Tracing Calypso Currents: Diaspora Styles, Stories, and Sounds—Kaiso Dial makes the connection.
Let’s talk about Benna. It's not wine or rhythm, but a musical style that once dominated the streets and villages of Antigua and Barbuda. If you’ve never heard of it, don’t worry—you’re not alone. Benna doesn’t get the spotlight that calypso or Soca does, but it absolutely deserves a seat at the table. Benna, the Antiguan precursor to calypso, is renowned for its scandalous gossip and social commentary.
Benna is what happens when music becomes the community’s newspaper, its courtroom, and its comedy club—all rolled into one. It’s a genre built on gossip, call-and-response, and razor-sharp wit. Think of it as Calypso’s older cousin who never learned to hold back.
In the past, before the advent of radio and social media, Benna served as the primary source for people to share gossip. A singer would belt out a line—maybe about a politician’s latest scandal or a neighbor’s romantic escapades—and the crowd would respond, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with knowing nods. It was interactive, it was raw, and it was deeply rooted in resistance.
Benna thrived in the post-emancipation era, when enslaved Africans and their descendants used music to speak truth to power. It was often performed a cappella or with minimal percussion, which meant the lyrics had to carry the weight. And oh, did they carry it. The songs were bold, sometimes bawdy, and always clever.
One of the most fascinating things about Benna is how it blurred the line between entertainment and information. It wasn’t just about rhythm—it was about revelation. Artists like John Quarkoo used Benna to challenge colonial rule and expose injustice, sometimes risking jail time for their words. That’s the kind of lyrical bravery that laid the foundation for calypso’s picong tradition.
Even literature couldn’t ignore Benna. In Jamaica Kincaid’s short story Girl, Benna is referenced as something a young woman shouldn’t sing in church—because it was too spicy, too real, too much. That tells you everything you need to know about its cultural power.
Today, Benna isn’t as prominent as it once was. Trinidadian calypso and Soca took center stage across the region. But its spirit lives on—in the sharp lyrics of calypso monarchs, in the call-and-response of Carnival chants, and in every Caribbean artist who dares to say what others won’t.
Addendum:
After reading this, you may wonder why Trinidad is credited as the creator of calypso, considering that Benna predates it and their similarities are significant. I wondered the same thing because, in essence, Benna is calypso’s cousin—similar DNA, different upbringing.
The explanation is clear: Trinidad is credited with creating calypso because it formalized and popularized the genre through Carnival, recording, and lyrical evolution, while Benna remained a localized oral tradition in Antigua. The difference lies in scale, structure, and historical development.
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