On the eve of Calypso Fiesta, which is taking place today at Skinner Park, San Fernando, the Trinbago Unified Calypsonians’ Organisation (TUCO) issued a statement reaffirming its apolitical stance and denouncing any attempt to portray the event as politically aligned. While TUCO has every right to safeguard the integrity of its flagship show, the timing and framing of this declaration raise important and uncomfortable questions about whether such a position aligns with the historical essence of calypso itself.
Calypso is not merely entertainment. It never was.
From its earliest origins, calypso functioned as one of this country’s most potent tools of social and political expression. Rooted in West African griot traditions, calypso emerged during slavery as a means for the oppressed to preserve their memories, share information, critique authority, and maintain their cultural identity. At a time when enslaved Africans were denied literacy, public voice and political participation, song became speech. To separate calypso from political consciousness is to separate it from the very conditions that created it.
By the early 20th century, calypso had evolved into what many historians and cultural scholars describe as the “poor man’s newspaper.” Calypsonians chronicled issues that were often ignored or suppressed — police brutality, labour struggles, colonial injustice, corruption and social inequality. They were commentators, journalists and public intellectuals wrapped in rhythm and wit.
The colonial authorities understood calypso’s influence and feared it. Lyrics were censored, performers were banned and songs were blocked from airplay. Yet, rather than retreat, calypsonians sharpened their craft through satire, double entendre and picong. Suppression did not silence calypso. It refined it.
Following Independence in 1962, calypsonians began interrogating local political leadership, broken national promises, widening class divides and abuses of state power. Icons such as the Mighty Sparrow, Chalkdust, Shadow, Kitchener and Valentino built legendary careers precisely because they were willing to confront authority, regardless of who held it.
Against this backdrop, TUCO’s insistence that it is apolitical invites scrutiny. An organisation may understandably seek neutrality to maintain institutional credibility and inclusivity. However, neutrality at the administrative level should not risk being interpreted as neutrality within the artform itself. Calypso is designed to provoke, question and, at times, discomfort those in authority.
The timing of TUCO’s statement is also notable. Issued immediately ahead of one of the season’s most influential calypso showcases, it inevitably invites speculation about whether it is pre-emptive caution, reputational safeguarding or a response to specific performances or public discourse. Without clear context, the declaration risks being interpreted by some as an attempt — even unintentionally — to temper the political sharpness that has long defined calypso’s voice.
Calypso Fiesta has historically been more than a competition. Audiences expect to hear melodies that celebrate culture, but they also anticipate lyrics that interrogate society’s truths. That tension is not a flaw in calypso; it is its lifeblood.
TUCO is correct in emphasising unity, inclusivity and artistic excellence. These principles are essential to the survival of the artform. But calypso’s greatest legacy lies in its refusal to be sanitised or silenced. Its enduring relevance stems from its courage to speak where others hesitate.
The real question, therefore, is not whether TUCO should remain institutionally apolitical. Rather, it is whether calypso can ever truly be separated from politics without losing the very soul that has sustained it for generations.
