My earliest memories of the Notting Hill carnival are of being mildly irritated. In its 1960s infancy, the event was strictly a Caribbean affair, transplanted to Ladbroke Grove as authentically as was practical. Its purpose was as obvious as its origins: giving Caribbean arrivals a chance to celebrate themselves by bringing the vibrancy of the home they left behind to these drab streets for a couple of days.
Vital as this was – and it really was – it didn’t cut much ice with surly 10- or 11-year-olds like me, being dragged around behind parading steelbands. Yes, it was great to see so many Black people out in the open together and your mums and dads laughing and having a good time, but did we need to be here? There was football to be played and bikes to be ridden, yet so many of us were being forced to walk for what seemed like miles following “old people music”.
Then as the 1970s got under way, everything changed. The London sound systems that had been establishing themselves over the previous few years – Coxsone Outernational, Jah Shaka, 6X6, Sufferah HiFi, TWJ and so on – assumed a growing presence at carnival, under the flyover or on the street. They were operated by men and women not much older than us, who understood how the post-Windrush generation defined their Blackness as they came of age in London and how, although roots and heritage were always important, we didn’t need to simply recreate the Caribbean.
The sound systems played the same choice of music we heard at dances and parties or in our own record collections, so we could find the reggae, the lovers rock, the soul and funk that soundtracked our lives right there set up outside accommodating pubs, caffs or people’s front doors. The big plus point was the sound systems were static, meaning if you weren’t dropping some foot you could stand around with your hands in your pockets, always a teenager’s default setting. Indeed the only walking you were obliged to do would be if the music wasn’t up to it or there weren’t enough people – ie women – at that particular sound, so you’d find another one.
This might involve a bit of float-following, but, then again, it might not. Refreshment was never a problem. Some Kentucky or a kebab when we were gathering at Turnpike Lane station, then load up with “supplies” before leaving, thus avoiding the so-called “carnival tax” temporarily inflating prices in Notting Hill off-licences.
Our drinks of choice usually involved pre-mixing dark rum or Bacardi with Coca-Cola, or vodka with orange juice; beer was too heavy to lug around until they started selling it in those four packs held together with plastic rings. You’d drink a can, undo your belt, thread it through the empty ring and you were away. Some guys, more hardcore than me, would hang a pack off each hip then swagger round like a western gunslinger. (At this year’s Arsenal victory parade my son turned up with an insulated backpack containing rum, mixer, beer and ice that didn’t melt over the course of six hours, and I thought: “Wow!
Extract — continue reading at the source.
