On a Friday afternoon, the sun blazes down on a Mississauga truck yard. With less than 24 hours before Toronto’s annual Carnival parade, Freedom Mas hasn’t started building its sound system. The semi-truck bed for the float is four hours late, and the rented speakers aren’t what were ordered.

Khalil Bernard is pacing anxiously across the yard. As lead DJ for Freedom Mas, the only masquerade band (mas band) playing primarily Jamaican music in the Grand Parade, Bernard carries the weight of ensuring their sound system delivers not just tunes, but a statement of cultural pride.

“Will they know that we were pulling out hair and crying behind the scenes and all of this before the parade started?” he asked.

Open this photo in gallery:

Harish Pitamber, lead audio engineer for Tribal Carnival, monitors the audio as the sound system truck makes its way down the parade route on Lake Shore Boulevard.

On Saturday morning, their sound system is expected to roll down Lake Shore Boulevard, blasting reggae and dancehall in the Grand Parade. It’s the main event of Carnival, an annual Caribbean celebration in the name of emancipation, pride and resilience. Those who “play mas” are called masqueraders, members of a band that dance around the sound system adorned in vibrant and elaborate costumes. For a mas band, sound is more than music – it’s a declaration of identity.

The Globe followed two sound crews from relatively new mas bands – Tribal Carnival (established in 2023) and Freedom Mas (2020) – as they assembled systems that can cost upward of $20,000. This year’s parade took place on Aug. 2.

Three days before the Grand Parade

Open this photo in gallery:

Harish Pitamber, centre, Tribal Carnival’s lead audio engineer, unloads speakers for the sound system truck.

In an east Toronto truck yard, Harish Pitamber, 27, reviews the sound system schematics he drafted as the lead audio engineer for Tribal Carnival.

“There are 101 ways the power can be cut off,” Pitamber said. “There’s a lot of room for error in the hot sun, playing with a bunch of electronics that are susceptible to heat, with no room on board for a backup generator.”

Midnight

Open this photo in gallery:

Fuelled by pizza, Red Bull and hot wings, the sound crew arrives straight from their day jobs ready to work into the early hours. As midnight rolls around, another batch of speakers arrives. Nine crew members hoist, stack, and strap down the 160-pound speakers onto the truck.

Using a measuring tape, Pitamber carefully angles the speakers. Proper placement is crucial. Otherwise, “dead zones” can form as sound waves interfere and cancel each other out.

One day before the Grand Parade

Open this photo in gallery:

Bernard begrudgingly hands over payment to the truck rental company, even though the truck bed, essential for mounting the sound system, still hasn’t arrived. Nearby, a generator technician waits with mounting frustration, the hourly bill ticking higher as the generator sits idle, ready to be hoisted onto a truck that isn’t there. As for the speaker rental, it wasn’t exactly what he ordered but the rental company promises that it’s even better.

Open this photo in gallery:

‘I like to show the new technology we have going on in audio, simple but powerful,’ Bernard said.

Jamaicans are the inventors of the sound clash, a competition that originated in the dancehall scene in the late 1950s. DJs, MCs and engineers build and operate mobile speaker setups. These setups were traditionally built from salvaged parts and prioritized function over form. Crews battle for dominance, trying to outplay one another with louder and more exclusive tracks. That legacy permeates amid the chaos and improvisation Bernard now finds himself navigating.

“I like to show the new technology we have going on in audio, simple but powerful,” Bernard said. “I call it cute versus the old sound that’s big and scary.”

Crew member Horace Gunter wasn’t having it. He chimed in, speaking in Jamaican Patois: “Don’t yuh ever call nah bass bin cute!”

“Yuh waan see dem? Dem pretty man!” Bernard exclaimed. “The amount of power makes them pretty.”

Gunter grinned, “Dat makes dem sexy.”

In a meditative state, Bernard leans back in the driver seat of his pickup truck and closes his eyes. He has no idea where the truck bed is or when it might arrive. Yet he’s accustomed to the chaotic lifestyle of event production. Last year as they were building the sound system, a speaker fell and broke his foot, sending him to the hospital. The next day he was at the parade with a cast on his foot, “I told them ‘quick fix’ – it’s only one day a year and I’m not missing it.”

1 a.m.: The morning of the Grand Parade

Open this photo in gallery:

DJ Oday (Orin Favourite) shouts “365 Magnum Riddim!” as he slams a button on his audio mixer, firing up the speakers with his exclusive DJ mix. Bernard and fellow DJ Jay Wright jump in without missing a beat, singing and dancing alongside him. The first sound check is a success.

Noon: The Parade begins

Open this photo in gallery:

Before the main parade down Lake Shore Boulevard, the sound systems are unveiled at the main stage outside the Budweiser stadium.

Bass rumbles through the air as Tribal Carnival’s DJs take the helm, sending thrumming vibrations that ripple through the crowd. “Nothing other than bass makes people want to move,” said Pitamber. “Caribana is the only time we get to bring a bit of that heavy sound system culture to Toronto without as much red tape. We have permission to be ourselves for one day.”

A few hours later, Freedom Mas starts rolling down Lake Shore as the last mas band in the parade lineup.

“Gas! Gas! Gas! Gwaan with the road!” the MC shouts into the microphone as he dances on top of a speaker box.

Freedom Mas is the first and only mas band playing Jamaican music in the parade. They’re also one of the smallest with around 70 masqueraders. They have fully embraced the Jamaican saying, “We likkle but we tallawah,” which translates to “we are small but mighty,” and that spirit is reflected in every detail of their execution. As the sun sets on Lake Shore, onlookers share moments of connection with the masqueraders on board the truck, singing in unison to the soulful tunes of reggae.

Parade attendees sing alongside the Freedom Mas sound system truck as it drives down Lake Shore Blvd.

Sarah Espedido

Open this photo in gallery:

Khalil Bernard stands atop the speaker system he designed aboard Freedom Mas band’s truck.

As a child at the parade, Bernard was once only an observer, too, waiting for the rare truck that played dancehall or reggae when the traditional sound of soca tended to dominate.

“That was the best 20 minutes of the day, of the year,” he said. “I couldn’t wait until I could go up and get my chance to be there.”

Pitamber scans the crowd around Tribal Carnival, a band of 950 masqueraders, assessing how many people are dancing to the music pumping out of the truck. This is the true barometer of success – how deep into the crowd the sound penetrates.

“If people are jumping around, the DJ is hype, it’s literally a smile on your face and then you start dancing too.”

Open this photo in gallery:

Source