Harry Belafonte, the man who more than anyone brought calypso to the masses, died in April. His 1956 alum, titled simply Calypso, was the first LP to sell a million copies—and that is only the first million it sold. To say the music had mass appeal is an understatement; anyone who dreamt of warmth or rest, or boat drinks at the end of the day could enjoy that groove. For those who wanted to dig deeper there was a whole culture to explore.
Belafonte by no means introduced the music though, there were already a few calypso stars, particularly in New York with its large West Indian immigrant community. Beyond calypso, dreams of an island paradise had been circulating among cold weather Yanks since the annexation of Hawaii at the dawn of recorded sound. Cuba still had legal booze during prohibition and in the postwar years was a tropical paradise within reach of a growing middle class. Waves of rhythmic fads with Carribean or Latin origins washed up on the mainland as the 20th century progressed. Those waves haven’t really stopped to this day, but there is a 1950s moment when music met a certain aesthetic of umbrella drinks, summer clothes, and dancing by the pool, that positive energy of being delightfully tacky, has solidified in the public mind. It is that moment frozen in time that Charlie Halloran and his Tropicales capture so well.
In New Orleans, the northernmost city of the
