By Danielle Swain
danielle@newsroom.gy
Seawall on a Sunday night, the place to be – if you have a taste for loud music and cold drinks, between Camp Street and the Kitty Roundabout. It’s a weekly ritual, a ‘lime’ so bustling that the sound of rival boom boxes clashes in mid-air. The basslines race along the salty Atlantic shore, muddied by the Amazon, rattling louvre windows as though inviting you outside.
Martei Korley captures the essence of the Georgetown Seawall lime for the diaspora culture website LargeUp in 2016. (Martei Korley/LargeUp)
Join the crowds, and you’ll find them perched on fortifications built by the Dutch in the late 1800s, walls raised through the labour of enslaved Africans. Around you, frosty bottles clink. Vendors display an ingenious Guyanese twist on mobile refrigeration: once-seaworthy fridges transformed into rolling beverage carts, loaded with salt bags of ice.
Aromas from frying pans set on kerosene stoves and grills fashioned from halved oil drums swirl through the night air. Those who aren’t leaning against cars or shopping for ‘gun oil’ and barbecue huddle around makeshift bars tacked together from shipping containers, tarpaulins, or battered plywood. In Guyana, the line between ruin and resource has long blurred—no item is too old, too humble, or too unusual to be repurposed.
Martei Korley showcases the beauty of Guyanese ingenuity at the Georgetown Seawall lime for the diaspora culture website LargeUp in 2016. (Martei Korley/LargeUp)
One recent Sunday, though, February 16 to be exact, the Seawall revelry included more than the usual swirl of music and smoke: it hosted the second annual Dancehall Monarch Competition, set on a small stage adjacent to the 1823 Monument. Dedicated to commemorating one of the largest revolts by enslaved Africans in the Caribbean, the monument served as both a literal and symbolic reminder that resistance runs deep in these parts—and, as many claim, in dancehall itself.
On February 16, the Dancehall Monarch Competition drew a lively crowd near the 1823 Monument on the Georgetown Seawall (Keno George/DPI)
Dancehall, the once-marginalized “ghetto” music of Jamaica, now thrives in Guyana, propelled by booming sound systems and a younger generation hungry for new ways to party and protest. This year’s competition—scheduled on an overcast night to net passersby—crowned a new king: Carlvin Burnette, a charismatic performer best known until now as a top Soca artist. His decision to enter the ring triggered scepticism among dancehall diehards. But once he launched into his set—featuring “Dip Low,” a track some found suspiciously soca-like—he silenced the doubters with a freestyle toasted in true Dancehall style. In a memorable turn, he brought a coffin onstage, signifying the burial of any competition that dared stand in his path.
A history of resistance
Burnette’s victory unseated Clifford “Alabama” Charles, last year’s inaugural winner. Alabama’s “Bad Mind” earned him second place, tied with Emmanuel James, known as Lil Saint, who electrified the crowd with his song “Pakoo.” Meanwhile, a formidable new presence—Yolanda “Crenity” Gittens—claimed fourth, the only woman among the top contenders. Hers was a Patra-inspired performance, blending old-school reggae rhythms with a Lady Saw–style freestyle that teased a jolting kind of feminine power.
Yolanda “Crenity” Gittens—claimed fourth, the only woman contender to earn a cash prize. (Keno George/DPI)
Even as the crowd applauded, one can recall how, not so long ago, the very mention of a “Dancehall Monarch” competition in the annual Mashramani festival was met with outrage. Online debates flared, with some describing dancehall as “lawless.” Others asked whether it truly belonged in a celebration that many associate with calypso, steel pan, and soca. Their arguments echo the controversies that have trailed the genre since its birth in Jamaica.
Reactions: Dancehall Monarch Competition for Mashramani Announcement
Dancehall, as scholars Sonjah Stanley Niaah and Donna P. Hope argue, emerged from the island’s marginalized urban enclaves, pulling from reggae, dub, and an older tradition of “toasting” begun by Jamaican sound-system pioneers. At its heart lies what some critics call “slackness”: explicit lyrics about sex and violence, offered up with a bravado that can shock conservative sensibilities. Yet it is precisely through these taboo topics, these raw glimpses of daily life, that dancehall exerts its most critical power—airing the experiences of those left out of polite society.
Dancehall Monarch 2025 Album (Keno George/DPI)
Here in Guyana, where Christian, Hindu and Muslim mores and colonial hangovers still shape mainstream notions of decency, dancehall can incite fervent debate. Witness the uproar surrounding Lady Saw in Jamaica, who was banned from certain venues for her “unladylike” subject matter and performance style—only to highlight the double standard that often afflicts female artists. Indeed, critics blamed her for “slackness,” but Lady Saw, in her song “What Is Slackness,” turned the tables as quoted in a Chicago Tribune interview:
“Them a blame Lady Saw for the system them create
When culture did a clap, them never let me through the gate
Now, as me say sex, them want jump on me case
But kick the beam out of your eyes before you chat inna me face
Slackness is when the road want fe fix
Slackness is when government break their promise.”
Costumes, flags and prop coffins
Carlvin Burnette figuratively laid the other contestants to rest after his supercharged dancehall toasting. (Keno George/DPI)
On the Seawall stage, the contestants—some in outlandish outfits—revealed how dancehall in Guyana wavers between mainstream acceptance and edgy defiance. Where older Jamaican stars like Yellowman and new school Vybz Kartel once toyed with “pornographic slack toasts,” these Guyanese acts often pivot toward uplifting or comedic content. Lil Saint’s “Pakoo,” a playful homage to the local slang for a fish that represents a person who is easily duped, wryly sketches Guyana’s machismo culture while also giving other local talent like Kwasi Ace his flowers:
“You tek me for a Pakoo/you can’t pack salt in me back
Whan me buy you nuff thing/ and yet still I can’t lash
Best don’t buzz my phone/ because the jug will be hard
Run out ah gas/and me tires dem flat
Some girls does feel bannas really stupidy/Like Kwasi this place is crazy”
The audience roared as he ended by proudly announcing his love for his wife – ‘Barbie Gel Nails’ on Tik Tok, flipping a supposed sign of weakness into a lyrical badge of honour.
Lil Saint had the crowd with his performance of Packoo. (Keno George/DPI)
Perhaps the most controversial number was a spectacle by the artist Mrs Fluffy, who parodied Alabama onstage by having TikTok influencer, Annada Anthon dress in female underwear—an attempt, it seemed, to undermine his trademark brashness while simultaneously revelling in a comedic swirl of stereotypes. Here, too, dancehall’s interplay of empowerment and patriarchal tropes was on full display, exciting some in the audience and making others shift uncomfortably.
Mrs Fluffy brought TikTok influencer Annada Anthon onstage to parody Dancehall King 2024, Alabama—complete with women’s underwear. (Keno George/DPI)
Beyond the theatrics, though, the evening’s running themes centred on elevating “ghetto youth,” forging national pride, and pushing forward the ‘jump up’ energy that fuels carnival culture across the Caribbean. Songs of struggle and perseverance—even calls to support local artists—showed that dancehall might be rowdy, but it’s also a platform for upward mobility.
Dancehall Monarch 2025 brought the positive vibes (Keno George/DPI)
A changing Mashramani
Quincy Lacon, known as Ego, was crowned Guyana’s Calypso Monarch 2025 on Main Street, Georgetown. (Kirth Cadogan/News Room)
Mashramani, once a festival dominated by calypso and steel pan, has evolved—some say too much, others say not enough. Some wonder if dancehall dilutes Guyanese tradition.
But as any good student of Caribbean history knows, these islands (and, in Guyana’s case, a piece of South America) have always participated in each other’s cultural invention. Soca, calypso, chutney, and now dancehall cross borders and language barriers, linking entire diasporas.
Vicadi Singh defended his title as Chutney Monarch 2025 in Berbice, on the same night as the Dancehall Monarch competition. (Avidesh Narine/News Room)
Diana Chapman, known as the Calypso Queen, claimed the Soca Monarch title in her hometown, Linden. (Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sport)
In practical terms, the new Dancehall Monarch Competition invests in creative economies. The performers get cash prizes, yes, but money is also made by the designers, dancers, DJs, live band musicians, and stagehands. The local “pop-up concerts” organized by the Ministry of Culture, Youth, and Sport provided fresh opportunities for artists to showcase their craft and refine it in front of an audience that might not otherwise have ventured into the dancehall scene.
Many dancers performed for multiple Dancehall artists and had also taken the stage the night before at the Soca Monarch competition in Linden. (Keno George/DPI)
For Alabama, dethroned but still proud, the competition’s very existence is a sign Guyana can no longer ignore this art form. “Guyana is a people who love all varieties of music,” he said. “Our culture—you can’t leave out dancehall.” If you do, “You leff out a lot of the people them, the patrons who love Dancehall Music.”
“You can’t leave out Dancehall. Without it, you leave out the people who love Dancehall music.” – Alabama, performing at Dancehall Monarch 2025. (Keno George/DPI)
Beyond slackness
Many of the comments posted online—at times incendiary—claim that the dancehall is a descent into “lawlessness.” Yet, standing at the Seawall on a Sunday night, amid the clatter of aluminium pot covers and the glare of ad-hoc party lights, you can hear lyrics that are more about lifting the ghetto, praising hometown pride, and making money to rise out of poverty than about “slackness.” Even the more sensational acts carry a sly satirical edge, critiquing hypocrisy or naming social ills.
One of Carlvin Burnette’s dancers jumps into a split during his performance of Dip Low. (Keno George/DPI)
The late Guyanese folklorist Wordsworth McAndrew once warned that to neglect the cultural expressions of everyday people is “to set oneself adrift culturally—an act which one performs at one’s peril.” His words resonate here, on these walls built by our enslaved ancestors, with dancehall’s insistent bassline rumbling toward the Atlantic.
This year, the Ministry’s livestream of the competition logged over 84,000 views and over 3,000 comments. Corporate Guyana, local entrepreneurs, and government agencies alike profit from the collaboration that Mashramani brings to the arts—dancehall included—through costume design, stagecraft, sound engineering, and production services.
A stage-side view as the Daps Band sets the rhythm for the Dancehall Monarch contestants. (Keno George/DPI)
In late February, dancehall legend Vybz Kartel made a headline-grabbing visit to Guyana to launch his Str8 Vybz Rum, appearing alongside President Irfaan Ali at a press conference. There, he announced a forthcoming showcase, promising to return just before his May 24 Baderation concert to handpick one male and one female Guyanese artist for a collaborative project.
With the Ministry of Culture’s dancehall competition now spotlighting local talent—many of whom might otherwise remain unnoticed—Kartel’s initiative has the potential to catapult these rising performers from the Seawall stage to international airwaves.
Vybz Kartel and President Irfaan Ali interact at State House in Guyana. (Office of the President)
Yes, Mashramani is changing. The cynics might miss the ‘Mash’ of old, with steel bands and stricter notions of decorum, but the festival’s evolution reflects both a deepening regional exchange and the unstoppable creativity of the streets.
Dancehall, after all, has travelled far beyond the Jamaican sound systems that birthed it, landing here on Guyana’s Seawall, in the brackish air. However discordant it may sound to some, for many others it is a living conversation—between the past’s resistance and the future’s potential, between local heartbreak and unstoppable celebration.
Patrons film a Dancehall Monarch 2025 performance. (Keno George/DPI)
To quote another of Guyana’s great cultural voices, A. J. Seymour: “There’s so much we can do as a people if we can get together more.”
On that Seawall, under the glare of neon lights and the clatter of saucepans, perhaps that coming-together is already happening—one dance step, one prop coffin, one comedic lyric at a time.
Mashramani Dancehall Monarch 2025 Winners
1st Carlvin Burnette
2nd Emmanuel James (Lil Saint) (Tie)
2nd Alabama ( Tie)
4th Yolanda Gittens (Crenity)
Mashramani Dancehall Monarch 2025 Finalists
Clifford Charles (Alabama)
Hakeem McPherson (Jami Dan)
Relon Sumner (Original Lyrics)
Carlvin Burnette
Brian Griffith (Acidic)
Salahhudeen Muhammad (Nature Boy)
Sherwin Rose (Ras Isan)
Emmanuel James (Lil Saint)
Leslie Thompson (Antwan)
Jenel Archer (Mrs Fluffy)
Yolanda Gittens (Crenity)
Gabriela Rodriguez (Gabyluv)
Donovan Trotman (Kidd Strong)
Alvin Pompey (Fame A)
Malake Clarke (Kautic)
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