Orville W. Taylor
We don't have no snow, we don't have no sleigh, but fun we do have, in Christmas JA. So run and come, to sea and sun, it's Christmas JA. Snow and sleet, you'll never meet, in Christmas JA.
On Tuesday last, I declared for the final time on air this year, that the above cited song by broadcasting legend Neville Willoughby was my all-time favourite Christmas carol.
By now, readers know that I have a bias towards things that are ethnically Jamaican and have constantly parodied the Euro-American version of Yuletide, with an overweight, porcine Caucasian, clad in a red sauna suit, dragged behind creatures that look like large horse/goat hybrids with tree branches on their heads.
As an ethnically-conscious African descendant in a country with a more than 90 per cent black population, the image of a white Christmas is also repugnant.
Jingle Bells might suit Bruce Golding and his dreams of being in Jamaica House for Christmas. (Maybe Portia will invite him for dinner and remember to leave a seat for him this time.) However, any presentation of Christmas for me must comprise Jamaican food; puddn, cyake, sarril, 'am (yes dat too!), white lime, gungoo rice and peas, jonkunoo and poinsettia.
The Pointsettia
This plant, named after Joel Poinsett, America's first ambassador to Mexico, was introduced into the United States after he 'discovered' them in Taxco, Mexico, in 1825. The pointsettia, is politically correct with red and green leaves, the original colours of Jamaica's main political parties.
Nonetheless, the most important aspect of Christmas for me is the transmission of Jamaican pictures and voices. This is why this is one of the saddest Christmases in my entire life.
Most of who have fallen off the calendar recall the clear, crisp voice of Neville braving the limited-capacity speakers in battery transistor radios. He sliced through the air, delivering soul, inspiration, information and entertainment from rediffusion sets perched like intercom boxes in corners inside tenement houses. In the early days, Radio Jamaica and Redifussion (RJR) was the only station that one could hear from that apparatus.
Hooked on RJR
My generation grew up hooked on RJR and the iconic voices - Alan Magnus, Henry Stennett, Don Topping, Phillip Jackson, Dotty Dean, Marie Garth, Erica Allen, Norma Brown, Ralston McKenzie (who gave me an audition 26 years ago and never called me back), and of course, Neville 'The Devil' Willoughby. Neville was radio and radio was Neville, the man with the clean, soft voice that didn't scare us like the messo-baritone of Radcliffe Butler or Charles Lewin.
Neville's biography is a well-woven tapestry of achievements; Prime Minister's Medal, Musgrave Bronze and the Order of Distinction among others.
Beginning his career at RJR in 1960, he went to the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) then moved to the rival, but never competitive, Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation (JBC), only to return to his genesis in the early 1970s, where he remained until the end of his shift on Tuesday.
Down-to-earth
Anyone can read a résumé outlining all his achievements and his travels. However, nothing substitutes for the deep insight one obtains from regularly associating with this quiet giant. All his present and erstwhile colleagues describe him as affable, humble, unassuming, respectful, compassionate, down-to-earth and a lexicon of positive adjectives. He never cast a bad comment about anyone. However, nothing in any dictionary fits him well enough.
Being the scientist, I like speaking from the vantage point of proof, experience or evidence. Well, I have to ask nobody about Uncle Neville because he welcomed me with open arms when I entered Studio Three at RJR for the first time to do Hotline in May 2005. This larger-than-life figure, who my nephew destroyed a radio trying to find him inside years ago, started telling me how honoured he was to meet me and that he was an avid reader of this column.
Huh? How can a sophomore columnist honour a historic day-to-day radio icon? But he didn't stop there. He complimented, he smiled, patted on the shoulders and asked each day, "You all right?" If the response was too quick, he would follow up with a trailing inquiry, "What?" or "Eh?" He genuinely wanted to know. Then, when there was a commercial playing, he would get water, bring two cups, smile and shake his head at my dry pun when I would say, "I didn't ask fa cup!"
Brilliant man
This was a brilliant man who would discuss the subtleties of my 'corny jokes' that he got from this column or the talk show and then laugh graciously. On Tuesday, he cracked up over my unfunny joke about Jesus being nailed to a plus sign.
Some time after leaving RJR on that fateful evening, he was involved in a collision only a few minutes from his home. The voice of the elder statesman of Jamaican broadcasting was silenced forever.
His death hit me almost as hard as the impact of the vehicle that took him from us because we both ended our duties on the Hotline at 2:00 p.m. and completed our pleasantries. Being studio engineer on this programme was his last official duties.
Neville, each Monday you tell me that you read this column. I wrote this one for you. I am sure, given your patience and attentiveness, you will find the time to read it as you greet the angels.
Thanks, Uncle Nev. I'll always miss you.
Dr. Orville Taylor is senior lecturer in the Department of Sociology, Psychology and Social Work at the University of the West Indies, Mona.
