Calypso is, and has always been, the voice of the people, not the pulpit of the privileged. It was not born in boardrooms, adjudication manuals, or within the contemplations of lifelong partisanship. It was born in rebellion, against plantation masters, social injustice, and yes, political hypocrisy. Whether under Labour, UWP, or any party, calypso’s job is not to seek validation from those in power, but to provoke discomfort in power itself.

The writer’s deep affiliation with the Saint Lucia Labour Party and references to “growing up Labour” are revealing, not because they invalidate the argument, but because they frame calypso through a partisan lens, even while claiming to critique political interference. This raises a crucial contradiction: Can one truly call for artistic independence while filtering that call through the emotional loyalties of political identity?

To be clear: figureheads, ministers, and political elites do not grant calypso its power, nor can they take it away. The calypsonian does not report to government officials or cultural gatekeepers. They report to the street, to the grassroots, to the people at the bus stop, in the bars, in the villages, and on the block. The writer references judges’ criteria and recommends reforms, which are important technical discussions but misses a larger truth: calypso must never be tamed by structure at the expense of soul.

It is not the presence of a prime minister that should concern us, but the attempt to reframe criticism of political interference as a threat to the institution, rather than the preservation of its purpose. The real threat is not one political shirt or the next. It’s the idea that cultural expression must bend itself to the expectations of authority figures, even well-meaning ones.

Furthermore, citing calypsonians like “Kakal” and others should not be viewed with apprehension, but as evidence that the tradition is alive and well, that artists are doing their job. Let them speak. Let the crowd decide. Let the judges be secondary to the pulse of the people, which has always been the real scorekeeper.

To critique the politics of calypso is valid. But to do so while lamenting the very rowdiness and rawness that define its power, heckling, satire, and public challenge, is to misunderstand its roots. Calypso was never meant to be polite. It is not hymn; it is hammer.

No party, no minister, no self-proclaimed cultural custodian can dictate its tempo. Because Calypso does not bow. It bounces, it bites, it banters, it bruises, and that is why it survives.

So yes, let there be transparency. Yes, let judges be trained and competitions be fair. But let us never pretend that Calypso’s ultimate judge is anyone but the people. The stage belongs to the singer. The mic belongs to the movement. And the rhythm belongs to the road.

Let us protect calypso not by gentrifying it with good intentions, but by trusting its most sacred truth: it is the people’s news, not the politician’s narrative.

By: Caribbean Writers