West Indian culture is a sweet mix of languages, food, architecture and music. Oh, how those people love their music … and we do, too. Everywhere it fills the air, booming from houses and shops, spilling out of cars and buses. Reggae from the king, Bob Marley, is more popular than ever, but the make-you-wanna-dance tunes might just as likely be calypso, soca or part of the new generation genres of ska, dancehall, zouk and rock steady. Whichever style, whatever the song, it will make your toes tap, your hips whine, your face beam.

Jamaica is the capital of Caribbean music, so it’s no surprise to find the majority of super stars are from there. Yet each island in the region boasts its own legends and rising stars. Some climb the ranks through local calypso competitions; others get their start headlining at hotels and nightspots. Tiny Anguilla has Sprocka, The Mighty Springer and the talented pan player, Dumpa. But the fellow who put Anguilla on the musical map is one of their own favorite sons, Bankie Banx.

Bankie’s journey to stardom began as a child in church. And when that small boy who loved to sing grew tall, he put together a band and hit the road. Through the 80s they performed in Europe, the States and throughout the Caribbean. A set of circumstances brought them back to Anguilla, where, like the title of their song, they were “Stuck in Paradise.”


Years ago, while anchored off the Sandy Ground beach, we would hear Bankie’s voice, backed by whomever was available, playing at one of the local bars. His distinguishably deep, almost raspy voice sang the stories he’d written of his journey-filled life. In 1990 he launched Moonsplash, an annual show held on the full moon of March. Back then, the venue was tiny, uninhabited Sandy Island. The scene would start late in the day as local boats ran back and forth at high speed, ferrying drinks, food and giant speakers. Passengers didn’t bother boarding until 10 or 11 p.m. No use getting there early for a late-night show that rarely got started until the roosters began to crow.

A few years later, Bankie moved the ever growing extravaganza to The Dune Preserve, a large piece of property on Rendezvous Bay. On the beach, he, Bullet (a local boat builder) and many other Anguillans began constructing a series of structures that defied the laws of architecture and building codes. Much of it was put together using old wooden race
boats. Unfortunately, they didn’t get far before hurricanes huffed and puffed and blew it all away. No problem, mon. They started again and what we find there today is an artistic, eclectic, tree house sort of place that makes everyone who visits grin ear to ear. One old race boat is the bar. Another, flipped upside down, is the crown at the entrance gate. Boats, masts and booms are everywhere, with nooks and crannies in between, pieced together from driftwood and scraps.

This winter, The Dune added a restaurant to their bar, serving lunches six days a week and featuring music three nights. Sunday afternoons, jazz musicians play and you just never know who from the crowd might join them. We were there on one of those dreamy
days, reconnecting with Bankie after a decade away. During the “how ya been” conversation, someone came up with the idea to have Bruce paint a mural on one of the permanent structures before this year’s Moonsplash. The site was chosen, the wood prepped and they both agreed the mural should be an amped-up rendition of the view before them. Bruce got to work the next day and spent a week creating a sky and sea scene, with a set of boats racing past The Dune, shells, turtles, swimming guests, Bankie’s guitar and a handful of other Anguillan treasures. At the same time, a crew led by Bullet added onto the place, bit by chunk.

On Thursday, the first of the four days of Moonsplash, we were at
The Dune and surprised to see men pouring cement at the entrance. All around us saws and hammers flashed in the hot sun. I looked at Bruce and commented, “Callin’ it close, aren’t they?” Around the bar at 3 p.m., guests were waiting for the noon performance to begin. People new to the island looked at their watches, wondering if Anguilla was on Mountain Time. It had to be noon somewhere, right?

Friday, it was a similar scene, until just hours before the first major performance Bullet drove the final nail and announced, “Mon, dat it. I’m finish. Let’s get a drink!”

That night, Tarrus Riley sang the song that’s been sweeping the Caribbean, “She’s Royal.” We didn’t make it to the concert, but we could imagine the ladies melting into a love-struck puddle. His performance lasted until 2 a.m. and that’s when the problem began …

A few months ago, the Anguillan police started cracking down on late-night noise. They went from bar to bar to restaurant, declaring that amplified music must stop by 1 a.m. That didn’t set well with the locals, because late-night music, as loud as you can make it, is a tradition on the island and no one wanted it to change … except, apparently, the person who complained. Shutting off the music in bars was one thing, but asking Tarrus Riley to end his performance early, in front of an audience of several thousand … well, that was asking for trouble.

Saturday at Moonsplash is “Legends Night,” and this year’s featured group was one of my favorites, Steel Pulse. Bruce, who would be boat racing the next morning, opted for sleep. I snagged a ride with some friends from Ohio -- Moonsplash veterans who know just about everyone and their cousins on the island. We pulled up to the gate around 10:30 p.m., but found only three cars ahead of us and a handful of people inside. We started wondering if it had been cancelled, then quickly realized we were way too early. That’s when we placed bets on how late the show, with four groups set to play, would roll.

At 11:30 p.m., Anguilla’s own Kinaya took the stage and got the growing crowd infested with dance fever. They were followed by Masud Sadiki, a high-spirited collection of musicians from St. Kitts. Bankie Banx and many of his original group, The Roots and Herbs, came next. In between each performance, a DJ played a collection of hot tunes, while the sound system on stage was rearranged. As he allowed one song to segue to the next, he boomed into the mike, “Moooonspaaaash!” and everyone would look anxiously to the empty stage.

Finally, around 2:45 a.m., the lead singer from Steel Pulse, David
Hinds, led the group on stage and the crowd went ballistic. With wild dreadlocks flying, he started the show and the band’s enthusiastic dancing, jumping and stomping had everyone in the audience doing the same.

At 4:15 a.m. they were beginning their encore song, when the sound diminished to a whisper. I looked around, thinking I’d gone deaf. I saw Bankie standing at the sound board and heard him say into a microphone, “Respect! Have some respect! This is Moonsplash. Let us finish this song.” The police had somehow defused the amplification in an effort to stop the show, which at that point was like a freight train rolling out of control downhill. Bullet, who had been minding his own business dancing near the sound bank, was hauled into the fray by Bankie. Several policemen and Bankie were exchanging heated words, but the only ones we heard came from the mike. “Her Majesty’s police force, have some respect!”

The stunned crowd watched as Steel Pulse left the stage, replaced by Bankie, followed by a member of the Royal Anguillan Police. Bankie, still in command of the mike, began a litany with, “Arrest me tomorrow. Don’t arrest me tonight. Please, this is Moonsplash. Arrest me tomorrow. Not tonight!”

When he reached the center of the stage, his sister and emcee, Dr. Linda Banks, joined in with arms flying and a verbal assault on the officer. “Moonsplash pays your salary! Let us finish. This is the biggest event on the island!” Several thousand witnesses stood ready to watch someone get belted, but instead, the police officer left the stage, Bankie and Linda stepped aside and Steel Pulse returned for the final song. The chaos was a hard act to follow, but they once again fired up that crazy crowd to a full boil.

When they left the stage at 4:30 a.m., their highly amplified music was replaced again by the DJ, and his was even louder. For some reason, as the crowd dispersed, it blared on, keeping the neighbors at the CuisinArt Hotel awake long past 5 a.m. Maybe the police gave up or maybe they just knew … tradition trumps all.

It wasn’t the end of the story. Days later the head of the police issued several statements. It was the talk of the town and will have no end, because if there’s one thing West Indians love, almost as much as their music, it’s debate and discussion. And just like their music, they like it loud and late.

Jan