From the moment you land at Heathrow, it’s impossible not to think about London in the context of the global city. The tarmac is littered with airplanes bearing the liveries of airlines worldwide. The brilliant cacophony of foreign tongues converges at immigration — from visitors and workers alike. When it comes to heading for central London, the level of infrastructure is staggering: subway, local train, or express train. Some American cities are lucky to have a bus.
The citadels of finance buttress the insane real estate pressure — every square inch of vacant land hotly coveted by developers — and a trenchant radical backlash. But Sassen’s analysis in The Global City is so powerful because it isn’t awed by the structures of transnational trade; rather, it coolly describes them, while incorporating the counterpoint: extreme disparities of wealth. It takes a vast underclass to serve and service the transient servants of global capitalism.
Thus is London the multicultural hub that makes it such a fascinating place to visit today. Quoth w&w, “what an amazing, creolized city.” I got my taste today at Brixton market. From Blacker Dread music store (and “reggae consultant” ! or so says the business card) to free-range jerk chicken to Bhangra Burgers to Black Hebrew street preachers to Halal butchers blasting dancehall to the ingredients for callaloo and Irish potato casserole (I made a fine creolized dinner if I say so myself). It’s no wonder Paul Gilroy theorized the Black Atlantic here.
My experience had a heavy Caribbean tilt, though it could just as easily be Desi/Bengali over in Brick Lane, or African, or Irish, or Chinese. But I’m on a West Indian vibe, since I flew all the way across the pond for essentially a long weekend to celebrate the second biggest street party in the world after the Carnaval in Rio with my gracious host and new London resident, Casi G of Flamin Hotz Records.
That party is Notting Hill Carnival, natch. 50 years strong and still reflecting “the heart of black London.” While “multicultural London” may be a selling point for the tourist bureau, the city definitely did not arrive at this mixed heritage so smoothly. It was a race riot that gave birth to the Carnival in the first place. Last year there were several stabbings, and I was warned even at airport immigration to be careful.
But that unruliness is a little exciting — this isn’t an event totally given over to commercial sponsorship and family-friendliness (though the first day is supposed to be more for the littles, as they say). It’s antithetical, perhaps, to the corporate structures that, through vast demographic and migratory forces, have made this event possible.
Likewise the pirate radio that has been on constant rotation since I got here, my trusty transistor proving that radio really is the most democratic medium. While heavyweight Rinse FM was blasting the UK funky to get us pumped for Saturday night, much of the daytime hours have me glued to Urban Love Radio: “Bashment, dancehall, and soul with a touch of funky and soca.” Some rulll lover’s rock on right now for the brunch hour.
Don’t want to get too lulled by the soundtrack, though, there are sound systems a-waiting! FWD >>> bacchanal. Catch you post-Carnival, mate.