On the final weekend of August, west London swells with bodies as chest-pounding bass rolls through the crowd, and joy and resistance rub shoulders. Haitian flags ripple alongside Palestinian ones, Hare Krishnas dance arm-in-arm with teenage boys, and families bathe in the subwoofer glory of Channel One. When the heavy clouds finally give way to rain, people cheer and pull flags above their heads for cover, still dancing underneath.
Carnival turns 60 this year, but its story begins before the first steelpan took to the streets of Notting Hill. After racist violence tore through the neighbourhood in 1958, Trinidadian journalist and activist Claudia Jones brought Caribbean Carnival to London. “A people’s art is the genesis of their freedom," was her slogan.
“It has to [continue] for the very same reasons it was started,” says Efe, a Dominican New Yorker. “Bringing our communities together and just celebrating ourselves. This live energy, this Caribbean energy, this Black energy, this diasporic energy. That always needs to continue." All around him, a parade of Grenadian Jab Jabs weave through Carnival, their bodies blackened with oil and charcoal, carrying chains in their hands.
On TikTok, there had been talk of Parisians descending on Carnival this year, returning the favour after Brits piled onto the Eurostar for Fête de la Musique in June. Outside Deviation, the French were suddenly everywhere. “I just wanted to party, have fun with beautiful people and be myself,” says Kewan’n, who travelled over from Paris. Matthieu, an editor at a French magazine, puts it less delicately: “I fucking love London and the culture here. Being at Carnival aligns with my mindset, my culture, my Black culture and my African culture.”
That might be why trying to pin down a single Carnival look is challenging, between all the traditional dress, football shirts, tailored trousers and regular Sunday afternoon fits. There’s no uniform, nor much reason to blend in. But most of the guys have one thing in common: they're not showing any knees this weekend. If they aren't wearing big, baggy trousers, they're in long shorts. Denim shorts, cargo shorts, cotton shorts, mesh shorts – as long as the hem is hitting your calves, it flies here.
Familiar faces are scattered across the crowds: supermodel and Carnival veteran Paloma Elsesser makes her way through the streets, Maya Jama joins Disya Jeneration, and Frank LeBon is at Aba Shanti-I. “I love seeing people unite. No matter what background you have, you just accept that you’re accepted, and enjoy the good music and good people,” says Juan, who came with friends and isn’t letting the rain slow him down.
Singh, who grew up on All Saints Road, is louche in black tailoring and puffs on a cigar. “It’s a beautiful experience. Everyone coming together, this is what it’s all about.”
Long after the procession winds down and the sound systems switch off, revellers spill into after-parties and after-after-parties – a sonic baptism that reminds you why London is the greatest city in the world.
