Easter is a time of year when all Christians and persons of similar ethical and moral persuasion re-affirm their faith in a better world and renew their hopes for peace and prosperity.
Most of us have at one time been exposed to the teachings of Christ as recorded in their handbook, the holy Bible. Among us are many recovering Christians, comrades who leaned ideologically in that direction, saw the light of another calling and fell off the pew. They battle often with an inclination to revert, especially when particularly challenging trauma may enter their lives: hence the term - recovering Christians.
The latest psalms from the book of David, serialised in the newspapers, on talkshows, at Cossabos, at political rallies and in one instance at a strike camp, baffle, confuse, mystify and even steupsify us, causing us to suck our teeth. David, of old, it is indicated, wrote many of the psalms in the Bible. Did he play the lute too?
But the new version of King David mesmerises us more than those pole dancers at the Panorama semi finals on the Savannah Greens. One minute he is representing the modern Israelites to the Pharaoh Queen Cleokamla, by evening he is lustily raising a senatorial voice in praise of the same royalty. This is the guy who served notice that the Israelites planned to walk out on oil and by evening was taking his place at the table with those on whom he had served notice.
This is the comrade (?) who seeks to cement his tenuous relationship with workers whose tithes pay for his chariot and then mounts a platform to praise their oppressors. Maybe this last set of performances illustrated it best. At first, the commander in his other work place gave him an ultimatum to leave Cleokamla's political household. Yet today, when diva Marlene, mashing them up with a loud "prak-crash" decides to sign a contract with new management, but sing in the same political Villa Capri, King David of Abdul is the one rushing in to save the house.
He does not even have a nail. They gave that to a former boss on a (M)cloudy day; deliberately so that he would not see his way to defend workers, in and out his former union. (The man to admire in all this is a Rude boy representing Couva who rides these waves of chaos like a born pirogue).
At the end of the day, even his backup singers, the Mostly Sounding Jokey crew, must admit their choirmaster seriously lacks harmony. All 26 of them. Why go in a choir where you have one voice and then try to convince the audience that you help to write the songs?
Has Verna waited too long to send people directly to the madhouse?