Harry Belafonte’s songs are part of the soundtrack of Indian culture. That seems like an overstatement, but consider the evidence. The most famous, ‘Jamaica Farewell’, is a staple wherever there is live music and an audience of greyhairs. Especially at those dodgy Sunday buffets — and I’ve eaten enough of them across the country — where the singer will quickly assess the dining crowd and launch into it.
Everyone knows the words, the gentle rhythms soothe whatever angst we may be feeling and, almost like a waft of that sea breeze, lull us into a comfort zone. And even if you don’t know the words, you can’t miss the tune; there are at least two Bengali versions set to that tune and even one from Hindi cinema, ‘Do Chamakti Aankhon Mein’ from Detective (don’t worry, I didn’t know either till today).
Growing up in Kolkata, Belafonte was everywhere. Every family meet-up would feature some sort of singing, and at one point or another there would be a Belafonte song. At school and college fests. On the radio, especially the Sunday lunchtime programmes. At Christmas, with his version of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. But it wasn’t just Kolkata; he cast his spell over all the metros, as those hotel bands testify.
What was it about Belafonte?
What was it about his songs? In Kolkata, a city that has long venerated the underdog, and possibly elsewhere too, one huge plus was his politics: left of centre, very much part of the civil rights movement, a hero almost as much as Paul Robeson (whose ‘Old Man River’ probably edges ‘Jamaica Farewell’ in pan-India recall). His overtly “political” songs are not as famous, but then what is ‘Day-O’ if not political? A song about black people working the docks for the white man — a latter-day ‘Old Man River’.
Perhaps it was the humour. There’s plenty of it in the more raucous songs — ‘Man Smart, Woman Smarter’, ‘Jump in the line’, ‘Man Piaba’, ‘Matilda’ (especially when sung live, and the audience joins in at appropriate points) and, of course, the duet (best with singers Odetta or Miriam Makeba) ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’, where you know the punchline from the start but the delivery is what gets you chuckling anyway.
Perhaps it was the variety – love songs, calypsos, protest songs, the raucous and the downright bawdy; the full gamut from ‘Island in the Sun’ to ‘Angelina’. Something for all tastes, for all ages too. (Of course, some of it hasn’t aged well, in particular ‘Angelique-O’, about a wife/partner who hasn’t learnt the basic domestic tasks: “ Mama’s got to take you back/Teach you all the things you lack/When she sends you back to me/We’ll live together in harmony”.)
Faded but not forgotten
Without doubt, though, it was the voice. Molten honey in the slower songs like ‘Come Back Liza’ and ‘Danny Boy’; a nudge and a wink for the saucier lyrics; the palpable weariness in ‘Day-O’; unbridled joy to keep up with the brass and the percussion as the songs move up a beat or three. In every song, in every note he held, in every plea to the lover who’d run away or every celebration of her return, he brought the sunshine of the islands. Rum-and-coke in a two-minute melody.
Belafonte’s music has faded today — though there’s a direct link between ‘Day-O’ and the “ Ay-oh” chant made famous by Freddie Mercury and now used to liven up the crowds at cricket matches. But if the purpose of music is to soothe and calm, to excite and invigorate, to awaken the senses and open the eyes to the world around us, then any collection of Belafonte’s songs will cover all those bases. Farewell, Harry Belafonte, may the sailing ship take you safely to the other side.
The writer is a journalist living in Bengaluru.
