When one steps outside the circle of the family and by doing so, encounters the true world for the first time, whatever knowledge gained in that way has a tremendous impact on the future course of one’s life. Americans taking le grand tour of Europe returned home with a cultural concept with high values. Thus, we became a society interested in learning. Parents today who send students off in mass to Cancun, Jamaica, Nassau for instance, expose these young minds to other influences. The students quickly adopt as part of their formation unrefined behavior, mediocre interests and less sophisticated lifestyles.
Next to visiting a foreign country is the familiarization gained through the literature that country produces. Visiting the West Indies, literary achievement is scarce, and it is music that has the power to influence and formulate the direction of one’s life, perhaps more than parenting.
What has this to do with the Park Plaza? Like a first time encounter with a foreign country, for me the Park Plaza dance hall in 1937 and 1938 helped to fashion a more salutary individual, thanks to the free musical education it offered. Very much unlike “Youth Gone Wild”—more contented with life.
***
I traveled to the Park Plaza searching for music of a certain flavor: Afro Cuban. I couldn’t dance a step, I didn’t know a soul, couldn’t understand a word, couldn’t play a note nor could I spare, during the Great Depression, the carfare and admission. At a time when there was little joy in the world, the music gave me the reasoning I needed to set off from Ft. Hamilton, Brooklyn, up to Harlem, when it was dangerous to do so.
I found what I was searching for the moment I heard the Happy Boys orchestra, while paying my twenty-five cent admission. The ticket window was grilled, like a Bronx bodega’s cashier. The only bandstand was a lighted area as I sought a chair near an exit sign. The ladies, young and old, were lined up facing the young and old men, all sitting on the rows of chairs along the walls. For the first few numbers that the band played, I felt no need to do other than sit and listen, filled with satisfaction at having found what I needed and had accomplished.
I was not destined to remain a wallflower for long, for after my second visit, I was approached by a girl who came and asked me to dance, something unheard of at the time. I wisely declined, feeling foolish—but better to feel foolish than to look foolish on the floor. What I needed now was the ability to dance rumba. On my third visit a tall black fellow came up to me. “I see you sitting—why don’t you dance?” “I don’t know how,” I answered him. “Show him how,” he said to his partner.
So it was that Rene and Estella, the top Afro-Cuban dance team perhaps of all time, got me dancing. That brief encounter was the first step that led me around the world on cruise ships, to hotels, nightclubs, dance studios and lectures, carrying Afro-Cuban rumba with me for others to learn. To popularize it was what became necessary, to pass its joyous content on to others.
***
There was no band stand or microphones at the Park Plaza, no amplifiers or spotlights, though alarm bells were visible in two opposite corners to signal to the bouncer where to hurry to in the room in case of need. Nor was there fire-safety equipment evident. The fire exit led to an alleyway that was shared with the neighboring Teatro Hipsano and its fire exit, both leading onto Fifth Avenue.
The Happy Boys band, with Doroteo Santiago singing, did not take long breaks. Their two-minute numbers allowed frequent changes of partners. Particularly favorite pieces would be repeated. To tease dancers, the band employed a mock break, resulting in chairs being thrown to the middle of the floor—in jest, not in anger. (This display of bogus protest was inspired by barroom fights popular in cowboy movies of the 1930s.) The music resumed with prostrate suppliants rising up off the floor to continue dancing.
As one of the only sources of gaiety during 30% unemployment in America, the Park Plaza’s rumba world was vital. At a time when, elsewhere, you would be asked to “Please leave the dance floor” if your dancing was considered indiscreet, here these behaviors were encouraged as an ingredient of joyful exuberance. The piropo, that titillating, sexy, verbal innuendo of everyday Cuba, manifested itself in the physical activity on the dance floor, like intimate paintings springing to life.
Four iron columns supported the ceiling. The one in the far darkest corner served, in addition to holding up the ceiling, to provide support for the girl while her partner pressed into her, grinding away at her body while the music accompanied a clandestine, sexual-outburst performance. Couples would take turns using this structure for gratification. This was not acceptable behavior, nor was it condemned—it was conveniently ignored.
When the management of the Park Plaza installed a very large upright fan, the admission went up to thirty-five cents. It was set at the top of the stairway that led up from the basement, where the toilets and men’s latrines were located. Currents of air carrying male and female pheromones floated over the dance area. In this way ethereal substances, sex steroids, were blended into the suggestive lyrics, the flirtations in progress, the orchestral vibrations, the sweet-smelling tobacco, libido Latino, overlapping perfumes floating in the congested intimacy of a room one-third the size of the Palladium, filled to the brim with sensuality.
The large fan added spice to the feverish environment, increasing body temperatures to the maximum. The latrine windows were open to allow cold air to enter the building. A communal urinal there, like a trough found on animal farms, served to allow a constant flow of water that kept the pipes from freezing in winter.
No one lingered long, for the glare of the white tile walls disturbed one’s mood. You returned at the sound of the first note of the rumba to the darkness of the dance floor, the music and your partner, buttoning up as you ran. If someone were to yell “Fire!” the dancing would continue until flames might be seen.
***
Electrico was a “live wire,” to use a post-Edison label. He was “greased lightning” with his spasmodic quebradas, razor-sharp style, top speed, and dead-pan (cara fea) showmanship. His solos were the highlight of an evening of highlights. Every part of his body was in complete synchronization with the music. Perhaps it helps to envision Killer Joe at the Palladium, except that Electrico was closer to a style of rumba called columbia, which was closer to true Afro-Cuban ritual, including hitting the floor with the flats of your palms and your feet off the ground.
Midnight, negro como el telefono—black as a 1930s telephone—was the only dancer who challenged Electrico, the dance master of the Park Plaza. He would hurry out on to the floor while applause for Electrico was still resounding, so as to cut into Electrico’s performance appraisal. Midnight dressed entirely in black, including a rare vest that was an encumbrance but which gave him a more full contrast to Electrico’s string-bean frame. Midnight had a “down and dirty,” “solid man” quality that contrasted with Electrico’s height advantage (a four-inch difference).
Where Electrico flew, Midnight was glued deep into the music: “heavy, man.” Electrico was “far out.” He had the whole place stunned, shocked. Like two road runners, their movements risked stress fractures. Amazingly, neither seemed to be out of breath off the floor. It was the audience that was left breathless.
***
The trumpets of the Happy Boys brought down the walls of the Great Depression. They were the pipers we followed to recovery. From a low-key, romantic locale hidden away in El Barrio, they raised the level of intensity in their choice of more cheerful melodies such as “Ahora seremos felices.” Most Park Plaza patrons were from W. 114th St., “the most dangerous street in New York” at the time. Many of them did not own a radio. They went home, singing along the dark streets love songs that sweetened the dreams of their sleeping neighbors.
In 1937 the Puerto Rican and Cuban population in the neighbor I estimate could not have been more than three or four hundred. Why was there never a long line waiting to enter the Park Plaza? It was due to the fact that money was so scarce that they were too broke to pay the admission. Even today, Latin nightclubs are less numerous and struggle to survive (long gone are the La Congas and Havana Madrids; house parties in Washington Heights, for example, fill the need for the desire to dance).
My partner Catin, short for Catherin, and I were standing on the stoop of her building on W. 114th St., about to enter. A screaming woman exited with a furious man grabbing at her. They fell to the gutter, where the beating continued.
Catin calmly showed me her razor blade, wrapped in a rubber band. “We women all carry one,” she said, pulling it out from her stocking as we entered to go to sleep.
One of the songs heard at the Park Plaza was “Camina como Chencha,” written for Chencha, a lame girl who danced every dance. She showed determination, spirit and courage to enjoy life, inspiring everyone present during those dark days of the Great Depression. Everyone at the Park Plaza was great in their own way. Puerto Ricans, in the 1930s and 1940s, were seen as inferior to us. Today with what has happened to US culture, they are superior to us. We are put to shame by them.
***
In summer months, the Park Plaza offered what one only found in the tropical islands of the West Indies—and that was the opportunity for a “quickie,” a quick “dip,” by going out on the Harlem Meer, the lake opposite the dance hall. In the islands it was the sandy beach, in Harlem it was on a rowboat during the band’s break.
Three rowboats lined the shore of the lake. We untied them, rowing them out into the darkened privacy, in the middle of the lake and under the stars. When we heard the band playing across the water, we hurriedly towed back to shore.
Sex finds a way. In the Dominican Republic, at the Club Taino, were shacks with mattresses. In Montevideo’s waterfront dives, there were curtained areas with mattresses on the floor landings of the buildings. Modern cruise ships can be called floating bedrooms, with comfortable cabins near discos. These convenient arrangements go back to Roman baths, and up to Bangkok brothels with dancehalls. The rocking rowboats were more naturalistically romantic under the open sky, with an element of danger and stolen pleasure that’s unlike Amsterdam’s walk-in, walk-out policies, that by comparison seem more sordid. These images remind me of that iron column at the Park Plaza—it was almost part of the festivities.
One night I arranged for a party from the Village to visit the Park Plaza. With Antaole Broyard in one taxi and me in the other, we escorted two loads of people up to Harlem. (During the Depression, taxi meters made a loud ticking noise, not unlike the tracks on subway travels of the 1930s. The standard tip to the driver, no matter the distance, was ten cents.) The barricaded ticket window was unknown downtown and served to make our friends uneasy as we entered the narrow hallway entrance, typical of many old buildings. Normally it was safer inside than outside, in El Barrio.
As we were approaching the cashier, a rush of people came at us, running, frightened, pushing their way through our group of ten (cabs could legally carry five persons during the 1930s). We had, before leaving the Village, briefed our party about acceptable and unacceptable behavior but had never expected the wild demonstration that we were now facing. Was it a fire? I knew it was a fight, and did not stop the Village crowd from returning to the taxis, leaving just four of us—Anatole and his lady, me and mine—to enjoy the evening once the matter settled itself peacefully, inexplicably.
***
To enjoy the Park Plaza entirely, one had to arrive early and leave last. To watch things evolve from start to finish—good to the last note. The musicians as well as the locals began by embracing happily, and ended not happily but embracing sadly—it was over too soon. The band would slowly dissolve itself, leaving only the piano playing, as an honor perhaps, the last notes, as the trumpeter and the rest tiptoed off individually, softening the departure. It was a merciful ending, for outside on W. 110th St., the waiting world was like Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End.
What we call “cool” today, in the 1930s, was called “hot.” The mainstream bandleader Paul Whiteman’s “get hot” was picked up as “hot tomato” (a cool gal), “hot spot,” “hot shot,” “red hot mamma.”“Hot dog!” meant “great!” as did “hot stuff.” “Put hot peppers on it” is “twisa mdungu” in Kongo, “échale salsita” in Pineiro’s salsa, and “get hot” in Whiteman’s jazzy era.
Today we are both hot and cool, one could say, like the dancers at the old Park Plaza.
