 |
Screeeech! Ah, the sound
of that preverbal needle ripping away from a wax disc. In a kind of
Otis Day reversal of fortune and pigmentation, there's nothing like
a happy bunch of islanders walking into their local haunt, only to
find a table full of drunken, lily-white kids screaming over their
favorite calypso tune. Ja, man! But, as the Island attitude goes,
said folks take the inebriated interlopers in stride and start gettin'
down to the sounds of Jamaica and wherever else the beers flow free
and jobs are not so easy to come by. Soon the caucasoids, with their
lack of style and grace, begin to realize that this place has turned
into a real party, and the head-bobbing begins in earnest. Never have
they seen a group of people so at ease and so damn happy. Isn't this
the rotten apple? Aren't we supposed to be bitter drones? Not at the
Cafe Creole, where, despite the subterranean locale, even the white
dude in the tie can for one night fight to keep the smile off his
face, the Carribe out of his glass and the wonderful spirit of the
islands out of his heart. [MF]
|