| 1 Ghetto Grooves by inobe delghetto “For one, we all didn’t grow up in the ghetto. And even if you did, there’s more to ghetto life than just violence and sex and getting money – there’s a lot of beauty in the community aspect of it…Most people I know don’t want to glorify ghetto life – ain’t nobody happy to have to sell dope and most people don’t wanna talk about killing people and violence. As my father used to say, even gangster dudes go to church.” - Common Moving into the ‘hood has been a learning experience to say the least. Biting my lower lip and resisting the impulse to mutter with fascination “I see black people…” , to enjoying the ease that beef patties are found at the local depanneur. I relish having almost every passerby wish me a good day or night - leaving me dumbfounded as to whether they’re a member of my extended family that I had forgotten about or whether I truly knew them or not – with a classic “ ‘ello young man!” Besides that, I like to watch. No. I’m not a peeping Tom -nor any other kind of “Tom” for that matter. Just acknowledging the fact that I’ve always been an observer, trying to piece together the world around me with its infinite quirks and contradictions. Growing up in a modest, arguably typical, Caribbean home, personal interests and youthful choices dictated the path of my life. This led to a constant association with the proverbial other. Now, with an insight into how we are at times seen, I’m left with the dubious position of ally, adversary, or an unknown factor x - from either community. Straight up? Too black for some, not black enough for others. |
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From 2003 to 2004, Inobe had a monthly column, Ghetto Grooves, in the Caribbean News in Montreal.
These are the openings of some of the articles. More of the complete series of articles
is available on his site.
Inobe also worked for Soul Call on CJNT Montreal from 2001 to 2008, producing weekly interviews for his
segment Soul Patrol.
| 2 Ghetto Grooves Thank God for Max’s Hair Studio by inobe delghetto Paris. Barcelona. Granada. Seville. Cadiz. Nerja. Madrid. Figures. Brussels. Berlin. Paris…again.. London. Amsterdam *sigh* No, you’re not confusing this with the SKY BWOY! Claudy Philius – Caribbean Camera’s other new columnist; friends and I have returned from gallivanting all over Europe so I intend to share some groovy ghetto insights with y’all over the next couple of weeks. Yet, as the title suggests: Thank God…truly…for Max’s Hair studio.Now, this isn’t a shameless plug - unless you plan to be in London, England, specifically the Fulham area anytime soon.You see, my hair – at that time - was being maintained by Marika and the other lovely ladies of Whispers Salon. (Now that plug was shameless.) Meanwhile, my grooming was in the hands of Gregory Gordon and the gents of the same salon. After two months of back-packing across numerous European cities – well let’s just say Marika could have corn-rowed my face. I looked rotten, or as my Haitian mommy would say “Oh-Oh! Vagabond!” A fond Fulham friend known to me as Big Daddy (don’t ask…really…) took one look at me as I arrived at his doorstep and casually said: “Umm…’nobesy? You need to go see Max.” “Max?” “Max.” So I did. Entering the nearby hair salon, I was immediately bombarded by the jovial laughter, friendly ribbing, and bickering banter among the strong black men that worked there. |
| 3 Ghetto Grooves Because we can… by inobe delghetto As I continued on my European adventures, we finally hit Germany – Berlin, Germany - to be specific and to be honest? I was apprehensive. Unlike other European countries where I can at least decipher some iota of what’s being said to me, in Berlin, I was at a total loss. But it wasn’t only that. This was *Germany*. What little I knew of this country was more bad than good. Yet upon arriving, there was an intrigue to this country that was bracketed between historic beauty and historic regret. Right, so why was I there? Berlin holds a yearly party aptly named the LOVE PARADE. Over one million strong, dancing in decadent celebration to music most parents would call noise. And anybody who even remotely knows me can support my next statement. I simple did what I do best. It was time to party! Armed with an open mind, loving heart, good friends Lydia and Karl and my bottle of water, we plunged ourselves into the chaotic musical melee. So of course I stood out. Being black in a sea of white was hardly a new situation for me and trust me I’ll be saying this for a long time to come: welcome to every day of my life…But the most interesting thing happened. The sprinkling of black people that were present were very adamant in acknowledging me by either waving or giving me the nod (C’mon you all know the nod….) “Did that guy just say hi to you,” Lydia stammered bewildered. “Yeah. I think so.” “Do you know him?” “Lydia…” I said. “We’re in Berlin. Umm No.” “But…Oh. Right.” “Oh my god, another one ’Allo mon frere!” mocked Karlito. “Inobe what’s going on?” I simply smiled. “Waitaminute! That girl just gave you the nod. I didn’t get the nod. You got the nod. The nod!” |
| 4 Ghetto Grooves Who the ?!@# is Mary Jane? by inobe delghetto Though this may be my last European anecdote for a while, it was a trip I enjoyed thoroughly as I shared new sights and sounds with close friends while new ones were made. It was not my first jaunt across the pond, nor will it be my last, yet with each trip I always wondered: How will I be received? How would people react? How would I react? Would my “blackness” be a factor? What of the fact we were three backpacking brats?When in Barcelona, a sun kissed Karlito said it best: “They’re all worried about you here!” It was true. With the populace ranging from white to black and all the browns in between, I stood out less there than I do here at home. Paris was a larger, yet distorted Montreal. The few black Germans I met made it a point to say ‘Hello’ whereas the other Germans seemed more fascinated than anything else. When lost in Brussels, all I had to do was ask the stranger on the train - who was still mon frere. Gustave practically took us to our destination himself. And Scotland…heh...heh…it didn’t take long before I was lovingly known as the chocolate chap from Canada. Refreshing was all I can say about meeting my brothers and sisters within the Diaspora. And to others, I was relieved, when my blackness was no more that an incidental fact. However, the universe is all about balance, and as much as I enjoyed this acceptance, certain generalizations unfortunately remain the same. I’ll be honest. I’m not as street smart as I used to be - the local Burgundy kids have jedi-mind tricked me more than once (I’m so on to you now kids…) and at times…okay most times, I need a swift kick in the head. |
| 5 Ghetto Grooves …Twice the pain, half the gain by inobe delghetto “Aaaaaarrrrrgghhh!!!” “What’s wrong with you?” ”They did it again!” “Who?” “They!” “Care to elaborate?” Quickly he hands me the latest fashion magazine: Local black designer wows them again! The reviews from the latest fashion extravaganza were in and my designer-friend was not exactly flattered. “This is bad news?” Then it finally dawned on me. He wasn’t a designer. He was a black designer.We’ve all heard of the lady doctor and the male nurse. Professions that have been so gender defined throughout the years that we need a subjective prefix to make sure people really understand what we mean. That, with language being the formation of thought, leads me to ask: What exactly is going on here? What happens when we start using racial prefixes? But before I get started on that white hip-hop artist… Let’s get back to the black designer. |
| 6 Ghetto Grooves How’s your Johnson? by inobe delghetto Now before I bombard you with some friendly group-speak, some definitions are in order: johnson: [slang; noun] your token white friend who doesn’t emulate you. all worried: [slang; adverb] - not in any way, shape, or form disturbed or out of place in a given situation. Being the only black person at any given function is pretty much a snapshot of my life. You know…the school party…the art show…the office get-together? That said, I always wondered how it felt for my not so black brothers & sisters when the situation was reversed and they find themselves caught up in all black spaces & situations. Awkward. Apprehensive. Uncomfortable. Uneasy. These are but a few words that quickly come to mind and at times have been privately voiced. But there’s a subset of that group that friends and I lovingly refer to as our…well…johnsons. These are the few that seem so ridiculously at ease when not surrounded by their own majority, they’ve become intriguing themselves. According to gospel of my good friend Miki, every black person has a johnson. However, these particular folk aren’t hip-hopping all over the place, breaking out in pseudo-ebonics, nor are they pushing a fake Miss Cleo™ patois. A johnson is simply there, being his everyday North American white t-shirt, grey sweater self. A johnson is all worried when he is with his friends, regardless of who they are or where they may be. He’s the one your mom calls ‘son’. |
| 7 Ghetto Grooves I don’t get mad anymore… by inobe delghetto “Let’s not even discuss it,” Ugo snapped as the cab drove right past us. Oh? Don’t be surprised. We weren’t. It’s pretty much the standard modus operandi whenever Ugo and I embark in one of our scandalous “nights on the town.” Fresh dressed, like a million bucks, and stylin’ with the best of them, Ugo was a twenty something urban professional. Aside from working by day for a non-governmental organization, he was also one of our city’s upcoming djs and stylists. All of that and still can’t get a cab. Slowly we walked in silence toward our first destination, hopeful to catch the next cab that went our way. Unknown thoughts were stifled as we simultaneously broke out in a hearty laugh. “Ah.” Ugo sighed aloud. ”Yep…Yep…Yep.” “I know. I know. I know.” I don’t even get mad anymore, because I know deep down inside: everyone’s got a cab story. So here we were, two young black adults headed for a night out. If truth be told, it was more a series of duty appearances, weak-held promises of attending a different event in support of friends and acquaintances. Suddenly we saw a cab. Ugo grinned brightly. “Yea’ this brother will take us.” We entered the warm cab. (side note: summer for Caribbeans only starts late July.) |
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The most recent Press Release for Inobe Productions' Coco Cafe.
| For immediate release inobe productions presents B’Ugo’s Boudoir at Parking Lounge Saturdays Montreal, October 21th, 2004 – Come feel bodacious at B’Ugo’s Boudoir - the new weekly event hosted by Karlitolove and inobe delghetto. Every Saturday at the PARKING LOUNGE (1285 Amherst), join dj B’UGO for a night of diva’ electro beats.With a signature dirty deep disco sound, he turns heads with a mix of everything from deep house to minimal techno, and latin-fused tribal to heavy Chicago funk. Variety is King in B’Ugo’s head. He plays but keeps a strong focus that brings it all together into one solid wall of sound. B’Ugo pushes the new sound of House music. That’s the type of music this dj likes and shares with the dancing people. Before deciding that it was time to dj, B'Ugo truly was a child of the night. Living in clubs and after-hours, wearing outfits that would have scared even infamous party monster, Michael Alig, he forged, in those 5 years spent in the dark, the worlds he depicts and illustrates through music. He’s now a formidable dj in his own right with an impressive list of bookings and former residencies. You can catch BUGO every Wednesday on his weekly radio show on www.netmusique.com and in person at this latest evolution, the Boudoir…B’Ugo’s Boudoir featuring Dj B’Ugo Parking Lounge 1285 Amherst No Cover. just come and Drink |
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The Boudoir was one of this dj's first permanent events.
| For immediate release inobe productions presents dj lil’dave at Parking Night Club Thursday, October 28thMontreal, October 21th, 2004 – Welcome to Aural Sessions - the new weekly event hosted by inobe delghetto and Granville Miller. Every Thursday at the party club phenomena known to all as PARKING NIGHTCLUB, join new chill-room resident dj lil’ dave as he takes to the decks for an intimate night of soulful classics, deep sounds and many musical surprises.Dj lil’ dave - the young man with an old soul - possesses a passion for music that belies his age. Aside from producing audio and music for the CBC and other commercial material, dj lil dave wants to share his love for deep and soulful music. Aural Sessions - an intimate night for the open and like-minded. Come get aurally fixated. Aural Sessions featuring dj lil’ dave Parking Night Club Cover: ??? |
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Another press release for a successful inobe event.
| Exceptional on common grounds
Not yet thirty, tall, trendy and talented, his art reflects the beauties and wonders of the five continents. Easy to picture at the rail of a great yacht or on a slick motorbike rather than in a kitchen, he’s roamed across land and oceans on a quest for inspiration. Fifteen years on a journey to learn and absorb the culinary art and culture of every destination. Visiting Europe North to South, naturally, the great piers of America, the West Indies, Australia coast to coast, Thailand and Malaysia, all the while participating in the creation of extraordinary gastronomic experiences, each and everyone more exquisite than the last in the respect of traditions and the perfect harmony of tastes and colors. His art is unique, remarkably balanced and innovative. Possessing profound knowledge of the basic elements of his profession, Sébastien Houle is driven by his curiosity to invent and rearrange life on a plate like an artist paints on a canvas. He has been in markets around the world, questioned producers, cooked in families, exchanged recipes with grandmothers and great chefs alike. His cooking is an international adventure that knows no boundaries. It is not a trend, but a way of life in which the extraordinary and the instinctive come together in all choices of the menu at his restaurant in Mont-Tremblant. |
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The opening of a bio page for a successful chef at Tremblant, Sébastien Houle.
| Montreal’s Underworld By Eliane M. Smith Island Dreams: Montreal Writers of the Fantastic, edited by Claude Lalumiere, Vehicule Press, 2003, 226 pages. If you are a Buffy watching, Mezzanine listening, Vendeta reading individual, you will enjoy this book. While cruising the net for some alternative Montreal literature, I weeded through the usual mainstream publishing sites about the latest prize-winning authors and similar overexposed themes. Eventually, however, came across a site that tweaked my interest. Although promoted by the Montreal powerhouse, Vehicule press, Island Dreams: Montreal Writers of the Fantastic (edited by Claude Lalumiere) promised to be out of the ordinary. So I hit the bookstore and picked up a copy. Though definitely not the latest John Grisham novel, the cover seemed a bit conservative. But, while reading the back, I became convinced that this anthology presented a very interesting part of the Montreal literary scene. Back home, I flipped through the twelve short stories, not sure where to begin. Having just finished watching the 26-hour Buffy marathon on Space, I was itching for some similar action. “Burning Day”, by Glenn Grant started off with the kind of scene I was looking for. Immediately, I was enveloped by the vivid imagery that reminded me of some of the graphic novels I used to read. Grant described a crime scenes investigation unit made up of cogents, robots, and humans. I was intrigued. When Grant included some terrorist propaganda, full of scare tactics, about intolerance to the new machine race, I thought – how timely. Completely satisfied with the story, and pleased with myself for having discovered such an exciting book, I moved on. |
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An excerpt from Montreal Entertainment Magazine. The full article in pdf is here.
| Montreal Crumbles by James Warne One Day Even Trevi will Crumble, Neale McDevitt, 2003, 165 pages. Pulled quote: She was a little crazy too, liked being slapped around and treated like shit. Neale McDevitt’s first collection of short stories, One Day Even Trevi will Crumble, is divided into two parts. The first, “The McVie Chronicles”, looks at Notre-Dame-de-Grâce through the eyes of a single character. The second is a miscellany of other stories. Binding both parts of the book together is McDevitt’s style. Eloquently written and well-crafted one would, however, expect these stories to be presented at a writer’s workshop rather than published. McDevitt’s N.D.G. is not the gentrified edge of Westmount but rather a harder, working- class N.D.G. populated by characters seemingly left behind by the rest of society. Take for example, “Barry the Dog Boy whose mind-bending combination of Tourette’s and multiple personality disorder has blessed him with the alarming ability to bark like fifteen species of dogs.” Or Zeke, the former “shit-hot high-school baseball star” who became a plumber and proud father. McVie himself attempts to establish himself as another of these lost souls rooted in nothing but the place itself, looking for nothing more than a little company and comfort at the end of the day.Less well drawn are sex and women. Take for example the character Kimmy in the story “Fragile birds”, she is little more than an “ass” on which to write poetry. Or “Anger on the Outskirts of Arcadia” in the second part of the book. The woman in this story is never given a name, she is simply a woman that the narrator chose on a personals line. The story starts with, “She was fat. I mean really fat. With huge hanging tits and a monstrous, dimpled, bulbous arse. She was a little crazy too, liked being slapped around and treated like shit.” Sex is also little more than a description of body parts and an occasional anecdotal listing of acts performed thrown in to make it all more interesting. McDevitt’s writing is, undeniably, good but, it lacks when describing emotion or using metaphor. |
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An excerpt from Montreal Entertainment Magazine. The full article in pdf is here.