythm of the West Way. At night, The Specials manage to break through all barriers of concrete and traffic. I find myself dancing to a thousand watts of Bright Lights before Horace Panter’s bass is chased away the metallic bawl of police sirens.

If Carnival is a physical expression of the city’s fever dreams then we are due a future clash. Something has to give between the psychic control and colonization represented by Commissar Ken’s plans for and Tesco’s sponsorship of the event and the brooding spirit of Lord C.