Jumbies are spirits - good, evil and otherwise - who inhabit the tales of Caribbean folklore. Called by different names on different islands, they perform a variety of roles. When I was a child growing up in Trinidad, the jumbie was a type of boogie man; it was used to frighten us and to keep us out of harm’s way. Jumbies are also employed as comedic devices in stories meant to pass the time, and for me and many others, they reflect the lingering sense of mystery about the natural world and all of the hidden forces that influence its course.

This album envisions a jukebox inhabited by one of these spirits, prompting it to send forth sounds from the various golden eras of West Indian music (filtered by the jumbie’s refining tastes, of course): from the cowbell accompanied chants of the late nineteenth century to the brooding minor key melodies of the 1930s; from the bright monophonic horns of the Post-War years to the rolling bass grooves of the early 1970s. And over this collision of sound comes a cacophony of voices – stories, images, ideas, remembrances – all seeking a way out through the circuitry of the haunted machine.

Jumbie in the Jukebox is the fruit of a meandering musical odyssey that passed back and forth between studios, living rooms and front porches in Port-of-Spain, Toronto, Montreal, Ottawa and the small town of Benque Viejo in Belize. Many ideas were gathered along the way and it has taken quite some time to sort through them, as the source of their inspiration – our scattered musical patrimony – is so vast and deep.

So while these songs offer a record of my own reflection and observation, I hope they may also serve as a small but heartfelt tribute to those spirits – both remembered and forgotten – who have gone before us and whose songs and sounds have never lost their power to enchant and engage.

- Drew Gonsalves

1) Kaiso NewscastIn Trinidad, calypso is nicknamed the “people’s newspaper”.

In its early years, its influence on the public mood was so potent that policemen would be dispatched to calypso tents to ensure that only

government-approved songs were sung. Indeed, over the past century no event of local or international significance has escaped being both

recounted and commented upon by a calypsonian. With an eye for controversy, an appetite for scandal, and a biting wit that lays

bare the uncomfortable truth of a matter, the calypsonian plays both the role of court fool – speaking truth in the

face of power – and megaphone, airing the concerns and protests of the common man.

If I had the choice I would chooseTo live back when calypso brought the newsIf I had the choice I would chooseTo live back when calypso brought the newsNo more reporters, no anchormenNo recorder, no pad and penNo nosy cameras to point and shootNo red ink to cross out the truth

ChorusThree cheers, three cheers AmericaI hear how allyuh catch a dictatorGone down in a hole to catch a mouseWhile a rat livin’ large in the white house

Kaiso don’t use jargon or doublespeakTo put the truth beyond your reachNo more big words to bus’ your brainEven the weatherman would be talking plainNo nonsense terms like gale and squallInstead you hear how wind pelting big tree and allAnd we don’t need no picture from outer spaceTo tell we what is going on in front we face

ChorusFlood, flood, flood in Port-of-SpainInvestment dollars falling down like rainRush, rush, everything has a priceIn Trinidad, petroleum paradiseTrinidad, petroleum paradise

Kaiso better than Fox News or CNNBecause calypso don’t pretendTo inform without commentOr separate fact from argumentIt don’t hide behind stats and figuresAnd admits its sources are gossip and rumourBut you will never hear how Bin Laden was seenLiming with Chavez down by the Muslimeen

This song describes a fictitious character, presumably homeless, known only by the day in which he makes his rounds as a bottle collector in a West Indian town. He is the victim of a mental illness, which has precipitated the dissolu-tion of his family and collapse of his fortunes. In a way, this song explores the ability of the “calypso voice”, often taunting and humorous, to recount a tragic narrative – in this case, the tale of one brought to ruin by an unraveled mind.

Mr. Monday has something to sayCannot get the time of dayMr. Monday has a story to tellSo he talking to himselfMr. Monday has something to say Cannot get the time of dayMr. Monday knows only too well

Every Monday he comes aroundPicking up bottles from off the groundBeating them with a spoon and he prancing to the soundEvery Monday he comes aroundSome say he mad, some say he’s just a clownEvery Monday he comes around

But it wasn’t so from the startHurt in the head or the heartNo one could sayOne day he just fell apartAnd loss followed upon lossWife and chile added to the costHe would bearNo one would share his crossThe man once wanted a home

So he went to the bank and he got a loanWhen his fortunes fell the bank turned him out to roamThe man only wanted a homeHe asked for bread and instead he got a stoneThe man only wanted a home

The following years were unkindThey tore and chipped away at his mindUntil the dayWhen he was put awayAnd no one came out to greet Him on the day he was releasedInto the street And the glare of day

2) Mr. Monday

Aiming up and down, pointing high and lowDigital camera shooting up the ghettoThey want snapshot sadness for the slideshowAnd to find it he’s willing to goTrenchtown by day, Cite Soleil by nightDown in the Beetham by the burst tire lightWith a wide-angle lens to catch every sightBefore he has to rush to catch his flightSnap, snap, getting high off the gap Between the have and the want, between the need and lackBetween the dirt and decay and the world waiting dey At the end of his holiday

ChorusHe’s looking for postcard povertyHe did not pay so much to seeThe same things he can see awayThe things that he sees every dayHe’s looking for postcard poverty A little change of sceneryHe does not want to be the sameAs the folks he knows away

Running up and down, looking to and froFor the cantina seen on the travel showGives the barman an extra pesoBackdrop, group shot, ‘cause he wants all to knowThat he’s down with the brothers in the barrioHe’s down with the brothers and not just a gringoWith time to kill and money to spendCome to slum down in the tenementBecause he feels he’s one of a kindA Vasco de Gama looking for the first timeAt a land unknown to his homebound friendsThat only he can explain to them

Beyond the walls, way off the beaten pathTo find the wood mask that she’s got to haveFinds the vendor, says she adores his craftThen tries to get the man to cut his price in halfA war or words and then a deal is madeA dollar saved just to tell how braveShe was to bargain down an old man with a bladeTo haggle like a native and then to get her wayNow the mask stares down from the wallMouth open wide to announce to allHow she once went down to the depths of hellFor a souvenir and a story to tell

3) Postcard PovertyThe encounter with the unfamiliar is a fun-damental part of the tourist experience: a sign to the traveller that he is really in a new and different place; that his journey has not been in vain. While many voyage to the shores of the Caribbean seeking clear blue waters and soft sandy beaches divorced from the communities and people they en-circle, there are still others who seek in the crumbling squalour of our tenements the exotic backdrop to their holiday adventures.

4) Half of the HousesWest Indians have always been a people on the move. It was not so long ago that we arrived to our islands from West Africa, Bihar, Madeira and Canton; and now we are off again to those great cities of the north where we are drawn by promises of new life and opportunity. I felt the extent of this emigration when I first returned to Trinidad and visited my old neighbourhood in Diego Martin. I had been living in Canada only six years, but in

that time most of the people in our neighbourhood had “gone foreign”, having moved away either to Toronto, New York,

London or Miami... I had gone home to find out that home, like me, had picked up and left.

Half of the houses on the street are emptyAll gone away to the land of plentyFollow the money trail On the aeroplaneFollow the money trailOn the bus and the trainFollow the money trail Through the snow and the rainFollow the money trail Through the loss and gain

Rosie runs a roti shack in PiccadillyRamsingh driving taxi in New York CityJoe has a bar down in ChicagoAnd I’m here in Toronto

Imran is a factory hand up in BrixtonSheldon runs a sweet stand down in WashingtonSherry lives quite in San FranciscoAnd I’m here in Toronto

But when we dream time and space collapseMemory brings us backTo those long lost hopes and forgotten joysThat we knew as young girls and boysAnd when we dream, the brightest greensFlood the world and fill the sceneWhen we dream towers of grey melt awayLeaving room for the light dayLeaving room for the light of day

In this city every mile holds a tale of exileMemories standing still while the years run on byFamilies holding on to long lost daysHolding on as memory fadesOn as memory fades

The moon shone brightly, nightlyCasting its shimmer, a glimmer, ever so slightlyDown the silent sleeping hallIt was all that I needed for a callThe night breeze was sprightlySeemed to invite meSo I tiptoed out ever so lightlyNo sound to announce that I was goneGone to find the place Where the pale moon shone Far out and aloneSurrounded by terrors which were all my ownBecause the night which cast its light and charm Did not intend any harmSoon the gentle light and embracing calmPut to flight any undue alarmAnd when I thought the night would be spent without incident I heard a rumbling in the firmament

And then I stood speechless and amazed Before a Face beyond praiseWho gazed down from his great beyondUpon the place where the pale moon shoneI lack the language to describeThe majesty which filled the skiesWhose gaze seemed to set the stars ablaze Making the night brighter than the day

I stood in wonder like a child A shadow in the rush of lightNot a stir, not a sound was heard But a Voice which covered all the worlds

It said.....

Love is stronger than death, more jealous than the graveLove is stronger than death, more jealous than the graveLove no flood can quench, nor raging torrent drownLove no flood can quench, nor raging torrent drown

In an instant all was goneThere was a distant moon where the near sun shoneGone was the Face that lit the black of spaceAll was back in its usual place

No sign to remind, nothing left behindNo souvenir of how I spent the timeAnd once more I was all aloneTo find my way home

5) The CallDrawing its inspiration and theme from the The Dark Night of the Soul, the classic poem by the 16th century Spanish saint Juan de la Cruz, this song tells of one who steals out under the cover of night to meet his beloved. As in the poem, the night is evoked as a symbol of mystery and unknowing: it is not a place of darkness and despair but rather a place where the pretensions of the rationalizing mind are suspended and one is left alone with the encounter of the One who is the end of all our seeking.

6) Joe the ParanoiacThis calypso relates the story of a man overwhelmed by fear and suspicion, for whom danger lurks around every corner and be-hind every false smile. Behind the intended humour of this tale is a thinly veiled commentary on the paranoia that gripped much of the world in the months and years immediately following the September 11th attacks.

Come let me tell you about my friend JoeHe spends all day sitting by the radioTell him to come out but he won’t goHe only waiting for the bomb to blowHe said some weapons missing and they don’t know where They went and one of them might be nuclearAnd unconfirmed reports have confirmed his fearsThat today is the day something go happen here

ChorusRing-a-ling ring-a-lingYou hear the sirens singRun for cover the wall and tremblingDong-a-long dong-a-longShout it through the townThe ground is shaking and the sky is falling down

They have a satellite watching above his headA next camera set up by his bedWhen he talks on the phone they know what he saidYou think all this would have the man upsetBut he says this he happily enduresBecause nothing else will help him sleep secureBut the whole while he feeling reassuredI feel that Joe is mistaking the disease for the cure.

You think Joe would have felt a fool When the bomb he found was just a plumber’s toolWhen the noise in the night was the neighbour’s muleThe training camp he reported was a Sunday schoolWhen the anthrax he took down to the police Turned out to be an old hunk of mouldy cheeseYou think this would put the man mind at easeBut he can smell a dirty bomb in a plate of rice and peas

Joe is sure that his neighbour SamuelBelongs to a sleeper cellAnd when he talks with Ramlogan in the roadHe feel he giving orders in a secret codeAnd if you hesitate to believe He will declare you and them to be in leagueAnd from then on watch your tailOr you might be going Guantanamo on a holiday

7) Diego MartinSpread across a valley in the north of Trinidad, Diego Martin is my hometown and the place of my fondest and most troubling memories. When my family and I emigrated, we left by boat to Venezuela and as we veered toward the South American mainland in the small hired fishing pirogue, the sight of the town van-ishing beneath the horizon made me feel like I was leaving a sinking Atlantis - a place that I would never see again...at least not in the same way.

My first memory Diego MartinWas the sight of youSunlight streaming over your mountainsAs dawn crept slowly, surely down your hillsEverything standing stillSave a restless child climbing the windowsill

Diego Martin, I rememberThe smell of sweetbread floating down from the cornerDiego Martin, I rememberHow the years slipped by and you grew smaller and smaller

My worst memory Diego MartinWas the fading sight of youOn that Monday morningAs you slipped slowly, surely from my viewTo remain from then onA distant point, beyond the horizon

Diego Martin, I rememberHow the sea, the land, the years grew wide between usDiego Martin, I rememberHow memory, like a bridge, stretched across the distance

8) Road to FyzabadFyzabad is a town in southern Trinidad that was the site of a massive labour uprising in 1937 which soon spread across the island and then throughout the British West In-dies. It was the first and last mass movement to transcend Trinidad’s deep racial and urban/rural divides, and it was eventually put down by the Royal Marines. Every year on Labour Day, workers, activists, and revelers gather in Fyz-abad - to the accompaniment of steelbands and fiery ora-tors - to remember the failed revolt and the moment of hope it promised.

Nineteen thirty-sevenThe story beganWith a crowd bouncing down the streets Of a town called FyzabadA leader arrestedA field set aflameOld order overgrown, power overthrownFuse finally blown

ChorusWe going down FyzabadFrom all over TrinidadWe going down FyzabadWhen things getting hardWe going down FyzabadRight back to the start

From country to cityThe wildfire spreadFrom cane field to factoryEverybody joined the feteWith bamboo and bottleProviding the beatPeople marching in the street, soldiers in defeatFreedom singin’ sweet

Brand new millenniumSame struggling landThere is a crowd bouncing the streets of a townStill called FyzabadRebellion delayedNow wildly on paradeAnd with a blast and crash from steelband and brassThey still chanting “they shall not pass”

9) The Trial of Henry MarshallThis song is written in the style of early kalenda, the call-and-re-sponse chant that accompanied the stick fighting art of the same name and which is the immediate antecedent of calypso. It was written a few years after the death penalty was reinstated in Trini-dad and relates the story of a fictitious character, Henry Marshall, who is innocently accused and sent to the gallows.

The people shouting, they bawling for murderMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeThe gavel pounding calling them to orderMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeMan in handcuffs pleads to the chargesMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeBut the trial is over before it is startedMade up their mind and they want to take his life

He did not stand a chance Convicted by circumstantial evidenceAnd hurried defenseHe could not bear the expense To maintain his innocenceToo poor to affordTo change the minds on the bench

Crowded courtroom impatiently waitingMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeJury in the back room deliberatingMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeAnd if you don’t know if their will acquit or convictMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeThe look on their faces would tell you the verdict Made up their mind and they want to take his life

Already sentenced by the pressThere was never any contestNo chance to debateThe facts of the caseBut the just outrage of the town Had rushed the case of the crownTo put out the flamesThey found a man to bear the blame

Whoever said justice was blind and impartialMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeNever went to the trial of young Henry MarshallMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeHe had no lyrics to woo and to sway herMade up their mind and they want to take his lifeNo gold to tip her scales in his favourMade up their mind and they want to take his life

When the hangman opened the doorAnd he vanished through the floorThe crowd started to roarThought they settled the scoreBlind to their transgressionInnocent blood on their hands They filed out the yardEveryone a murderer

10) Waiting by the SeaI wrote this song many years ago when I was a young and somewhat confused student in Ottawa, Canada. It was a time of shaken certainties and spiritual unrest, a time to reflect on the passing of youth and to wait in uncer-tainty for new hope and direction. It was also springtime and the rush of life and colour brought by the season lent its imagery and mood to these lines.

On a bright spring day near the approach of MayMy spirit leaped with the season and drew me awayFrom the comforts and pleasures and agoniesThat were familiar to meA brief repose or a final closeTo the years spent in emptiness, who knows?It was not the time for clarityIt was a season of resurrectionRestless I wandered like a once caged birdWho found the sky and finally heardHis song without the echoes of a cageAnd found it quite absurdSo seeking the solace of a greater seaI walked the coast to know my conditionBut it was not the time for clarityIt was a season of resurrection

ChorusWaiting by the seaFor history to pass me byWaiting by the seaFor memory just to leave me beWaiting by the seaWaiting ever patientlyWaiting there by the seaFor you

What a thing, what a thing, spring in full flingDespite the agony of the hour I was compelled to singA hymn to our victoryBut I could not help but clingTo the idle aims and futile games Of a dying city whose rising flamesPromised to light a brighter wayThan the fury of a summer’s dayBut every lamp was a lie, the city cold and dryCrowds of climbing towers rose to shut out the skyAnd every wall raised to keep back the seaKept all from being freeSee I fled these streets to meet the tideAnd I walk the coast to find my convictionsBut it was not the time for clarityIt was a season of resurrection

11) The War Between Is and OughtCalypso aficionados will immediately recognize the santimanitay melody, so beloved of early kaisonians, which forms the basis for this song. A whimsical tale about two feuding kings, it satirizes the unending ideological struggles that spilled so much blood over the past century.

Come friends and let me regaleYou with a strange and tragic taleAbout the long and cruel war foughtBetween the lands of Is and OughtNone knows how it beganThe strife which down the centuries ranBut all agreed across the divideIt was started by the other side

While the ambitious King of IsClaimed all land and sea as hisNo less a dominion was oughtBy the rival King of OughtIs claimed to maintain the realOught, to promote the idealAnd each rained fire down on field and townTo prove the other wrong

Is said “my rival OughtIs in hopeless delusion caught;Dreaming of things as they ought to beHe has lost his grip on realityHe would burn this world down without a traceWithout a thing to put in its placeLet him talk his talk about revolutionHe can’t say how it would be done.”

Ought then said “Is, I would have you knowIs a blind slave of the status quoHis claim to work with what really isOnly allows misery to persistHe charts and graphs amount to a lieThey never answer the question whyLet him talk his talk about trend and lawsBecause he cannot explain the cause.”

So war raged between can and shouldBetween what is and what is good,Where love and truth made common causeThey now sued for divorceNothing was left untouched by the frayAnd we will regret the rest of our daysHow the whole wide world was caughtIn the mad war between Is and Ought.

Tick-tock goes the clock on the wallThe knock on the door at the end of the hallThe key in the lock and the crash of the crownThen the creak of the box, cool cool in the ground

Tick tock goes the clock since the shock of the FallSince blood covered the rock and then the flood covered allAnd again when the waters that raged grew tameWe wept for what was left would never be the same

Tick tock goes the clock since the crime of CainIn vain we have tried to remove the stainTried to scale the heavens, call down the rainBut in the end we were content to pass on the blame

So black smoke rushes out like steam from a spoutAsh covered the ground, gas chokes the shoutAnd sea and salt cannot untie the cordsThat bound the hands that hate threw overboard

So deep beneath a noonday’s moonlike glowFar beneath the waves, bones nearly stoneAre lodged to reside waiting to be raisedBack up to the light on the last of days

ChorusStill over the bent world with bright wings Broods the Spirit that willeth, filleth all thingsMoves stars and atoms fills the span betweenThe world of sense and the vast unseenStill over the spent world the Spirit singsAcross the wasteland, hear the hosannas ring Out in the darkness he passes throughTo remake all things new

Tick tock goes the clock telling us the timeOh my, how the hours are passing byAnd on they race, they will not slow down the paceFor us, no we must keep up the chase

So let us go now, you and IBeneath the steel scraped, dome shaped skyWith unhurried feet let us walk these streetsLook close, take note of all you hear and see

Let us start at the plaza where words abound, surroundConfound, a thick cloud of empty soundsWhich falls a flash flood of verbs and nounsLeaving only pretense because the sense has drowned

Where words abstract are stackedWhere black is white and white is blackOr better yet, all is grey Like a cadaver where the life has bled away

Let us go to the market where greed ensnares With stock and shares, rates and fares, weights and taresWhere roads lead on to anywhereFortune, boom, bust, doom, despairWhere at the sound of the bell the hollow men yellTo put - hold - buy - sell – sellNo right and wrong, only means and endsAnd the only ends are dividends

Now let us go by the light of an angry starFollow the megaphone’s drone to the edge of a parkWhere the revolution howls like a wolf in the darkCan’t sleep, from the deep, moves swift like a sharkClimbing up the scent to the belly exposed Then flash, teeth slash and the jaws are closedThen the victim thrashes in his final throesAnd the sea turns red as a rose

Kingdom comeDrawn by the smell of the blood and chumKingdom comeDrunk on the drama of a martyrdom

When the bones’ picked clean until they gleamOthers fall to feed the frenzy of the new regimeBecause the revolution always eats its ownIt can unseat the king, it can’t uproot the throne Tick tock goes the clock until the toll of the bellBreaks the spell, cracks open the world like a shellSummons the dead to stand where they fellBetween the bliss of heaven and the abyss of hell

This is the junction between joy and compunctionWhere the laws of effect and cause start to functionThis is the Real, no higher court of appealThe time to make plain what had lain concealedAll reveal, to late to repeal, to recant, to repentWe had the time and now the time is spent

So ever descending, the all-transcendingThe never ending, whose reach is all-extendingCome to mend, come to rend, to blame, to reclaim Come to cast all down and raise it up again

Bridge The spirit full of love, from above, is fallingLike a dove, like a flame, like bomb explodingGentler than breeze, more clamorous than a stormWhat power won’t tremble when the Kingdom comes

This song is included on the assumption that every album needs to finish off with a long-winded apoca-lyptic diatribe peppered with muted trombones and allusions to dead English poets. T.S. Elliott, Gerard Man-ley Hopkins, Derek Walcott, Linton Kwesi Johnson and the Book of Revelations come crashing together in the lines of this song, which is as much about the present as it is about the end of history and the final consum-mation of all things.

12) Tick Tock Goes the Clock

Drew Gonsalves - lead vocals, electric and acoustic guitars, cuatro, bass, box drums, irons, bottles, shakas / Ronnie DesVignes - congas, vira (scratcher), backing vocals / Ivan Duran - electric guitar, bass, sound treatments / Francesco Emmanuel - electric guitar, back-ing vocals / Bayto Kahj (R.I.P.) - dudup, irons, backing vocals / Judith Lezama - backing vocals / Lyndon Livingstone - backing vocals / Tony Maestre - backing vocals / Robert Milicevic - drum kit / Jan Morgan - trombone, trumpet / Phil Nicholas - keyboards / Al Ovando - rhythm guitar, jaw bone, maya guitar / Rolando “Chichiman” Sosa - Garifuna drums, clave, shakas / Derek Thorne - congas, backing vocals / Michelle Walker - backing vocals / Linsey Wellman - bass clarinet

Produced and recorded by Ivan DuranAdditional engineering by Al Ovando

Studio assistants: Mike Zuniga, Eric Levine, Colin Petty, Derrick NoahMixed by Ivan Duran and Al Ovando at Stonetree Studios, Belize

Mastered by Lane Gibson at Lane Gibson Recording and Mastering, Charlotte, VT

All songs written and arranged by Drew Gonsalves (SOCAN)Additional arrangements by Ivan DuranPublished by Stonetree Music (BMI) and

Cumbancha Music Publishing (BMI)Recorded in Canada, Belize and Trinidad

Photographs of Drew Gonsalves by Paul WrightArchival Photographs from the Scott Henderson Collection

Jumbie in the Jukebox drawing by Alec DempsterGraphic Design: Timothy O’Malley and Jacob Edgar

An immense debt of gratitude is owed to Sophia Syed, Jacqueline Theri-ault, Mujeeb and Abbas Syed, Katia Paradis, Derek Andrews, Linda Turu, Eric de Fontenay, Sounni de Fontenay, Lyndon Livingstone, Christopher Balogh,

Gabriele Hosein, Kellylee Evans, Raul Li, Remie Geoffroi, Karam Debly, Bob Ramdhanie, Ann Mackeigan, Catherine Emmanuel, Sonia Arab, Dugg Simp-son, Sean Edwards, Phil Lafreniere, Jason Kernahan, Donna Yawching, Shaun

Escayg, Conrad Paris, Darin de Montbrun, Matt Galloway, Leighton Davis, Ken Stowar, Rick Simon, Sandy Kryznowski, Christopher Pinheiro, Michelle Walker, Karl-Heinz Fischer, Heather Daley, Burton Sankerali, Carol Bigwood, Rob Reid,

Yorrick Benoist, Wulf von Braedeker, Wim Westerveld, Gerald Seligman.

Special thanks to Jules Vazques, Ons Barnat, Jean Michel Gibert, Joan Duran, Samito Matsinhe, Scott Henderson, Chris Sorensen, Montserrat Casademunt

and everyone at Stonetree Records and Cumbancha.

We are particularly grateful for generous support provided along the way by the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, the Toronto Arts

Council, and the SOCAN Foundation.

This album is dedicated to the memory of Andrew Gonsalves, Bayto Kahj and Charlie Gillett.

Released in partnership with Cumbancha www.cumbancha.com© & p 2013 S t o n e t r e e R e c o r d s w w w. s t o n e t r e e r e c o r d s . c o m CMB-CD-25

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