THE EDITOR: I was a teenager when I first "discovered" BC Pires's weekly column. Back then it appeared in the Express. Without fanfare or pronouncement, it came, quite literally, to change the way that many wrote, spoke and saw the world.
I can no longer recall if this had come about before or after his "PR" stunt on Community Dateline. (He came on as an interviewee, purportedly an artist from Cuba, dodgy looking dreadlocks and all.) To a student of 15 or 16 then, his column represented the perfect mix of irreverence, wilful rebellion and critical thinking. It was refreshing to see printed the words of an erudite adult who wasn't bashful about asking the important raison d'etre questions. From government to God, no subject was off limits, even then.
One must appreciate that at that time, 40 years ago, TT was a far more conservative place than it is now. That his column was even allowed to come into being, let alone for it to be quoted, celebrated and imitated in a seemingly short span of time, is nothing short of a miracle.
It didn't happen in a vacuum, mind you. Some acknowledgement ought to be paid to those who came before him, most notably, in my estimation, Wayne Brown. But truth be told, BC embodied the spirit of the calypso tent more than the newsroom. He was a hybrid, in some sense, of Winston Bailey and HL Mencken.
His was a voice that my world needed. It inspired me to find my own voice and inner narrative. I may not have agreed with him on everything (his views on religion and God, for instance), but there were large expanses of common ground that we both shared. Music, movies, cricket, our paths crossed many times over the past five decades.
I still recall our first interaction. (I've often wondered if it had made any impact on him.) The scene: A Saturday night at the national stadium in Port of Spain in 1988. The occasion: The Miami Sound Machine concert. The action: David Rudder had just taken the stage and announced that we had permission to "mash up de place!" I in turn obliged and quickly alighted one of the many steel chairs on the stadium pitch.
Moments later, I felt a touch on my arm and turned around, and looked down. There he was, one of my idols, gesticulating not for me to climb down and unobstruct his view, but rather to share with him the contents of my faux deerskin wine pouch.
Starstruck, I happily and enthusiastically poured him a big drink of VAT 19 and lifted my own glass to him and took a sip of my own. I may or may not have acknowledged his importance to my evolving world view and thanked him then for his "work." I want to believe that I did.
The last time we crossed paths was just before covid19. It was my birthday, and he was walking a dog around the Queen’s Park Savannah. He was of course living in Barbados then, but he was here for an extended period of time. Long enough to take charge of the sweetest rescue dog and was actively searching for a home for him. (The dog, not BC). Such was his nature. Kind, generous and determined to make a difference in a world pop
