Filed under: Grand Bahama Goombay
In January of 2007, The Numero Group took a trip to Freeport, Bahamas to begin work on Cult Cargo: Grand Bahama Goombay. It had been a hellacious trip already with stops in Jacksonville to secure the Tap archive, Miami to grab a clutch of tapes that would make up the groundwork for The Outskirts Of Deep City, and a seven-hour “cruise” between Ft. Lauderdale and Freeport on what amounted to an ocean-borne municipal bus. Seasick, cold, and up 50 dollars on the roulette wheel, we disembarked.
Meeting us jovially at the port parking lot was Frank Penn, owner and operator of the GBI studio and label, himself a legend in Bahamian music annals. Wobbly with sea legs, we piled into his beat-up blue GMC-made 80s sedan of boat-like size and headed to GBI. A two story white stucco building on the outskirts of Freeport, the studio clung to its original sign, still hanging despite batterings by three Category 5 hurricanes. Inside, it was a completely different story. Gone were any traces of what it might have looked like in 1975, replaced by modern decor more reminiscent of a doctor’s waiting room than a custom studio. The A room had been converted into a church/TV studio as Penn adapted to the needs of his religious community. The tape archive was gone, long since flooded. It looked bleak until Frank pulled out a grip of 45s from the GBI and Penn’s labels.
We spent our first five hours on Grand Bahama just listening. The task was thick with dross, but buried under all that junkanoo and rake n’ scrape were enough great sides for a compilation. The first record that stuck out to us immediately was Cyril “Dry Bread” Ferguson’s “Gonna Build A Nation,” a sort of call to arms for Bahamians on the cusp of independence from the UK. We knew we had to find Dry Bread. Though most of the Bahamian musicians had migrated to Nassau, Ferguson stayed “in the bush” on the big island.
Cyril “Dry Bread” Ferguson, guitarist and native of Crooked Island, owes his nickname to his voracious appetite and his own humble beginnings. His work for GBI stemmed from an award he received from Frank Penn: Most Potential Artist at the inaugural Music Maker of the Year Awards in1972, a tradition Penn began in hopes of further invigorating public interest in Grand Bahama artists. Stunned by Ferguson’s performance of his original composition “Yamar,” Penn invited him to GBI to cut a record.
For some reason, we chose to leave this track off of Grand Bahama Goombay. The disc was pushing 74 minutes at 15 tracks, something had to go. Later we would find out that Phish had covered the song, but as our worlds don’t intersect that often, I’m not sure this would’ve been a strong selling point. Right now it seems like we should have tacked it on just so this guy would have had a few more hooks out in the world. It’s got a classic Caribbean sound, maybe too traditional for Cult Cargo, but Ferguson’s fret board massage is hard to resist.
Back at GBI, our home base, Penn kept humble and restrained in recounting his 70s exploits on the island’s music scene…at least until “Dry Bread” showed up later that day. Probably their competitive fire, still kindling after all those years, is what made their dual interview the most revealing we heard that weekend. Dry Bread, still in the game, called up memories of events Frank hadn’t mentioned, and vice versa. Frank’s old swagger crept back in; little disagreements flared up; histories were revised, though having these two guys in the room, you’d think no time had passed.
Our tour of Grand Bahama Island—made possible by a rented wreck British-market Japanese auto we could barely keep gassed and in the correct left lane—brought us eventually to the gutted remains of a “national park.” Tidal caves were promised and delivered, but we were the only souls about…luckily. Rickety rotted-wood scaffolds into the rocky pools would not have supported more live human weight. Twenty minutes later, we’d seen it all and taken our car past sea-worn graveyards and the stray dogs patrolling them.
Penn had set us up in a kitchenette room above the studio’s office, two slept on fold-out cots, one took cushions and the tile floor. Or would have, had a still incredibly enthusiastic Dry Bread Ferguson not talked us deep into the night, regaling us with tales of his 70s heyday as entertainer to both locals and the sandles-and-cocktails tourist set alike. Cyril had dressed smartly in suit and tie for the earlier interview, but this one found him in full Musician get-up. His “Words To My Song,” a side we’d heard for the first time only earlier that day, complained of writer’s block, but Cyril had no shortage of stories for us.
On April 9th, 2009, Cyril Ferguson died of diabetes-related complications at his home in Freeport. Though we only spent a few hours with him, his passion for music—especially Bahamian—was as loud as his wardrobe. He’ll be missed.
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