Winston Williams was a cut above the rest

My great grade-five teacher at Marlie Mount Primary and Infant School, Miss Briscoe, knew everything. That’s what I and every other student in the class believed. But her omniscience, definitely in my eyes, was shattered on the day when in making a reference she mentioned that The Mighty Sparrow was a Trinidadian. She never meant it in the sense that he was a Trinidadian citizen. She mentioned it in the sense that he was a born Trini.

My nine-yea- old self, not lacking confidence but still guarded given what I was about to say, raised my hand almost apologetically. When she fixed me with that trademark stare and said, “Yes, George?” I stood with a pained expression. I gave her a soft stare and said, “Miss, The Mighty Sparrow was not born in Trinidad and Tobago, he was born in Grenada and went to Trinidad as a little boy.” My comment disconnected the rest of the class from the conversation. There was no one to giggle or murmur and affirm my intervention. It was just me and this superb teacher who were left in what then became a private battle of facts about one of the greatest singers, songwriters and performers the region has ever seen.

She did what adults do to children like me. She dropped that scoff of superiority and told me I was wrong. I insisted I wasn’t. She again did what adults in that spot always do and trumped for age superiority, shading me with the fact that she had been listening to Sparrow from when she was my age and knew from then that he was a Trini, born and bred. I stood my ground. At this point her agitation at what she perhaps interpreted as my pre-insolence kicked in and she shut down the conversation. It happened on a Friday afternoon, maybe a half an hour before school was dismissed for the week.

On the following Monday morning after the class had settled her first act was to point at me and tell the class, “give this boy a clap”. The class stood and applauded. I wondered what for. Miss Briscoe said she had been so troubled by my refusal to bend in the conversation last Friday that she spent the weekend double checking what she knew to be true; that The Mighty Sparrow was a Trinidadian born and bred. She said she was mortified when she confirmed she was wrong. And that I was right. She asked me, gently, “How did you know that?” I grinned and told her I heard it one day last week when I was listening to Winston Williams on RJR. For good measure I threw in a question, asking her if she knew the great man’s real name. She said no. Grinning again, I told her, “Slinger Francisco”. She smiled and I made her question irrelevant by volunteering that I heard that as well from Winston Williams. That was one of my greatest triumphs over a teacher in my formal schooling history.

NEVER MET

Winston Williams is the hero I never met. He was a man’s man, an announcer’s announcer. And a boy’s living, breathing encyclopaedia. Jamaica has been blessed with excellent announcers, broadcasters and journalists. In and out of his pomp, nobody was crisper, sharper or more precise in their enunciation or elocution than Winston Williams. Very few have even come close to his marriage of showmanship and professionalism behind a microphone. Usually the showman has technical or intellectual weaknesses that he masks with the razzle dazzle. And the ultra professional can sound almost manufactured. Mechanical. Winston Williams made the twain meet, effortlessly. He was to broadcasting what Michael Holding was to fast bowling; smooth and high class. And there was nothing meretricious about him. He was highly intelligent and came to his radio shows to teach his audience. Little boys like me lapped up what he said, using what I heard to pose questions to my peers who were never married to the radio like I was and so couldn’t possibly know the things that Winston taught me.

There were several outstanding students in that grade-five class. People who distinguished themselves at the secondary and tertiary levels and who are at the apex of some of the world’s celebrated professions today. The best among us was Diana English, a beautiful girl with a sweet temperament. She was a tomboy who played football better than most boys in all of grade five and who could outrun almost all of us. She was prodigiously gifted in academics and could answer every question asked, whether it be on the test paper or in the cut and thrust of class work. You know how children are, quick to anoint a peer as something special. Diana was the real deal and was regarded intellectually as otherworldly. I couldn’t abide by that. I had to show she didn’t know everything. And although Winston was unaware, I plotted with him to at least show that Diana wasn’t invulnerable. Winston had a staple segment on his afternoon show on RJR called ‘A-B-C’. He would explain that ‘A-B-C’ meant artistes for betterment and culture.

One day I gathered a small audience, went to Diana and confidently popped the question, “Do you know what ABC means?” She appeared baffled. I went in for the kill. I turned to my audience and said, “See, she doesn’t know everything after all”. I revelled in reeling off the meaning of the abbreviation and grinned when the definition left her looking even more perplexed. Notwithstanding the fact that it was grossly unfair to ask anyone that question who didn’t listen to the radio religiously, as I did, Winston Williams helped me prove that if even for a split second the light of our Supernova could be dimmed.

OUGHT TO BE BRIGHT

People like Winston made me feel that the people on ‘the radio and the TV’ ought to be bright. For how else can your audience benefit? He was also the one who made me realise that being bright is only a part of it. He made me accept that the greatest asset a broadcaster can have is personality. The man had it in spades. I would listen to his ‘Live Till Five’ show on RJR, Monday to Friday. And then on Saturday mornings, before the day got real serious and I had to invest all my energies into listening to the broadcast of horse racing from Caymanas Park, I always marvelled at a station promo, done by the great man, for his hugely popular show, ‘Rockhouse’….

“.......My name is Winston, the Conscious One in Kingston…..on the Rockhouse

Jamaican radio Saturday morning music sensation………

The Rockhouse is a Workhouse….”

I will never forget Winston Williams. And how he had the world of broadcasting under his whip. May he wax lyrical and rhyme his days away for the pleasure of those lucky enough to share his company in the afterlife. Selah.

George Davis is deputy executive editor and producer at Nationwide News Network.