Salsa 101: Reflections on Latin Music

The Drums Have Spoken

2011-05-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

(note: Originally written 12/13/2010)

What would Arsenio, Cachao or Lecuona Think of today's Latin jazz? Would they be welcoming the growing global phenomena of la musica while at the same time supportive of the jazz contribution that distributed it worldwide? Ever protective of Afro-Cubanidad, Arsenio cried, "Iese maldito mambo!"

According to Bohemia Magazine in 1952, Cachao was slow to embrace Latin jazz and I doubt Lecuona would have embraced it any faster. But times and tastes change us all. "I once was blind..." Gone is my Latin Jazz criticism. Discarded is my fear of any calamitous consequences supposedly involved in the merger of Latin and jazz. Perhaps I lacked the secret teaching, the "disciplina arcana" essential for such an unpopular undertaking’s success. All music is musica sacra. It is commercial materialistic greed that befouls all.

The drums have spoken and I have taken this proper moment that the ancient Romans called punctum temporis, to surrender to better sense. Las dos alas de Latin Jazz make better bedfellows than my malingering, my belittling the evident advantages of a union that benefits both houses like a royal marriage.

All this does not change my duty. I was assigned a mission back in Regla in 1941 to promote and protect Afro Cuban music around the world. One can become popular by becoming unpopular. But as Charles Baudelaire (paraphrased) said, "Latin ou jazz, qu' importe?" Good or bad, the ardent masses on our dance floors prove it. This music within itself dispels counter-productive differences that tend to exist among mankind naturally. Viva la musica!

Foreplay at the Park Plaza

2010-08-03T10:14:00.000-07:00

Fancy footwork on the dance floor was a form of foreplay, complete with perspiration, panting, and pre-coital contortion. Friction caused internal combustion in such a pressure-cooker environment, often leading to consensual mutual masturbation called “dancing.”

Where else could such somatic satisfaction be bought for a $.35 admission price? A price that could include outright orgasm? Cover and excuse for ecstatic behavior was provided by rhythmic overtones. Expect dancers abandoned concentration on agile footwork in order to create, instead, intentional sexual excitement. They played the women like slide guitars -- finding her center of gravity located in the small of her back. By raising his supporting hand, or by lowering it up and down her spine, the couple achieved better focal contact. Raising his hand allowed him to brush her nipples as she rotated in front of him.

Lowering his hand down her spine brought the lower part of his partner’s body to him. This enabled her to press hard, rubbing against his leg like a pole dancer. This vise-like conjunction could skillfully remain in place even while dancing. Remaining in one corner meant better communication, concealment, and concentration. Unnecessary conversation, especially in the dim light, was like phone sex whispered in her ear. Her name, added to the lyrics, her head on his chest, induced romance. Sexual signals were ocular, sensed, mouthed, physical, or very obvious.

Loving intimacy, shared confidence added to gallantry, grace, speed, surprise and strength defined expert foreplay, as well as great dancing proper. A parting kiss, not on the cheek, but on the neck or hand, together with playful laughter at the end pardoned the risqué behavior of their shared secret.

Post-script: Calle Ocho, Miami, 1999: El Baile del Gato. Four couples down on all fours dancing doggy-style never caught on – in public at any rate.

Cultural Circularity

2010-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

As I write, the Septeto Nacional is playing “Echale salsita” and “El son es lo mas sublime para…,” right here in New York. Ignacio Piñeiro was a contemporary of the most popular bandleader of the 1930s, Paul Whiteman, was billed as the King of Jazz. Naturally, black musicians protested the white man’s gratuitous label (as B.B. King would become their king.) Whiteman, as we believe, also influenced Ignacio when he introduced the phrases “get hot” and “hot stuff.” The salsita connection is evident and was also popular with black jazz musicians. Latin composers contributed “Calientico,” a popular rumba at that time, and spiced-up tunes.

When African-rooted jazz musicians began to hear Miguelito Valdes’ Yoruba-authentic ritual incantations such as “Bruca manigua” and “Babalu,” and Arsenio Rodriguez’s “Sabroso y caliente” and wild “bembes lucumies,” and Chano Pozo (as, later, Celia Cruz would sing “El Quimbo”), they tried to adopt these odd-sounding chants. But ended up with “heidi, heidi, ho,” “cubop, bebop,” “rumba boogie,” and whatnot.

“La-di-o-de” is a sacred invocation. Latino musicians did not protest what could have been called an insult to their patrimony.

Music is aria made sonorous, and humans will produce it as part of our seventh sense: the sense of rhythm that resides in our brains. That sense is in the company of our other senses, including our sense of balance, located not in our feet, but in our ears.

It doesn’t matter who influences who, but to the struggling musicians of El Barrio, it mattered. Last year, Willie Colon, playing New Year’s Eve at Del Posto Restaurant in Manhattan’s meat-packing district, was able to advertise: $850 per person for admission! Sold out! Musicians can never be paid enough. Let’s remember, it was music that helped bring us out of the Great Depression, not the bankers. We sang “Happy days are here again” throughout the country, and the musicians were our pied pipers.

Speaking of mimicking, in the dance world, the Twist was an explosive effort, and sad excuse to deride, willfully or not, the hip movements of the rumba, humorously. Anglos had uptight social attitudes that were made acceptable under the cloak of comedy, like minstrels. The playful Twist became the forerunner of Elvis’ rock ‘n roll show, with roots in the South. (Webster’s dictionary claims that rock ‘n roll “derived from rhythm and blues,” but I say it was the Twist.) If the Twist had gone north, and on into mambo instead, imagine what our culture would have become! Elvis never learned salsa and if he had I’m sure our colleges would have less trouble teaching Spanish, for one thing.

I’ve heard many bad rock ‘n roll bands, but never a bad conjunto. Are the hundreds of pop groups trying to reach the heights of the salseros? African drums have saved many Latin jazz performances, but can we please get rid of those big, fake conga prop drums on Jay Leno’s show? Why don’t we have a term, Afro-jazz? Who can dance salsa wearing a Mexican sombrero, and how many of us can dance a Dancing With the Stars salsa?

Claves and the Cosmos (The Music of the Spheres)

2010-03-23T08:04:00.000-07:00

Like the old Morse Code, sound waves send messages out into space. In this fanciful premise, we claim that claves, with their asymmetrical rhythm, have a disruptive influence on the atomic celestial clock. The classic tick-tock, one-two, one-two beat is disturbed by the clave’s one, pause, one-two beat.

There are no events without the involvement of energy. Some planets release energy, such as the sun, while others both emit and receive energy, such as the earth. The sound waves of the claves disrupt the symmetrical flow of orderly emission of energy. The repetitious clack of the claves would hypnotize a listener if it were not for the pause that is its distinguishing feature. With this pause, the claves control the entire orchestra. If we were to modify our clocks to mimic the claves, replacing the regimented sound of seconds to the clave beat, we would syncopate the music of the spheres.

We humans are not sufficiently inspired by such possibilities. The magician employs a pause to achieve his trickiness. In that significant instant, he accomplishes his purpose. Nature may “hate a vacuum,” but the vacuum (read: the pause) exists for good reason. The claves involve man in the way the cosmos works. They may command the respect and control of the celestial orchestra, like a Toscanini. What is repetitive in clave rhythm can be called cyclical when applied to the cosmos. If life is both the teacher and the test, claves can be said to cheat, by not fitting the mold. Our learning never seems to fit into our lives properly.

The workings of cycles influence education itself and can, with their foreshadowing, show us the unseen, the unknown, and in that way achieve the goal of education. We mortals invite the sickness of misfortune by waving our fists in the face of the gods with our prideful approach to learning. The answer is in the claves: two simple wooden sticks.

The Park Plaza

2010-03-23T07:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Messed-Up Music

2010-03-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

At the Park Plaza in 1939, Afro-Cuban jazz had a much different sound when Machito, under Mario Bauzá’s influence, played timid jazz solo partitas on and off as though uncomfortable in that Latin stronghold. They tried it out on the road, so to speak, before introducing it at the La Conga Club downtown. Machito never dropped his proud identity as “Machito y sus Afro-Cubanos.” Bauzá anglicized it. Tinkering with various descriptive names for his band, perhaps in desperation, Tito Puente announced before performing at the World Trade Center Marina, “I don’t play Latin jazz, I play Latin!” He soon discovered that it was here to stay.

As a confused votary purist, I miss the symmetrical “words and music” format of unadulterated Latin music. I don’t sense a proper commingling or easy synergism in Latin jazz. Like some canned output, it lacks soulfulness, which is very evident when heard separately in both jazz and Latin. As for the two Titos, a free spirit of artistic contention was evident in their rivalry. Like pugilists, they ended robust bouts in each others’ arms. Latinos and jazzistas don’t embrace enough. It’s fair to say that Latinos do not have a streak of arrogance in them. They acknowledge the genius, spontaneity, ritual, universality, and sophistication that is found in both camps. But is a happy wedding possible when family roots are involved? The roots of both are in Africa, but Afro-Cuban is Africa. White musicians are less likely to have been taught to play by their grandfathers or family members than Latins or black musicians. Music teachers are less of an influence than family ancestors who are listening from the Great Beyond. Are the self-taught less acceptable?

The musicians of either choosing donate love as a sacred obligation. Their hearts are drums that pulsate with echoes in chambers, murmurs in cavities, fluctuations in their veins. They keep the world resounding within Nature’s super bowl environment. They support a mystery that sings for humanity. They seem chosen.

As an orchestral organ when silenced or expressed, the forte music of Life comes to us as grief or as gaiety from the heart. That internal metronome and ultimate timer is also a sounding board where the vibratos, crescendos, and tremolos of daily life are played by impulse, much of which is for our ears alone.

Imagine an integration of DaVinci and Vasily Kandinsky, of Franz Liszt and Hindemith, or Calder and Rodin — interesting, but one does not mess with the heart or with its music, especially since all musicians are brothers.

When Haiti Was Happy

2010-01-25T08:06:00.000-08:00

Haiti was on its way to becoming the Monte Carlo of the Caribbean in 1951. The gambling junkets from Miami to Havana had enriched the mob and Batista’s clique so much so that Haitian politicos wanted to get in on the action. National Airlines, TWA, and Pan American shuttled hundreds of gamblers to the Tropicana, Montmartre, the Riviera with fifty-minute hops to José Martí Airport. What Haiti lacked was a way to get high-rollers to fly past Cuba to Port-au-Prince, a distance far greater than ninety miles, to land on a primitive airport.

In Haiti’s slogan “In Union There is Strength,” L’Union Fait la Force, came the solution. General Rafael Trujillo had acquired a cruise ship called the New Northland from the Canadian Clarke Steamship Company as a wedding yacht for one of his daughters. He renamed it SS Nuevo Dominicano and teamed up with Leslie Frazier, a banana importer, to have her carry fruit to Florida. Why not carry eager suckers instead of bananas? Thus, an evil trinity evolved: Trujillo, Frazier, and Haiti’s president, Paul Magloire, all interested in profiting from, not so much the business bonanza of tourism that was just becoming evident, but from a casino in Port-au-Prince on the harbor. The French mob was also involved.

Haiti had also caught the attention of the Lansky Florida-based mob. Out of Dania, Florida, where they controlled Jai Alai and dog races as well as the Gulfstream Racetrack, the mob succeeded in placing a foothold aboard the SS Nuevo Dominicano in the form of a shipboard “casino” consisting of three restored one-armed bandits. These relics were encrusted with barnacles, having been brought to the surface from the bottom of the Hudson River where Mayor LaGuardia had thrown them. Trujillo decided to invite the Sindicat from France to take over gambling on the waterfront Casino International d’Haiti that Magloire had built, using the ship for transportation. This overloaded setup between France, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, and the Florida mob was beginning to flourish. The mistake that caused it to fail, and to bring Haiti down with it, was a woman . . . cherchez la femme . . . Madame Getulio Vargas!

Brazil had shared a common tragic history with Haiti in terms of slavery’s struggles for freedom from foreigners. She became Haiti’s protectoress, a sister republic. “Never again shall a colonist or a European set his foot upon this territory with the title of master or proprietor.” This is taken from the Liberty-or-Death Proclamation, dated 28th April, 1804 Headquarters at the Cape Haitien, first year of independence. It was signed by the Governor-General, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who died assassinated. Brazil had to rid itself of the Dutch, the French, and the Braganza Dom Pedro II of Portugal to become independent.

The wife of Getulio Vargas, the president of Brazil in 1951, discovered that the Casino International d’Haiti, under the influence of the French mob, was presenting “immoral entertainment.” She had her husband shut down the magnificent Quintandinha Casino in Petropolis, Rio. This was followed by pressure on Magloire to close the Haitian casino that was presenting Las Vegas-type floor shows, and preparing to invite the then shocking Follies Bergères.

Madame Vargas’s interference encouraged complicity and plotting by the casinos in Carasco, Uruguay; Mar del Plata, Argentina; and Estoril in Portugal, as well as the Las Vegas crowd, all of whom feared Haiti’s unwelcome competition. They got hold of Madame Vargas’s ear. The result doomed Haiti’s chance to grow as a gambling mecca and as a more modern, prosperous country, albeit in violation of the moral principals of the Catholic Church.

Haiti and Brazil were, and may still be, ninety-nine percent Catholic; they were also anti-abortion and anti-divorce, causing population problems to explode in favelas, multiple shanty towns, and in a plethora of corrupt construction contractors. It also meant mud slides and deaths, like the 2008 schoolhouse collapse in Petionville. Prior to the earthquake, Brazil had 3,000 peacekeepers helping control Haiti. Public school education was diminished in favor of Catholic schooling. A casino without sexy showgirls is a castrated casino, but was the only one acceptable to the regime. Getulio Vargas also considered Voudou a pagan menace. When he was defeated after elections, an outburst of gaiety erupted similar to our post-Prohibition flapper era. It gave birth to today’s Rio Carnival, which under Getulio had been a sham, consisting of a parade of cars honking horns along Copacabana. He feared it might become rebellious.

When the French took off, Haiti was swept under the rug. In Coney Island, the mob destroyed its buildings and committed arson to lower real estate prices. This led to Coney Island’s abandonment, and any hopes of future casino establishments. But in Haiti, all this sudden activity awakened a sleepy island that was now aware of the resiliency of its people and of gambling’s commercial advantages. But the likelihood of a happier, prosperous Haiti — thanks to gambling — and French savoir-faire and politesse, slowly died, taking gaieté parisienne with it. No longer did one notice the ladies in Port-au-Prince wearing the latest French imports — Lanvin, Hermès, Chanel — or smelling of Fragonard and Madame Rochas, that they had purchased from Elias Neustas, a Lebanese shopkeeper who originated the duty-free, tax-free concept. Gone was Fisher, the German professor/anthropologist whose warehouse-type business sold Haitian primitive paintings that were catching on internationally, along with animal skins, snakes, seashell jewelry, tortoiseshell and mahogany furniture. Also lost was an enormous stock of drums that were hand-carved on the outside with Voudou motifs that are today collectible, dedicated to Ayan, Ghana’s god of the drum, and to Atumpan, Ti-Roro’s talking drum.

Ti-Roro, the foremost tambourist, was at this time entertaining us at the El Rancho Hotel poolside, where we took up collections for him and his three companion drummers. Why are Haitian drummers accepted as the best world drummers from West Africa to the West Indies, where there are supermarkets and people wearing shoes, compared to Haiti’s penury? The drums of Haiti are angry-sounding, violent. Slavery is long gone, except in Haiti where people are economic slaves, hungry, hopeless, and helplessly dependent for survival on once-despised foreigners and now aid agencies for their marginal survival. The monopolistic cruise industry bought islands that diverted shoppers from the modest straw markets of Haiti, leaving the little man or woman to expire under his or her roadside canope. The cruise bosses discouraged, and may have contributed to, crime in Port-au-Prince in order to profit from the millions their passengers would otherwise have spent ashore. Nor could Haiti compete touristically.

Puerto Rico’s El San Juan Hotel, Hilton, and El Conquistador at Las Croabas had found the golden egg of tourism closer to Miami than Haiti’s one-runway airport. Tourism found Martinique, where in Fort de France, Roger Albert had become the mayor based on his modernization of his tiny perfume shop, and where FOYAL (Fort Royal), the French restaurant in Martinique’s port area, now served excellent fish dishes, with old-rum banana flambé for dessert. This was added to Josephine’s Empress mystique and the Mount Pelee Volcano’s 20,000 victims, or to Guadeloupe’s beaches. Cruise ships carried their human cargo from the Antilles françaises to South and Central American ports. Gone were the days when, in order to reach Caracas from La Guaira, tourists had to board an elevator to reach part of the way up the mountainside in order to continue the rest of the ascent by mule. Nothing could stop tourism, except the mob.

Thirty fabulous liners leave Miami, some carrying two thousand passengers (read, shoppers) to faraway islands and places the companies discovered, like Roatan, Honduras, and Nicaragua’s Puerto Limón, the Mexican Riviera, bypassing Haiti. Was this part of a plot to punish the Haitians for expelling their casino?

In 1952, the SS Nuevo Dominicano, on its way to be scrapped, was sunk, typically, for its insurance, off the coast of Cuba. Lloyd’s of London, wise to mob crimes, sent divers down and discovered open sea cocks. They put the captain and others in jail in the Dominican Republic. The crew had been classified as being part of La Flota Mercante de la República Dominicana. They were classified as part of the navy and were paid one dollar a day. She was nicknamed a pirate ship, with her one hundred passengers and crew members dressed as pirates at the Captain’s Dinner on the last night out. With the loss of the ship, gone were the evenings in Haiti spent dancing to Cole Porter’s 1938 “Begin the Beguine,” drinking Five-Star Babancourt ron at Cabane Chachoune in Petionville, all now completely erased except in memories.

In 1951, we were on our maiden voyage to Haiti. Fascinated by the amateur films of Voudou brought to us in 1945 by Maya Deren, we had expected to be welcomed by drumming, a rumba band as in Havana, or a steel band, as we glided doucement over the calm, pitch-dark water of the harbor. We had arrived around midnight when all was asleep, wrapped in dark shadows, with mysterious mountains whose heights were well hidden and inestimable. How were we to know until morning that the casino operators, experienced in showmanship, had installed a red carpet that began at the foot of our gangplank. They had hired for our shore excursions taxi drivers and pretty guides that knew some English, eliminating those who spoke only Kriol. The casino croupiers and table men were from France, the menu was select, printed in both languages, Château Margaux and the rest were available, along with Haitian absinthe, illegal as toxic in America. Chanel No 5 was in the air and an aperitif was extended to the ship’s officers aboard the SS Dominicano. But who would have thought that in the stillness of a pitch-black late-night arrival, as we silently made for our mooring inch by inch, that we would hear coming across the harbor Claude Debussy’s “Claire de Lune.” Haiti will bounce back again. Of that there is no doubt. It is in her beautiful children that she will find her true happiness, which no one can rob her of.

En quittant la ville Jacmel
Pa’ m’allé au balle
Panama ma tombé
(Repeat)
Ramasi lui pour moi. . . .

Graciela, La Libertadora

2009-08-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

At the La Conga nightclub in 1945, Graciela Perez broke the restraints of propriety and virtuousness the night she sang “Sí Sí No No.” The band fell silent, the waiters froze, the dancing stopped, and the bartender turned to witness her daring performance.

Beginning off to the side, she slowly edged center-stage under brighter lighting. She personified womankind facing an eternal seductive, copulative proposition. Her agile voice nursed a suspenseful scenario that gradually submitted to normal desire. Within this framework, Graciela reached a melodic dénouement, an artful pseudo-orgasmic celebration ending in an ecstatic climactic scream. This was music to the ears of every male present.

Her startling melodramatics had no encore. Here was a breakthrough similar to Sally Rand’s very daring fan dance, Josephine Baker’s nudity, and Miguelito Valdez’s “Babalu” number at the uptight, Anglo-centric Waldorf Astoria. She hit us the way Valentino’s tango did, then Isadora Duncan and Madonna, but without their universal celebrity. We had been presented with a revolutionary event, like a morality play vocalized. It was one that lyrically mimicked a Shakespearean dueling scene between rival moral principles. Her act liberated a stale, sexually correct post–WWII America at a time when Club El Morocco denied entry to women wearing sunglasses. Graciela taunted a tight-laced society wherein any indelicate intimacy was taboo, except in crass vaudevillian skits on red-light Forty-Second Street.

The patrons at La Conga’s rumba matinees were dancers and their “pupils,” garment-center “cloak-and-suiters” with their models, and gigolettes. The dance floor was a smoldering tinderbox of erotic performances, with groins riveted to groins. This was reminiscent of the old Park Plaza where, during slow, grinding selections such as “El Negro Simón,” the lyrics described a girl becoming arrebata, or sexually uncontrollable. With Yoruba language working, i.e., arrullendole caguá, lusty interpretations were left to the inflamed imaginations of the dancers. These odd, throaty sounds seemed to imply foreplay. Since the messages in these unintelligible lyrics were decoded by each dancer according to his or her level of arousal, there was sufficient amplitude for each individual to respond physically, blaming the Afro music for their suggestive behavior on the floor. The musicians, as well as the outnumbered Latino dance couples, encouraged the Anglos to interpolate the feral sensuality surrounding them, while clownish antics of frustrated beginners were perceived with good humor by everyone.

When a Latino danced with an Anglo girl, she would perform with exaggerated responses in dances that glorified femininity and the macho man. The result was a greater abandonment with newfound freedom of movement. The male Anglo, his heretofore secure role threatened, eschewed the Afro-Cuban dance world, whereas his partner now saw it as part of her overall liberation—and would again during the 1970s, when disco dancing meant less male control. The Stonewall historical event is a good example of a revolution beginning on the dance floor.

Graciela’s substantial voice that night in 1944 ignited an overheated environment. Unless you had witnessed her, you would not have realized what it all meant. Her coquettish, beguiling, pantomime with needless lyrics nevertheless left us with a climactic, playful portrayal of a female’s victory over a manipulated male, despite their mutually responsive libidos. She gracefully and cleverly flaunted her newly liberalized instinct, using “Si Si No No” as a musical vehicle for freedom of greater expression without vulgarity.

Graciela came from a background where a 1930s rumba, “El Plato Roto,” spoke of a broken hymen. It was one of many risqué numbers that, like spice, were welcome ingredients in Cuba’s everyday life and torrid musical climate. It recalls a more restrained, delightful combination of feminine musical beauty, the eleven-piece Retunda All-Girl Orchestra, whose redolence infused Havana in the forties, as did that of Orquesta Anacaona, which of course featured Graciela.

In an alley behind one Havana nightclub, El Pasaje, a well-worn upright piano was stored during the day, available to anyone who might wish to play it. It was known by everyone and was often found encircled by Habaneros, like fraternity boys singing their alma mater. At night it was rolled out on wheels to the narrow sidewalk in front of the brightly lit club. Passersby clustered there, enjoying free concerts under the open sky. That piano seemed to belong to everyone, like the remarkable music that one heard throughout the city. The people of Havana, like those in Washington Heights, fell asleep with late-night radios playing sexy love songs.

Everyone owned Graciela in their hearts, especially in Havana. Alongside Anacaona in popularity was a second all-girl orchestra. At times, both bands played the number-one hit in unison. This all took place opposite El Capitolio, and was a nightly happy spectacle symbolizing and celebrating a country where rumba was Cuba and Cuba was rumba. Music was like a second government.

But it was Graciela who helped make us, here in the States, a bit more liberal.

Bruca Manigua

2009-04-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

Vince, Robert Farris Thompson (r), and an admirer.

Note: Last year, Vince met for an interview with Robert Thompson, the distinguished Yale professor who is writing his highly anticipated history of mambo. A lively correspondence has ensued.

Below is an excerpt, discussing Vince’s early passion for Casino de la Playa’s classic “Bruca Manigua.” The first Arsenio Rodriguez tune ever recorded, “Bruca” was “a landmark in the development of Cuban popular music,” as Ned Sublette details in his book, Cuba and Its Music. Xavier Cugat had recorded the track within half a year of the Casino de la Playa original, and Vince was under its enduring spell in his teens.

RF Thompson:

26 December, 2008

One thing that amazes me about your career is how you picked up on “Bruca Manigua” back in 1939 and started playing it on harmonica. What pulled you into this song? Lyrical feel? Afro-Cuban savor? All of the above and more? What I want to know is how the lyrics hit you. They were in an intricate mixture of bozal (slave idiom in creolized Spanish) and creolized Ki-Kongo, flaunting words like fwiri and mundele. Beyond the Afro-Atlantic complexity, did you dig “Bruca” mainly because of the melody?

You had to be one of the hippest men in New York that year simply by virtue of playing that song on a harmonica. Been listening to Noro Morales’ mambo, “110^th Street and Fifth Avenue,” and thinking of you boarding the bus in Washington Square and riding to the end of the line, right at the Park Plaza corner.

Have a brilliant New Year,

Bob

Part One:

“Bruca Manigua”

Indiambo congori, omelenko, la-di-o-de, coro mi yare—where do these sounds come from that they drown out the music and the culture I was born into? They forever forbid my disloyalty to them—they made me a religious person even though I knew nothing of their meaning. How did they capture me so gently, using their very concealed implications to control me?

From early childhood, as a special-education candidate due to lead poisoning that profoundly affected my hearing, my efforts to understand my world led me to become fascinated with the unknown—with what was escaping me in life. I sought shelter in the mysterious shadows that both hid me and comforted me as an adopted outcast. I grew up further and further from the path that others took. This attitude that was part of my formation set me aside from a society that I could handle easily as long as an odd quality and mystery remained a part of me. I neither belonged entirely to Africa or to America in the sense that my hearing evolved on a different level from normal—which in turn placed me astride a larger world that I balanced myself on like a circus bareback rider holding two galloping horses under his control, with one foot on each.

This effective bipolarity assisted rather than hindered my learning in that it demanded twice the effort—not to conform, but to understand, to balance my intellectual equilibrium. Thus, while I could not understand or speak Africa, I went on to conquer six languages of the Western world.

The sounds and vocabulary of Africa were the source eventually of a sweet mystery—the essential ingredient in the formation of an artist. This was even more induced in me since prior to the poisoning, my early teachers, as well as strangers, had used the word “genius” in my presence. There was, it was discovered, a musical genius who had died in childhood, my cousin who played piano sitting on phone books. Geneological investigation showed an above-normal number of family members engaged in the field of music. With no musical ability or training of my own, I had to satisfy myself with only the appreciation of what music was all about. Talented musicians could express it, interpret it, whereas I had to absorb it with no escape valve.

This esoteric burden manifested itself in the release I found in response, in the physical expression encompassed in dancing. Not American-style dancing or classical footwork, but in the dancing that is African. This came about guided by the music that I came in contact with. Initially, my family preferred opera to popular music but for me opera represented a musical establishment that at the same time jived with the everyday music.

When in 1936 and onward I caught bits of African music coming from abroad, from the islands and Cuba, I sensed that there was a jinni in what I was now hearing. New, unfamiliar sounds that sounded familiar to me even though I didn’t know why. The reason, I now understand, was the fact that, like language, they had to be listened to with a different part of me, one that evoked more than passing interest. They spoke to me in a seventh language, literally and figuratively, using the sounds of the drum that compelled me to follow more obediently.

The drum began to be something I needed biologically, it seemed. It filled the empty quality of deafness the way the gigantic Wurlitzer organ at the Paramount Theater filled the house. To the rafters.

Part Two:

“Bruca Manigua” and Mother

“El Manisero”… What is this manisero, this repetitious melody that is heard everywhere and where did it come from, everyone wondered back in 1937? “…un cucuruchu de mani…” What is a “cucuruchu”? By the time I learned that the song was what we today call a singing commercial, the “Peanut Vendor” passed on, only to be replaced by “La Cucaracha.” “Ya no puede caminar…,” another odd “Spanish” song, this one about a roach. When “La Cucaracha” crawled away, we were ready for a Latin tune called “Siboney” whose more sublime lyrics spoke plaintively of a black slave’s ordeal. Its melodic beauty was like a schoolgirl’s lament, lacking the basic ugliness of the horrors of slavery.

As “Spanish music” became more popular, we heard, for example, “El Plato Roto.” “Pancho tuvo que pagar / lo que rompio Rafael”…songs with sexual implications like double-entendre meanings wherein Pancho pays for what Rafael broke. El plato (plate, dish) and roto (broken) being a girl’s hymen. “El Bastidor” was another sly device, that sang of the hardness of a mattress as well as the durability of the male organ.

But these playful or sugary reflections did not have the blood and guts power of a song that spoke out the truth, loud and clear. They seemed to conceal, to hesitate or only hint at the slaves’ oppression. Just as the iron chains that restricted movement to just the four steps of la conga, there was no room in the lyrics to encourage rebellion, that is, until “Bruca Manigua. “Sin la libertad no puedo vivir / siempre tan maltrata”! This song touched and alerted a sensitive nerve that lay dormant in me, even having heard the sadness in the impoverished peanut vendor’s cry.

“Bruca” had sounded the key note and was followed soon by other brazen messages: “Yo Soy Karabali,” “Negro Nananboro,” Chano Pozo’s “Guaguina Yerabo,” Piniero’s “Yambo,” “Yambu” and “Lamento Borincano”… The ponderous quality of “Bruca” and the others, with all the drama that they exposed, still had more to follow even while holding me in vicarious empathy. Instead of doing my math, I played and replayed those records on my old phonograph, chained to it.

The full result of my original exposure and consequent entrancement with Afro-Latin music did not hit me until “Juan Fue Pa’ La Guerra,” with Daniel Santos singing “Quehago si vuelvo / y no encuentro a mi mama?” The composer was Pedro Flores. Here was a demoralizing song that ran counter to the US Army’s policy of allowing only militarized motivation for the sake of patriotic encouragement. This very touching song ended with the sad words, “What will I do should I return (from the war) and not find my mother (alive)?”

Since I was about to leave for the army, these sharp words were suddenly pertinent, more personal even those Miguelito Valdes sang in Arsenio Rodriguez’s “Bruca.” These words that included one’s mother hit home in two ways: the universal and the personal…the love that Latin sons in particular have for their mothers, and the son speaking not of his likely death in the army, but of his mother’s pain in not seeing her son again…his mother’s own dolorous ending…not his own pain over her death.

Such gut-wrenching lyrics exposed the quality of the culture that was behind the music. It being a sentimental blessing that produced such love, whether black or not.

This all surfaced and came together as a conscious awareness that I correlate with whenever I am in the physical presence of the people and their Afro-Latin music, or when alone with my conscience.

What Music Is About

2009-03-26T09:50:00.001-07:00

Among the ten top artistic directors and orchestral conductors is Daniel Barenboim, earning two million dollars a year, or should we say a season. In fact, these ten lucky individuals take in over ten million dollars in salaries! Not bad for a clique of sophisticated elitists in the symphonic and operatic establishments. Fundraising gala performances could use some housecleaning. Charity begins at home and should end in the street, where it will do the most good. To the people!

Are the complexities of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony any more challenging than a salsa montuno performed by Rene Lopez’s twelve-piece orchestra, where a close listener can catch experimental, classical, serial, modern and postmodern influences?

Music should serve to spread the maximum good the greatest audience. It should best be out of Lincoln Center’s grasp and out in the street for the people, by the people and of the people…a birthright. For every black tie fan attending the annual Mostly Mozart festival, a thousand Latinos are enjoying Marc Anthony’s latest hit.

A worldwide survey found Puerto Rico to be No. 1, the happiest place on earth. Is it because many poor families harbor at least one musician or more? More than an evening’s gala is present night and day in the Latin music that is in the air one breathes…out in the streets of P.R. It is not in the snooty confines of academic strongholds that are constantly begging for donations to stay alive while attendance dwindles. Is this not a good example of snobbism, where unknown names perform unknown opuses to a restricted, mostly tax-sheltered “select” audience?

When the average music teacher struggles to secure pupils that struggle to afford lessons themselves, this in itself restricts not only the appreciation of music but also its influence. Money should not only go into offering scholarships but also into making musical instruments available like library books to students who cannot afford to buy them, like giving them chances to learn how to fish, instead of giving a handout.

In an alley alongside a nightclub opposite El Capitolo in Havana once stood an old beat-up piano. It was placed there during the day and rolled out front at night where the Anacaona all-girl orchestra played on the sidewalk as people passed by. We could call it, today, a free concert. During the afternoon, anyone who wished to play that piano (while standing) could do so. Strangers would crowd around it and sing along as though they were fraternity boys joining in. They would continue singing as they left to continue their day. This is what music is really all about. It is our global anthem.

An Ear for Music

2009-03-26T09:43:00.000-07:00

Even before the Great Depression of the 1930s, many hungry children in New York without supervision would eat their crayons, swallow white paste, chew tar like gum, and ingest lead paint for salt. It was this lead, not decibels, that damaged my hearing. However, this unfortunate handicap served to introduce me to the exquisite sounds of Latin music.

The vibrating chords of a solo organ playing “Siboney” awoke a withdrawn child. The penetrating sounds of this grand orchestral device came from thousands of miles away, from the Hotel Nacional in Havana. “Siboney,” the theme song of the Lecuona Cuban Boys, came in via shortwave radio, full of static, fading in and out, at times completely silent, clearer in summer than winter and very late at night. “Turn off that radio!” my dad would shout from the other room. Turning down the volume a wee bit, I would bring the radio under the sheets with me, married as it were, to the music. Next day, I would fall asleep in class.

Between my family’s understandable protests, the poor reception in the early days of radio, and my troubled hearing, I could only remain frustrated by this foreign music. These novel sounds were unknown in this country during the 1930s, except for one magical tune that was heard around the world: “El Manisero.” I became determined to someday track down this elusive, enticing music to its source.

Today, some seventy years later, I still bring my radio up to my ear by using earphones, and while my hearing has worsened, the technology has improved. In 1941, the composer of “Siboney” invited me into his dressing room. He sat down at a small piano and, looking directly into my eyes, began to play “Estas Siempre en Mi Corazon.” “You are the first one to hear this song,” he said. This is where the music has been all these years, I thought…always in my heart

My Greenwich Village: Walking With Ghosts

2009-02-03T10:14:00.000-08:00

From an Interview with Vincent Livelli by Judy Samuels

Vincent Livelli first “awoke from infancy” at 117 Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village. It was when his mother took him to the window to see his first snow. She picked up a handful of snow from the window sill and put it in his hand. She taught him about fire the same way, but much more gingerly.

In the 1920s, European immigration was at its peak. The Village social parlor was the streets, which were arenas of volatile class tensions as well as communal mixing. The South Villagers, though mostly all Italian, were deeply divided by region and class — the Genoese looked down on the Sicilians; the Sicilians resented Genoese business success and adaptability (They called them the Jews of Italy). Vincent’s Genoese family owned the building they lived in, and their landlordly position stung the Sicilian tenants’ sense of pride.

Walking to school at P.S. 102 on Varick Street, Vincent would be bullied by kids on the street and sometimes spat on from a tenant’s window. He escaped this fate when he walked to Central Park with his older cousin Jimmy. Jimmy worked in the paper box industry in the manufacturing district now called Soho. Sometimes he carried his younger cousin on his shoulders. In Central Park, they would go skating on the frozen lake.

Vincent remembers, as do some of us, when the Jefferson Market Library, back then the Jefferson Market Courthouse, was of a piece with the Women’s House of Detention. The inmates would yell down through the barred windows to the street and throw messages to friends on Sixth Avenue. Around 1974, the Women’s House of “D” was torn down. Today its memory is blanketed under lush flowering plants in a lovingly-tended neighborhood garden.

Vincent was born in Brooklyn and at six months old moved to 117 Sullivan Street, which he shared with his mother, father, grandparents, Aunt Tessie and unmarried Uncle John. Just across the street was the stable where the teamsters’ horses were bedded down. Their carts were parked in the street right outside his window. Before there was window screening, flies from the horses would invade his room. He could look out his window on hot summer days and see the horses returning home tired from pulling the beer wagons through the city streets. He watched as they climbed slowly up the incline to their stalls, and as the impatient teamsters beat them to hurry them up. The misery of the overworked horses came through the window with the breeze that carried the smells of hay and horse urine. At three years old, Vincent saw policemen shoot horses that were foaming at the mouth from exhaustion. He saw them drag the bodies through the streets.

When excavation work began on the Sixth Avenue Subway, Vincent played in the mountains of sand that piled up. He lit the gas lamps in the hallways of 117, held aloft on his grandfather’s shoulders. The building had two communal toilets on each floor — the pull-chain kind — that served three families. The coolest places in the building, in summer they were a popular escape from the stifling apartments.

In the twenties, poisoning from lead paint didn’t recognize class differences. Many children suffered the effects of eating the flaked-off paint chips from apartment walls.

Vincent, despite being affected with permanent severe hearing loss, learned four languages, and learned to dance and love Latin music from his Sicilian mother. For his first lesson, she climbed up on the kitchen table and danced. She told him stories about the Black Cat, the cabaret on West Third Street, and Mori’s Restaurant on West Fourth, popular in the 40s, that had a fountain in its inner courtyard. But the San Remo Bar Vincent discovered on his own.

Located on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal Streets in the heart of Italian Greenwich Village, it became home to the “Village nobility” of the 1940s and ‘50s. Anatole Broyard, who Vincent met at Brooklyn College, was at the center of a literary circle that included French diarist Anaïs Nin, poet Delmore Schwartz, writers Milton Klonsky and William Gaddis, and other artists and writers.

At Brooklyn College, Vincent was an outsider among the mostly Jewish, staunchly Leftist crowd. Anatole Broyard, the son of a New Orleans carpenter and a light-skinned black man, was equally set apart. They became close friends for the rest of their lives. Though neither of his parents had finished elementary school, their son became a writer and a book critic for the New York Times. In 1938, the two got an apartment together on West Third Street where the rent was ten dollars a month. In 1945, they opened a bookstore at 18 Cornelia Street, which became a literary nucleus in the Village, a favorite hangout for Maya Deren, the high priestess of experimental cinema, and writer Terry Southern, among others. Anatole’s Greenwich Village memoir, Kafka was the Rage, ignited an interest in European literature.

In 1948, after serving in the army in World War II, a cold day job-seeking on Wall Street made Vincent dive into a steamship office to warm up. Destiny must have had a hand because the world suddenly opened up with that steamship office, and, instead of Wall Street, he picked up a job as cruise director on a ship to the Caribbean, a career which would take him to sixty-five countries. Back in New York City, in the midst of the Depression he learned Latin dance at the Park Plaza on 110^th Street off Fifth Avenue, where poor Puerto Rican and Cuban families went to reclaim their lost cultures.

In a letter to Anatole’s daughter, Bliss, Vincent told her how her father had “refereed a certain decorum” when engaged in heated literary discussions with others at the San Remo Bar. “Nimble with words, his sentences skipped along, churning the air with words never heard before. . . . “ Tempers raged in this bar atmosphere as people argued their literary opinions. “There were days when they would cross the street to avoid each other because of Proust.”

Late in the 1940s and into the ‘50s, the elegant iron grillwork began to disappear from many Village balconies. NYU began its expansion, and with it the historic streets of the Village were rearranged or broken up. For Vincent this was the time “Anaïs Nin opened her diaries [to the world], Sartre’s ‘Huit-Clos’ opened on Broadway, and the Mob controlled Saints’ Days.” The intimate romance of the Village was disappearing.

The building at 117 Sullivan Street is today a condominium. An apartment in this building with no super rents for $1,300 a month. Vincent Livelli spent the decades of the sixties and seventies traveling the world on cruise ships, a Latin-music missionary. “Is it not better,” he wrote to Bliss, “to follow the way of the self-forgiving solitary traveler?”

Vincent and Anatole were sharers in the post-World War II Village where friendship and love were bound together by love of poetry and literature. “Everyone was writing.” One afternoon, Vincent met James Baldwin coming out of the bar at the Carlton in Cannes, France. “He gave me his number, and when I called, he said he would do a portrait of me, in the style of Matisse or Van Gogh. He once sang for me to keep the cold at bay in his wind-swept loft.”

In 1954, Anatole’s first published story, “What the Cystoscope Said,” gained him status in the world beyond the Village, but strangely prefigured his death from cancer years later in 1990. From his experience as a patient, he wrote the collection of stories Intoxicated by My Illness; it was Anatole’s posthumous gift to the world. In it, he gave a literary voice to illness, suffering, sex, and death. "I’m not interested in the irony of my position,” he wrote. “Cancer cures you of irony. Perhaps my irony was in my prostate.”

Vincent, who “walks the Village with his friend’s ghost, knows this is where his heart still resides, among the landscapes of our happy youth. Thus, we are joined together not in sadness but in the feeling that we were so close to a miracle that we could have saved the world.”

Hot and Cold Memories

2009-02-03T10:05:00.000-08:00

Vincent Livelli, far right, in 1948 at the Embassy Club, Plaza San Martin, Buenos Aires

Unless one arrives in a foreign country with letters of introduction, it is necessary to form new friendships and new experiences on your own.

In 1948, I showed up in Buenos Aires with plenty of friends whom I had met aboard the SS Argentina. Furthermore, these new friends were all high society. For example, Luiz Herrera, the world polo champion and race-car driver, who was the Maradona of his day, when polo was what soccer is today in Argentina. Also Samuel Jankelovitch, Evita’s impresario, and the Urquiza family, like our Kennedy clan. These folks met me at the dock in their Cadillacs when I would return to Buenos Aires, at a time when importing foreign cars was illegal. It was also a time when, since the British had built the nation’s railroads, the sight of British tweed jackets, cravats and English Leather cologne was in evidence everywhere. Within this circle of companions, in a hospitable country, I felt comfortably ensconced…that is, until I recently read the book Tango: The Art History of Love, by Robert Farris Thompson.

Where I had always received a warm Buenos Aires welcome, had I arrived cold, my present memories of those days would be quite different.

I was hanging out with the wrong crowd, listening to white (chongo) tangos of Carlos Gardel and frequenting clubs with the aristocratic atmosphere of the 1940s tango del salon. Forever in the upper-crust company of politicos and shifty club owners, I stayed at fancy hotels such as the Plaza, across from the Embassy Club on Plaza San Martin, owned by a Señor Kootcher. His elegant club was where we danced and dined, dressed tenue de soiree, on my nightclub tour of Buenos Aires that included a stop at the La Querencia club for some gaucho entertainment (malambo zapateado) and ending at the Gong for Americanized Argentine jazz. After the tour, I would finish off the evening at Cabaret Tabaris. This club was balconied and had a telephone at each table, which allowed you to connect with attractive unescorted ladies—and idea borrowed from European clubs.

Until I read Prof. Thompson’s Tango, I was unaware that there was another Argentina, where tango is to its citizens what rumba is to Cubans. During the time I lived in Havana, Cuban society was already beginning to more openly accept Afro-Cuban talent, whereas Argentina during that era of more British-influenced mores, was hiding the African origins of its national dance—its beating heart.

True, there were districts in Buenos Aires that were equivalent to the solares, patios and bateys of Havana, but I never knew of them. Never did I see Afro-influenced canyengue tango, where the male partner’s knees are bent with his torso pushed forward (this style is similar to Killer Joe’s hot rumba as he showed it to us at the Palladium). Nor did I enjoy black malambo, a dance of ritual purification that, like teeza maza, features explicit foot stomping as part of the tango. I never knew the ki-kongo power that drives the tango. I would not have feared entering the La Boca district, the city’s inner port with its bars and brothels, where tango was born.

Like being in love, faithful to one woman all my life, I only knew Afro-Cuban cultures, until I read that tango was born of the same mother: Mother Africa. Now my vocabulary includes yumba (“God’s command”), mufa (“bad luck”), mayembo (“trembling shoulders”) and other words added to my Afro-Cuban abrecuto quri dinga and babarabatibi coibi, etc.

Where I easily found Africa in Belize, not to mention Haiti or Boriqua, I feel I was cheated of memories that would today take me, like those I have of Cuba, to darkest Africa—the darker and hotter, the better.

Refugees in Havana

2009-02-03T09:55:00.000-08:00

Havana in 1941 was one of the gayest cities on earth. With pristine beaches, lively music, tobacco, rum and beautiful women in abundance, it was a tropical paradise in the sun. Who could choose a better location to wait out the war in Europe?

In the upper-class sector of Havana, Vedado, about thirty families were living, not as Cuban refugees, but Jewish refugees. They had managed to escape the Nazi persecution but they lived from day to day in despair, with no means of support other than donations from Jewish charities. Many had endangered relatives in Europe. With little chance of returning to the ruins of their former homes, they survived as best they could. Not permitted to hold jobs in Cuba, they were desperate people.

Among the professionals, artists and businessmen, were many tailors whose wives took needle and thread in hand and made neckties for sale. During the Great Depression, this strategy had earned poverty stricken Jewish families money for food. The gift of a necktie for father at Christmastime arose then, during the birthdays and holidays, as a result of this activity.

Since Christmastime encouraged the greater display of decoration, these Christmas ties enlivened the male wardrobe, adding cheer to a sad time in America, and helped to break the somber style of dress in general in America.

In Cuba, however, the tropical climate and the absence of air-conditioning meant a need for loose clothing. An example is found in the typical Cubavera, a shirt with an unbuttoned neckline and no tuck-in at the waist. Even today, neckties are being abandoned in greater numbers around the world.*

When the Jewish refugees saw me passing by daily, they became more and more curious, and more suspicious of me. Could I also be a refugee, they wondered? I was approached by the salesman one afternoon, who had at last spotted a likely customer. Here was a gentleman who actually was wearing a tie in Havana!

It was an easy sale. I bought a tie since I could not only use one, but because the price was cheap. Besides, it was practical souvenir of Cuba to take with me when I returned home, to remind me of those who had lost theirs.

* Climate change?

Two Years in the Life

2008-12-21T18:32:00.000-08:00

1939: Winter audition for Major Bowles Original Radio Amateur Hour, at Ed Sullivan Theater. Buyú, Julio Andino and Ruben Berrios, piano, two brothers on guitars. I managed the band (with rhumba shirt); clavero. No luck. Tried at Chin Lee’s Restaurant, near the Latin Quarter Night Club. No luck. No money.

1939: Went with Julio to meet Machito at the Half Moon (one flight up, Broadway and West 81st Street), after aforementioned audition for Major Bowles. Passed out from rum. Julio put me in the subway, Fort Hamilton local to the last stop.

1939: Met Katherine Dunham dancers and Jack Cole dancers and hung out at the Cuban Village amusement area, New York World’s Fair. As an understudy, I learned el diabolito and la mula and el sacraficio, Nanigo dances. I was fired for shooting dice in the dressing room.

1939: At the Café Latino, Greenwich Village, shot crap with Buyú in the cellar (now called One If By Land, Two If By Sea, an expensive restaurant).

1939: Met Nino “the Great” Yacovino. Joined his troupe, three couples. Worked at the Rhumba Casino at West-End, Long Branch, New Jersey. Did solo with my partner, Gloria Cook (“Cookie” was Al Jolson’s mistress). Have photos and clippings. Joined La Playa Dance Troupe and worked the Wonder Bar on Woodward Avenue in Detroit (great show town!). Met Raoul and Eva Reyes there. Cugat at the Statler Hotel in Detroit, on tour. Frank Sinatra was at Ross Fenton Farms in New Jersey.

1939: Stayed at the Kingsley Arms Hotel, Asbury Park, NJ, where I had my studio in the solarium and taught Rhumba.

1940–41: Received wire to go to Miami Beach to join Cuban Troupe, three couples, plus Pepito and Carmen at the Carrousel Club cum revolving bar, featuring the craze: La Conga! Taught dancers around Miami Beach hotels, in my own studios: Bali Club, Hotel National off Lincoln Road, and at the Tatem Surf Club (exclusive Christian “No Jews” policy). Also at Coral Gables Country Club (restricted). Orchestra Ina Ray Hutton, all-girl orquesta. Attended University of Miami; exchange scholarship to University of Havana.

Remembering the Village

2008-12-21T18:21:00.000-08:00

Letter to archivist Henry Medina

Dear Henry:

Your interest in Greenwich Village shows me that you are an artist at heart. With me, it was an accident of birth that placed me here, fortunately. I say fortunately because this is where I feel I most belong. If I could have had a choice, it would have been here or Paris, so much so that when I meet a Parisian, I feel I have much in common with him.

This is where I awoke from infancy when my mother took me to the window to show me snow in the backyard. My first view of “the world” was a beautiful one. Because the Ninth Ward (as Greenwich Village was once called, in the early 20th century) was so overrun with violence from street gangs, it was unsafe for me to play in the street. Furthermore, since we were landlords, there was much envy and hostility toward my family. I was only allowed out in the company of my grandmother or my uncle, on their daily visit to St. Anthony’s Church (Shrine), that my grandfather was instrumental in establishing on Thompson Street. He hoped to help the community and at the same time increase property values in the neighborhood. Today, his dream is realized, I’m happy to say.

He admired and spoke often of the Germans, a more settled element in the city. “A walk in G.V.” referred to row houses north of Washington Square Park. These stately mansions were called, in my grandfather’s time and even today, the Rhinelander Estates (now owned by NYU). He had traveled all over Germany as his old passport shows, and was in the piano-string business at 5 Bedford Street, with a German family. He may very well have built the hurdy-gurdy organ that he’d carried around Europe as a musiker. He owned a stable and opened a bar to sell German beer. In those days, the Genoese families in the Village drank beer more than wine, since it was more readily available. When I was 9 or 10, I would go for beer for the men working on West Broadway (now Soho), bailing rags and paper. They called such young children “go-fors” in English, even though the men working the huge compacting machines were all Italian-Americans.

My father was a journalist, having been born in New York and having graduated high school. He began his newspaper career as Arthur Brisbane’s office boy and worked his way up to investigative reporter with the New York World and the New York American, both Hearst newspapers. He may also have worked at the old New York Evening Post (the editor was a certain Mr. Swope).

The Village at this time was very crowded with poor immigrant families. Walking to PS 102, on Varick Street, I would be bullied, and sometimes spit on from tenants up at windows who identified me with my landlord family. Soon I was not allowed the natural pursuits of young kids and was kept tied to the fire escape. A cousin older than I would walk me up to Central Park and back, especially in the winter to ice skate on the lake. He would have to carry me home on his shoulders since it was quite far for me to walk. He would skate with me on his shoulders as well. His mother, my aunt Tessie, and my unmarried Uncle John, my grandparents, and my mom and dad were all obliged to live in the building. For safety, my dad moved me and Mom back to Brooklyn when I was 10 or 11. I had originally been born in Brooklyn, at a time when all the apartments in my grandfather’s building at 117 Sullivan Street were taken. As soon as a vacancy occurred, when I was 6 months old, my dad had us moved into my grandfather’s building, so I consider myself a Villager.

I remember what is now the Jefferson Market Courthouse Library, when it had a women’s prison attached to its property. That part was torn down around 1960, especially since the ladies would be yelling down from the barred windows at friends and passersby in the street and along Sixth Avenue. I played, jumping in the mountains of sand being excavated while they were building the Sixth Avenue subway, coming home all sandy. My real playground was Washington Square Park, where I was taken daily after visiting Pompeii Church and St. Anthony’s, to ride my tricycle…the envy of the neighborhood kids whose families could not buy them one. We sat by Garibaldi’s statue, since my father was a “Garibalino,” instrumental in raising money for the statue. He came to America in 1861 to join Garibaldi, who was living on Staten Island at that time, prior to leaving to fight in Peru against the Spaniards. He bought acres of empty land in Rego Park and Forest Hills but sold it in order to finance his son, Dominick (my uncle), who was running for mayor of Hoboken, where there was a very large community of Sicilians (who were being oppressed by the Irish political machine and made to work for a dollar a day paving streets). My uncle lost the election, and we became much poorer over time.

Today the rent for an apartment in what was my grandfather’s building on Sullivan Street is averaging $2,000 a month. Next to this building, I remember outhouses before there was central plumbing. The people called them “back houses,” as the historian Barry Lewis mentions. In Italian, “bacahows” or “cessos” (the second word comes from “cesspool” in English). Today you enter a tight alley to go into the backyard of the two buildings, where now there is a small cottage. This occurred in many instances where the space was used to build cottages where formerly there were crude toilets. Even as late as the 1960s there was a public toilet (men and women) around 17 Perry Street. Most of the kids were poisoned eating lead paint chips, as they still are today in poor neighborhoods in the Bronx and elsewhere in the city.

My mother loved dancing, and spoke of the cabaret named the Black Cat (I think it was on West Third Street, in the 1920s). Mori’s was the popular restaurant on West Fourth Street in 1945, which had a fountain in the interior yard. MacDougal Street was lined until just after the Second World War with private mansions with iron balconies and railings. The Provincetown Playhouse was there in 1946 through 1948, as was a nice club called Salle de Champagne, where guests sat on cushioned seats and drank champagne. A jazz spot named George’s was at the northeast corner, at 69 Bleeker Street and Seventh Avenue, and then, after the war, there was Louie’s on West Fourth and Barrow (today the One if by Land restaurant is located down the street).

In the hot summers when I was a child in the Village, horses would die in the streets, cops would shoot them, flies entered windows before screening, and recalling stable smells keeps me from liking horses to this day. I lit the gas lamps in the hallways of my grandpa’s building, while carried on my dad’s shoulders. The two communal toilets on each floor served three families and were the coolest places to escape the hot apartments. My dad bought me clothes on Orchard Street and, at 8 years old, I was always wearing a hat, which I took off to greet people as I bowed to them. My best friend was the son of the Jewish candy-store owner on Prince Street, when I was 9. My childhood in the Village was proper and not difficult compared to other kids, many of whom went to jail. Today, my Village is an abode of memories that will inhabit me forever.

“Nague, Nague, Nague”

2008-12-21T18:14:00.000-08:00

Machito would begin the Rumba Matinees at La Conga singing his theme song that immediately identified his Afro Cuban roots. This was a dividing departure from the “Allá en el Rancho Grande” format that Anglos had become accustomed to hearing from orchestras. Machito blazed a trail, along with Noro Morales who preceded him at La Conga but who played more bolero and a more toned-down rumba, so that when Machito broke onto the scene, it was a momentous turn in sound: more the real thing that had been waiting in the wings.
Mario Bauzá’s insistence on a jazz hookup is understandable in terms of improved Anglo public exposure and money-wise, as well as a musical innovation. But Machito had his ears and his pulse tuned to the minority, his loyal following at La Conga that barely tolerated the mixture that was forced upon them by Bauzá. I recall the dancer and listener reaction around the room as Mario and Machito acted uncomfortably with each other on the bandstand, with Mario struggling to get the band behind his efforts as he stood off to the right-hand side, leading rather desperately (and rather obviously to us all) while Machito stood in front of the band playing along with his maracas with cool confidence in his Afro-Cubanos. Perhaps the orishas were on his side, and he seemed to know it—and so did Mario.

Machito correctly understood the reaction of befuddled dancers when Mario sprang “Tanga” on them. They had come to dance, not to stumble over Latin jazz. Jazz is great for the brain and the ear, but Latin is for the feet and the heart. Minus dance floors, the Blue Note, Birdland and the old Granada in the Village never enjoyed the crowds of the Copa.

One can call jazz sophisticated or (forgive me) a subtle, contrived snobbery that is at home in vaporous, smoke-filled darkness, demanding respect from its audience. Latin is for extroverts, for public spectacles and displays of exuberance. It applauds mobile ability—but where would it be without the dexterity of all the musicians? Jazz is musical embroidery, ingenious, involved in amazing trickery. Both are infectious with shock potential and as creators of artifice, both can cleanse us of demons while employing intriguing style. Both transmit a lingering presence—a rush, a charge, an afterglow, a satisfaction like an intoxicant that enlarges our spirits.

Perhaps most of all, jazz, Latin, Afro, et al, are best described as testimonials to one’s artistic and very human individuality. They are demonstrations of mankind’s God-given sensitivity, and of his struggle to excel. Music is not only a fact of the natural world—as sentient creatures with creative instincts, it is embedded in all of us, like love.

When I met Graciela in 1941, playing with Anacaona in front of the Capitolio, I knew that her Afro sound would someday reach Broadway. It was Cugat and Miguelito Valdez who brought “Babalu” to America—first heard at the Beachcomber in Miami Beach, in ’41 and then in ’42 at the Waldorf-Astoria—and first teased the ears of those of us who wanted more. Machito filled that gap when he shook off Cugat’s refinement, which had constrained the authentic (often nañigo) roots, and finally pioneered the remarkable Afro-Cubano phenomenon. We can compare Cugat’s motivation, a financial consideration, with Arthur Murray’s manipulation of the authentic rumba, as well as Bauzá’s surrender to jazz influences. Music sounds “right” when separated from money, as in the desperately poverty-stricken areas of Africa where it comes from the soul and not from the pocket. That holds true for jazz as well as for Afro. All musicians are brothers, but not all music is harmonious. Music is a large familia that doesn’t always get along, even for reasons other than money. It is saddest when music itself, to soother of beasts, is the cause and the public suffers.

The last time I sat with Machito and spoke of the happy times we knew, it was at Roseland where he, in the late ’70s, played to a small crowd of mostly senior citizens and old widows—the music that they could manage to dance to. The gloom that was evident weighed on us. Latin jazz and hip-hop would be coming to Broadway. Bauzá had triumphed—but back in New Orleans, you can still hear some of the folks singing “Give me back that old time rhythm.”

Vince in the Brooklyn Rail

2008-12-21T18:00:00.000-08:00

Read the feature story by Alan Lockwood about Vincent Livelli -- "Man of the Village, Man of the World." It appeared in the Brooklyn Rail in April, 2008.

Salsa on the High Seas (Salsa Sobre las Olas)

2008-12-21T17:54:00.000-08:00

Two octaves below A-major, the ship’s horn of the Fiestamarina signals the sailing from Miami. Un crucero con sabor latino, con tumbao y rumbon, nace un nuevo concepto en la industria maritima, un idea que iba cerciendo paso a paso.
Music has accompanied man’s voyages throughout history. The major naval forces of the world all have their bands; Tito Puente played in one. Roman galleys rowed to the beat of a drum, and King Ludwig floated on a barge in his castle with Richard Wagner. Back in 1807, opulent pleasure boats plied the New York waterways featuring cotillions with large orchestras aboard, ending with fireworks. On whaling ships during months-long hunts, seamen danced to chanties. The French ship Jean Mermoz featured symphony cruises. In Venice, gondoliers row to arias. Circle Line boats have cruises called “Mambo on the Hudson” and “Merengue on the Hudson,” and in Paris the bateaux-mouche sail until dawn playing porros and excellent salsa. From the lone accordionist on the ferry crossing New York Harbor, to the Fiestamarina, with its musical emphasis and Latin musical heritage—a powerful combination. Salsa sobre las olas…salsa on the high seas.

Back in 1948, three ships called the Good Neighbor Fleet sailed from Pier 32, New York, on 38-day cruises to South America. The orchestras of the Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay struggled with Latin rhythms. They played fox trots from New York to Port of Spain, calypso from Trinidad to Bahia, then samba as far as Santos and then from there to Buenos Aires…the tango. Along the coasts of the Caribbean islands, gyroscopic proto-salseros danced on the waters that served as the ideal conductors for the electricity found in Latin music.

It was after the passengers retired that the true Latin spirit manifested itself in the form of the crew conjunto that formed every night on the aft end of the ship. The espantaneo-type band might feature such artists as “Hot Lips” Garcia from El Barrio, and Doroteo Santiago, who popularized “Amor Perido,” “Tu No Comprendes” and “Dolor Cobarde,” right from the Happy Boys at the Park Plaza on 110th Street. Earlier each evening, Hot Lips had played “Malaguena Salerosa” to call the passengers to dinner each night. His trumpet replaced the gong, mournfully echoing in half-time down the long companionways of the ship, from deck to deck.

Musical Mission of Mercy

2008-12-21T17:46:00.000-08:00

At the turn of the century, Asbury Park and Sarasota Springs were the gambling meccas of the northeast. The Depression put an end to their heydays. An attempt was made to place gambling on the Jersey Shore at Long Branch. The Rumba Casino, where I worked with the Tony (Nino) Yacavino troupe, was chosen as an experiment to see if it could offer gamblers what they needed. Jimmy Pellecchia was the owner and Harry Kilby was the front man. Harry booked the shows together with his wife and daughter, who came down from New York. Jimmy was boxing commissioner of New Jersey, and Nino had been a boxer before becoming an accomplished dancer.

Similarly, in Miami Beach, Lou Tendler, a champion boxer from Philadelphia, was part owner of the Carrousel Club, with its revolving bar and air-conditioning in 1940. I caught pneumonia dancing and sweating, due to it, and my colleague Pepito became very ill as well. We were not accustomed to it, and Pepito used to stand with his back to a large fan during rehearsal breaks. I also suffered severe hearing loss partially due to the blasting trumpets just behind me as I performed night after night. We liked our music loud even then, I guess.

Gambling interests figured that Asbury Park would be a more suitable location but that didn’t take off, and of course today you have them at Atlantic City. 1952 found me on a 90-day round-the-world cruise, escorting 17 Brazilian millionaires. One of the passengers on the ship was Filipino who owned the Manila Herald and the Jai Lai Fronton. He persuaded me and my ex-wife to perform after seeing us giving dance lessons during the trip.

For the many years spent on ships, the Champagne Hour was one of my favorite evenings, when I MC’d the show. Passengers could chose their own dance selections and a bottle was awarded in each category. We did the conga line bit to begin each sailing, off with a big happy start to the cruise…and did it at the last night as well. On the S.S. Oceanic, we had four bands which were placed at intervals among the participants (which meant everyone aboard, just about). Going from salon to salon, one would hear different orchestras overlapping, as was the case in Havana at the Palacio Gallego, on different floors of the building.

In 1940, the danzon was the most played style, except at the sidewalk cafes in front of the Capitolio, where bands like Anacaona played mostly rumba. Here again, the music would overlap since the bands were adjacent to each other. In the afternoons, along the Malecon, there were small bars indoors that had 3 or 4 musicians playing on concrete floors for dancers. Rum was cheap and the dancers were poor, but happy, made so by the combination of two sweet forces at work.

Sunday mornings we went to the Bosques de Almendares to drink and dance, and some to swim, later. We also rode horses in the cool of the early morning, at El Encanto. The perfume wafted out into Calle Nettuno (or was it Calle Luna?). Havana was a rare mix, a garden of earthly delights, which was irresistible to all…a conspiracy of seductive temptations. It was as though one had been imprisoned all his life, and suddenly released in a gay and friendly world…so unlike anywhere else on earth. To bring the Cuban spirit to the rest of the world by means of its music is today a mission of mercy to a beset planet.

The Journey of a Thousand Dollars (Begins with One Box Step)

2008-11-10T08:17:00.000-08:00

The seeds of many of the philanthropies that benefit Cuban and Portoriquen communities today were planted in Miami Beach in the 1940s. Jewish charitable organizations had been busy assisting arriving immigrants from European ghettos at the beginning of the twentieth century. They later became involved in the labor movement where many Italians worked for slave wages. After WWII, attention was turned to the blacks of the South. Today, Latino families are being favored with parks, playgrounds, pools and programs sponsored by the many Jewish philanthropies.

In 1940, vacationers from Bensonhurst and Flatbush found paradise in the sun of South Beach, where they were exposed to the delightful music of nearby Havana. Soon entranced by the rhythm of the rumba, they helped give rise to the clubs along the beach such as the Five O’Clock Club, the Carrousel and the Patio at the Roney Plaza, that featured Latin spectacles and free conga lessons. New hotels going up along Collins Avenue had to include, usually off the lobby, a dance studio that added the essential tumult. There being few professional dance teachers, those wanting to perfect their box step appealed to the nightclub performers for instruction. The five or six teachers that were taking pupils were soon overwhelmed by the dance mania that had developed seemingly overnight. Former wallflowers were seen doing tornillos by the pool with their slick-haired Latinos.

The similarity between Jewish and Latino cultures, both being family oriented, made for bonding so that the unison persisted even up into the Catskills in New York during the summer months. New clubs sprang up in New York City following the venerable Havana Madrid, named La Conga, Versailles, Yumuri and Fe Fe’s Monte Carlo, offering Saturday and Sunday rumba matinees. In such close proximity to the Garment Center, it was natural to find “our crowd”: the furriers, clothiers, milliners, cloak and suit boys with their models.

While I will always credit fully the magic of the music, I sometimes feel that my old dance studio in the lobby of the National Hotel on the beach contributed the first step that helped bring today’s descendents of my original pupils, the original rumbaniks, to center stage in the Latino-oriented Jewish philanthropies.

A Dancer Is Born

2008-10-26T19:07:00.000-07:00

Singers want to be actors and actors want to be dancers, but none of them want to be prize fighter. But prize fighters make good dancers. With their speed, balance, endurance and courage, they are unequaled in performance before the public. Millions of dollars are paid to witness them in action and millions are wagered on the outcomes.

I was taught to dance by a prize fighter named Nino “The Great” Yacavino, but also how to be my best in managing my life with an emphasis on performance.

We were always attracted to prize fighters while growing up. All I had to do was look out my bedroom window to watch matches presented by the Bay Ridge Boxing Association, with the ring set up on the tennis court grounds that in the winter were used as a skating rink. I had a free ringside set to watch graceful boxers, ice skaters and tennis players.

My mother, who used to dance in her red dress on the top of a table at family gatherings, was a fight fan who in summer vacationed at Tony Cammonari’s training camp in the Catskills, and who took me to see Prima Carnera on stage at Loew’s Sheridan in the Village, where we lived while growing up. My dad, on the other hand, was less interested in pugilism and the fight crowd. Mom was a tough cookie, a fighter who beat the Great Depression.

Nino Yacavino was a Brooklyn fighter who wanted something better for himself than a brutal beating. He and his wife and sister-in-law organized a dance troupe that included a Latin dance teacher and his partner, and needed only one other member for his tall sister-in-law. My height got me the job, not my dancing ability, since I couldn’t even do the fox trot and had difficulty finding patent leather shoes to fit me. What I did have was a familiarity with Latin music and the rhythms of the 1938 Casino de la Playa orchestra from Havana.

Being tall for my age at 18, I tended to slouch so that when Nino contacted me, the first thing he did was teach me how to walk across the room balancing a book on my head. Since his nightclub date was fast approaching, he and his wife soon had me doing the box step and learning our routines, which included rumba, bolero and samba. To learn more, I went to the Park Plaza, where the best Latin dance team in America, Rene and Estela, taught me more basic movements so that a dancer was born!

During the ‘30s, the boxing profession was Mafia, as was horseracing and many of the nightclubs with “cut liquor,” betting parlors and gambling rooms. Nino may or may not have been involved with the Mafia but he did succeed where others failed by getting us a full summer’s gig at the Rumba Casino in West End, Long Branch, New Jersey. The place was perhaps a gambling joint but well concealed from us. It was owned by Jimmy Pellechia, boxing commissioner of New Jersey, who later served time for mortgage fraud (see the Daily News, 1938). When the club signed up a troupe called the China de Simone Dancers, there was among the girls Gloria Cook, an ex-mistress of Al Jolson with whom I did a duo act with fast rumba and lifts. When Jimmy Pellechia fell in love with my partner Gloria, he gallantly offered me a dance studio in the solarium of the Kingsley Arms Hotel in Asbury Park, which he owned. Food and board were on him for the balance of the summer season on the Jersey shore, since he broke up my act by taking Gloria to Hawaii.

Then, back in New York City, I teamed up with a dance student at Davalos Dance Studio on Broadway and 50th Street, and found myself in a Latin troupe formed by Davalos, for a performance at the Beacon Theater upstate in Beacon, New York. This led to my hanging around the Cuban Village at New York’s 1939 World’s Fair, as an understudy for the troupe that had been hired there. Whenever free, I frequented all the Latin dance spots around town: the Audubon Ballroom, the Park Plaza, the Masonic Lodge on 106th Street, the Caborojeno Workers Circle, Ben Mardes’ Riviera Club, and the more elegant nightspots such as Havana-Madrid, Versailles, Martinique and Embassy, until I was called to join Bob Conrad’s La Playa Dancers, booked into the Wonder Bar in Detroit in winter, 1939. Xavier Cugat was playing at the Statler Hotel there at the time.

My next gig was to be at the Carrousel Club in Miami, where I opened two dance studios at the new National Hotel and the Royal York in 1940, as well as at the exclusive Tatum Surf Club. While attending the University of Miami, I was working nights at the Coral Gables Country Club. It was in 1940 that I first visited Havana for a weekend, then again to attend the University of Havana in 1941 [see the blog entry “An Afro-Cuban Blessing”].

While in the military during the war, I performed Latin dance for US troops in the Philippines, then returned to the US to teach Latin at Grossinger’s Hotel with the Tony and Lucille Colon Dance Studio, along with Mike Terrace and Johnny Lucchese. In 1948, I began a long career on cruise ships as cruise director. Wherever travel took me, I spoke, danced and taught conga, bolero, rumba (fast and slow), plus the beguine and the merengue, samba, tango, pachanga, mambo (“Mambo #5” was a nation-wide hit and made Perez Prado famous) and the Mexican waltz—but still stumbled over a fox trot!

Prize fights and nightclubs during the early 1940s were gang-controlled turf that exposed me to people such as Santo Trafficante in Cuba, who invited me to be a “shill” with the tourists I escorted. I asked Bugsy Siegel for permission to dance with Virginia Hill, his gal, at the Beachcomber in Miami Beach. I asked Skinny D’Amato if he knew Jimmy Pellechia, the ex-boxing commissioner of New Jersey, jailed for fraud. The Musicians Union boss Petrillo may not have been “mob,” but I shook his pinky as he demanded.

My second nightclub gig was at the Carrousel Club in 1941. It was bankrolled with some of the money belonging to champion fighter Lou Tendler from Philadelphia. The Wonder Bar in Detroit, a city riddled with unemployed ex-Prohibition mobsters, was “mob,” as was the gambling joint called Club Bali in Miami, where I lost my paycheck every week. The 1939 Rhumba Casino, as we’ve seen, was Jimmy Pellechia’s, whose mob ties and gambling debts put him behind bars.

At the MGM, Las Vegas, in 1976, I ran into a friend, Wingy Gruber, the one-armed greeter from my old Club Bali days, not to mention from the crowds at the Tropicana in Havana. In the ‘70s, the cruise industry became big-time casino business, and I quit just as I could have made my knowledge pay off. Perhaps the African gods, the orishas, were talking to me about justice and the little man.

Fighters make good dancers, but dancers don’t make good fighters, as the following incident explains. One night at the Rhumba Casino, Nino Yacavino suffered a sudden appendicitis attack. He was throwing up bile and perspiring profusely. He pushed us away when we tried to restrain him from going out on the floor to perform. Coming off stage, he went to the hospital, semiconscious.

This was something Nino couldn’t teach me: how to be a true trouper, an average fighter who gets up off the floor to be a prize fighter, like my mom—who I taught to dance the mambo.

An Afro-Cuban Blessing

2008-06-30T12:05:00.000-07:00

Havana, 1941

In a wooden shed that was mostly an altar of some sort, with much of the open sky for a roof, lived the most highly respected Santero in all of Cuba. He lived among a jumbled botanica of wax flowers, unrelated plaster saints of various sizes, and framed deities. Small sacks with secret contents were handing from the trees…. In short, I found myself visiting an authentic sanctuary in a spiritual jungle. Nevertheless, I felt strangely at ease in this unlikely garden, in this absurd theater, in this unfamiliar makeshift environment.

All this had actually begun a few nights earlier, when after an all-night party, I had left Miami for Havana to study at the University of Havana with Professor Bustamonte. On the way to the Hotel Inglaterra with my hangover, I kept my eyes shut against the Cuban sun. Being siesta, the empty streets seemed uninteresting. Once in my room, I fell onto the bed and into the arms of Morfeo. Around seven o’clock, I was slowly awakened by an approaching musical alarm. From the balcony window came sounds from the street. Unaccustomed to balconies, I grasped the railing to steady myself. Down below ran a river of colored lanterns gyrating among ruffle-skirted and ruffle-shirted dancers. With ceremonious authority, a parade of intensely disciplined congueros passed by as if in review. When the spectators below stood on their chairs, no doubt the highlight of the spectacle was approaching. Los Dandys de Belen were strutting by, New Orleans–style, with tails, spats, twirling canes and top hats. “Sient’ un bongo, mamita me’ta llamando, sient’ un bongo…”

I had arrived in Havana, unaware that it was Carnival. This was not mere touristic, theatrical display. Imagine my amazement. This was more than theme floats and majorettes…this was serious universal harmony…the splendor of a joyous humanity. The fireworks were in the eyes of these people. Where did the individual begin and the rhythm begin, since they were one? Overcome, and like an espantaneo, I ran down and plunged into the delirium of it all, falling in step with the elegant/primitive fantasy. I had gone from a stupor that hot afternoon, arriving in Havana for the first time, to the sobering sudden discovery of one of life’s true amazements: a bounteous gaiety ready to be shared with the whole world. Like winning the lottery of felicity.

Several days later, I mentioned casually to a student friend that I had been having difficulty reading Dr. Fernando Ortiz and Orifiche. I was struggling with the Lukumi vocabulary and negligible Spanish. He suggested crossing over to Regla to meet Juan Beson. There may still be people who remember this most influential babalao, with his tall, thin noble stance and his solitary front tooth that, like a badge, evinced a certain sincerity.

“What is he up to?” I wondered, as I stood back watching him light some candles. “He is invoking La Virgen de Regla, asking for protection for your house,” said my friend. The babalao was responding to the answer I had given him when he asked me, “Why have you come here?” (This is the same question a psychologist asks a new patient.) I was unprepared with a reply and with Ñañigo proverbs traveling Quixote-like around my brain, I was about to confess that it was not my intention to come…that my friend had suggested it…when I stammered…“la…la música.”

At that moment, the night surrounding us seemed to physically withdraw itself in respectful silence. From this tableau of a babalao, a young American and his Cuban friend, a trinity emerged like three magi in a holy night. As I received his blessing, I felt that he knew very well why I had come to Regla. “You will carry this music around the world,” he said. Was this a prophesy, or a command of sorts? Was it an example of his psychic insight? Whatever the meaning, it has influenced me all my life…of that there is no doubt. Knowing absolutely nothing of the technicalities of music, but now much imbued with the workings of its mysterious power. Was I to go forth like a neophyte apostle, an evangelist proselytizer?

Much shaken by this truly religious experience, I wondered: Was his odd statement merely an example of lyrical rhetoric? And example of pastoral eloquence, an embellishment of a ritual, a divinely inspired assignment? A fortuitous indoctrination, a revelation that made me a propagator of this music? A step toward my greater spiritual education, a sacred covenant, an oracular portent? An inescapable aesthetic responsibility that made me involved, indebted, privileged? A canonization witnessed by invisible Orishas, an unexpected imposition that made me an instrument of the music itself? Was the santero a channeler between Yemaya and a new convert?

After this encounter, one fact emerges from the overall picture of my life. I can see that I have faithfully “carried the music around the world.” Returning from Cuba in 1941, I opened dance studios all along Miami Beach; performed with the La Playa Dancers around the United States; exhibited rumba with the USO in Samar, Phillipines; run the Champagne Dance Contests aboard cruise ships; lead the immensely popular conga lines of the 1950s; taught with Tony and Lucille Colon at Grossinger’s; lectured oral history of the music at the Smithsonian; and donated my poster collection of Latin orchestras to Boys Harbor. I was given a dream in Regla that today I see slowly materializing into reality, like a plant I have watered. Surely we make the world a better place with this happy music…a duty that is set before all mankind…is it not? So it was foretold that I would one day write this for you to read.

“Blessed is he who has found his work.” —Thomas Carlyle

Homage to the Heroes

2008-04-24T05:10:00.000-07:00

A visit to Staten Island's Meucci-Garibaldi Museum. Livelli pere was a fan.

Vince's 88th Birthday

2008-04-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

On April 9, 2008, Vincent gathered with friends for a "Testimonial Dinner" at the Pearl Oyster Bar in Greenwich Village, which occupies the building where the Cornelia St. Bookstore once stood. Vincent owned the shop with his good friend, the literary critic Anatole Broyard. What follows is Vince's address:

"Sixty years ago, Greenwich Village was a nice quiet neighborhood. We went to war as kids and came back as men, more mature but still unsophisticated and unpolished, in spite of our overseas exposure. Even with its bohemian background of poetry circles, speakeasies, rebellious antecedents and whispers of free love, we were young and innocent in many ways—especially where art and literature were involved.

One man’s dream, a bookstore, put a roof over what went on and became a kind of family kitchen for the cultural nourishment of young local artists and writers who came in to sit around a potbellied stove talking of Proust, Celine and Kafka well into the dark hours of a cold winter night.

The Cornelia Street Bookstore, even though it failed after only eight months, had made us take notice of our vacuous knowledge of good literature. The idea of upgrading the level of our taste and familiarity with good reading was based on offering, not trashy pulp fiction, but the avant-garde, unknown authors such as Henri Michaux, European intellectuals, first editions, out-of-prints, signed copies, books of collectible value, rarities.

Anatole soon created a class of readers whose hunger now demanded quality. People were seen reading and carrying books or talking books on Washington Square Park benches. The bookshop failed, not for lack of funds, demand or location (Cornelia is rather hidden away, as streets go). It failed because Anatole was unable to provide the merchandise to stock his shelves that began to look like bare cupboards. In other words, the demand outgrew the supply of suitable books. To make things worse, Anatole was reluctant to part with his favorite tomes and became a serious collector rather than a dealer.

With the bookstore gone, he stored his precious collection in Sheri Martinelli’s apartment on Jones Street. When she discovered his other girlfriends, she vengefully shipped his books to Somers, New Jersey, until he would change his ways, she hoped. Such desperate holding hostage of his soul may have been resolved some way or other, but I never learned how.

Anatole’s customers followed him into the San Remo restaurant where we set up a literary salon as a replacement for the back room of the bookstore, When the Santini brothers heard us talking about d’Annunzio and Pirandello, Lorca and Boccaccio, we were made welcome. The new cultural impact we originated was to be usurped by the arrival of drugs. In Kafka Was the Rage, Anatole wrote “Books were our drugs.” He and I witnessed and bemoaned this detour of our country’s cultural history.

Today, with technology, you have the equivalent of the printing press. Use it to recapture the healthier, friendlier, freer universal societal climate that we earlier guys and gals installed sixty years ago here at number 18 Cornelia Street, before there was a national awareness for it, before Channel 13, Arthur C. and Catherine T., PBS, WGBH, NEA or the artists and writers colonies.

When my friend José Mangual’s birthday cake was set before him, he reversed the plastic “54,” making it “45” and making himself ten years younger. I can’t do that, at 88, nor would I do so if I could."

Eulogy for Julio

2008-02-15T17:30:00.000-08:00

...part two of a tribute to Julio Andino

Before there was an Ernesto Antonio “Tito” Puente, there was Julio Andino. While Tito even has the 1979 Sugar Hill hip-hop to his many credits, Julio has no mention as a musician who brought the entire Latino music world before the public, the global public. While Tito introduced the xylophone’s power, and Cugat popularized rumba, Ignacio Piniero the son, and Arsenio the Afro-Cuban element, Julio brought into play a whole body of mainly repressed Latin music that was ignored while he himself was ignored.

Many give credit to Azpiazu’s “El Manisero,” but Julio did more than make people dance. He made them stop and listen and think and in doing so they heard the soul of the music calling to them. It was a sad, tough world of “no job, no heat, no hot water”—the years of the Great Depression that Julio navigated. It was one that Tito never knew the way Julio did. Tito is here forever while it is as though Julio never was, even though Tito, with admirable compassion in a heartless industry, was gratefully acknowledging Julio’s influence, an influence initiated by Julio that brought out the pride in Puerto Rican communities everywhere.

For forty years, Joe Conzo Jr. spoke for Tito as his manager while Julio was surrounded by those who would silence him. He never heard the screaming adherents that followed Tito, for himself; but he does have what Hindus consider sainthood. Like a mahatma, Julio was that one man alone who sent out the message of this music of the streets to the four corners of the world by prying open the door that closeted El Barrio musicians. He pioneered for them both the white and black dominated turfs of the late 1930s. He made possible the one trustworthy source of joy in a beset world—one that sings a child to sleep and one whose thunder and lightning can blow you away.

Tito’s popularity, for one, is Julio’s legacy.

Mamá Inez in Tokyo

2007-11-01T08:03:00.000-07:00

There was no dancing in the streets when the Instrument of Surrender was being signed aboard the USS Missouri in Tokyo Harbor. But a week later, they were dancing the rumba in a club just off the Ginza.

Aside from the usual black market activity and swapping chewing gum for sex, there was little in the way of entertainment during the early days of the Occupation. True, the porn shops were reopening, but there was no music in the night air. Tokyo needed a hot spot badly—one to cater to the GIs who didn’t get into the only game in town: the “off limits” Marunouchi Hotel Restaurant, that had been taken over entirely by officers and journalists.

When I met a young Japanese circus acrobat speaking understandable English, who had worked in the States before the war, we teamed up to open the Tokyo Officers Club. We named it that defiantly, hanging up our sign in an alley off the Ginza. The club had no furniture except for a chair and an unstable table, so no one would be just hanging out. But it did have—amazingly—a vintage windup Victrola that survived the bombing, a solid-enough floor, two scratchy pre-war records from the States and some Japanese recordings that were not danceable. On the table were large-size bottles of excellent Santori scotch plus very large bottles of fine Japanese beer.

Opening night was slow but the Victrola was the drawing card in an otherwise silent night. Like the Israeli State Symphony signaling the return to normalcy after the Israeli-Arab War, this music was carrying a clear message to the curious passersby, who stepped out of the bombed streets and into another world. The GIs were there to drink, and the thin, bashful girls that entered, whose curiosity had overcome their shyness, were made welcome—no longer the enemy, they were the main attraction that brought the soldiers in their army boots onto the floor to dance with the girls in their gaetas (wooden platforms to avoid the muddy streets). One record was entitled “Little Grass Shack in Kahala Kahula, Hawaii,” but it was the second one that got things moving: “O Mamá Inez, O Mamá Inez, Todos los Negros Tomamó Café.”

If Japan is loco for salsa today, you can thank Mamá Inez.

Dance Floors I Have Known

2007-10-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

We were dancing the conga on the roof of the Semiramis Hotel in Cairo in 1958, when suddenly all hell broke loose. The Egyptians began shooting off fireworks celebrating the British evacuation of the Sudan. Cheers and laughter greeted explosions until sparks, smoke and flames began to fall at our feet. The band kept playing and the drummers accented each burst as we began to hop and leap with every dangerous blast, like rabbits. You could say the place was really jumping that night.

More peaceful and relaxed moments on the dance floor were spent at the Rainbow Room where society behaved properly, unaware that they were dancing on turf owned by the Mafia management of that time. In Miami Beach at the famous Beachcomber Club, I asked a young lady to dance after requesting permission from the two gentlemen she was seated with at ringside. Little did I know that I was dancing with Virginia Hill and that the two gentlemen were Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky. When she told me her name, I was careful to dance well “apart” during the slow sexy number. Speaking of dancing apart—as disco dancing prefers—it was in Singapore in the fairgrounds that I first witnessed hundreds of young couples artfully dancing without touching. It required some skill and restraint….

New York’s Havana Madrid, with an entrance down a few steps, featured a small bar seating six, overlooking a truly small dance floor that was raised when the floorshow was to begin. The patrons, so eager to dance, convinced the management to leave the dance floor raised rather than waste the time it took to retract it back under the bandstand again. It was at the Havana Madrid that I saw Rene and Estela—he, performing with a glass of water on his head and one balanced at the end of his extended foot as he did the tornillo without spilling a drop. He also performed a somersault, picking up a handkerchief off the dance floor with his teeth. At the Park Plaza on 110^th and Fifth Avenue in 1938, Rene had made me get up from my chair so that Estela could teach me to one/two/three/pause, when I didn’t even know how to foxtrot. What I learned on that dance floor that night served me for a lifetime.

Like true fanatics, we ran from La Conga around the corner to the Havana Madrid and back, not even ordering a drink, in order to keep dancing while each of the clubs’ respective bands took their breaks. We might be hearing the same songs in either club. It was almost like not missing a step. Since the clubs were building up their businesses, the managements didn’t stop good rumberos from getting on the floor, even though they weren’t paying customers.

At Fe Fe’s Monte Carlo on the east side, where I seem to recall Enric Madriguera’s upscale café society orchestra playing, I had the nerve to walk in cold with less than a dollar on me, since patrons would invite rumba dancers and teachers to join them. That scene ended abruptly for me when, at one matinee, an inebriated Tommy Manville, the asbestos millionaire, loudly objected to my rumbaing with his young blonde companion.

At the Waldorf-Astoria’s Empire Room in 1943, Xavier Cugat presented Miguelito Valdez singing “Babalu” from behind a curtain. By doing so, Miguelito had just broken down the strict hotel policy of “no person of color.” When he emerged onto the floor, with the slowly brightening spotlight on him, his perspiring rendition of a truly astounding number served to make musical and racial history. I got on the dance floor doing a wild rumba with my partner. The management asked me to leave the floor even though I was dancing, and wearing a U.S. Army uniform at a time when soldiers could take liberties.

Today Beacon, New York, has a very large Latino community that’s mostly Central American, but back in ’38, the gringo audience at the Beacon Theater had never seen the rumba, tango, samba or merengue. (The routines we did were set by the Davalo’s Dance Studio upstairs on Broadway and 48^th.) This was most fortunate, that is, because the sold-out crowd did not recognize that we, three couples, were not performing correctly since one partner, when the band began, was still searching for his jacket in our dressing room. This meant the routines went on with three girls and two men—which was of course chaotic! The fact was that when he finally appeared, no one in the audience seemed to notice anything had been amiss.

Dance studios in Miami Beach hotels were unknown until the rumba and conga craze began in 1940. From that time on, all the mushrooming new hotels lining Collins Avenue had to provide for a studio, usually just off the lobby, that served to add a note of “tumult.” The elevated stage that was also the dance floor at the new Carousel Club on 20^th and Collins Avenue was so large that although we were not three but four couples doing Latin, we still couldn’t fill the stage. The American all-girl band was led by Anna Ray Hutton. Other clubs, like the Five O’Clock (drinks on the house at five), managed very well with just three couples, and the small Club Bali in Miami, a clandestine gambling joint, hardly held three. The big song was “Tonight We Love.”

Speaking of tumult—a “Jewish” idiomatic expression meaning gaiety—we taught on the polished dance floors of Tony and Lucille Colon’s dance studio at Grossinger’s in the Catskills in 1947. We would also hop over to the rival Concord Hotel to dance the new Perez Prado mambo to the great Curbelo Orchestra. Curbelo also played at the Embassy Club on 57^th Street, and at La Martinique, 57 West 57^th Street (owned by Dario and his brother), where we danced on the crowded Saturday “Rhumba Matinees” in innovative air-conditioned comfort.

There was no air-conditioning at the Teatro Municipal in Rio in 1952, where we joined hundreds of high Carioca society perspiring—not in the Carnival costumes that, because of Rio’s exhausting night temperatures are the scantiest to be found anywhere, but in strict formal wear. At one point, when all the house lights were extinguished, hundreds of sparkling diamonds flashed at us as the huge spotlights swept back and forth over the gigantic dance floor. I imagine that one does not even experience that at a Hollywood Oscar night or even on the celebrity Mediterranée red carpet in Cannes. When I close my eyes, I can still see their mirrored brilliance.

The most enormous dance floors were those in Havana at the Palacio Asturias and Palacio Gallego. Since dancing is as much a part of Cuban life as breathing, it is clear why the floors were not only so spacious, but located not on one but on two floors of each building, with one floor for the more conservative dancers. Much simpler, in a much poorer country, we danced in an open field under strings of Christmas lights during Panama’s Carnival. Dancing in total darkness on the sandy beach in Saint Martin was cool, followed by a plunge in the surf to continue embracing in the water.

Many drug stores in the fifties had soda fountains. The one under the Palladium’s dance floor risked flakes of paint and plaster falling down on customers. To enter the Palladium, you climbed two flights, stopping to pay your dollar admission on the first floor. There was Cuban Night or Puerto Rican Night until it became everyone’s night. Jimmy La Vaca’s drums were set up next to a two-story iron staircase exit that he told me someone was thrown down. The universal exhilaration came at you from the combined sound and scene (whereas the unwholesome melee years later at Studio 54 was basically artificially drug-induced).

These too well-lit barn-like dance halls lacked the romantic intimacy and almost familial environment of smaller spots like the Park Plaza, that one could label a neighborhood institution. The tiny ticket window at the entrance resembled today’s barricaded bodega cashiers. Primitive toilet facilities at the Park Plaza featured a very long communal trough with constantly running water, visible to the ladies who passed by on their way to the ladies’ room. Bells sounded for rare disturbances. (In Washington Heights, at the Audubon Ballroom, the venue of Malcom X’s assassination, Anatole Broyard and I witnessed a senseless murder while people kept dancing. I called it a triumph of life over death.) Chairs lining the walls, separating women and men, were thrown onto the dance floor as mock protest when the band appeared ready to take a break. This playful demonstration was inspired by the popular cowboy movies of the 1930s.

The dancehall was safer than West 114^th St. called the most dangerous street in Harlem, before it was torn down for a housing unit. Between Lenox Avenue and Fifth Avenue, West 116^th was the main street, along with 125^th Street. Fifth Avenue was a two-way street, ending downtown inside Washington Square Park, for the wonderful wicker seated double-decker buses.

The sloppy bar with its wet floor and beer bottles underfoot didn’t speak well for the Palladium. Nell’s, on West 14^th Street, had an awkward floor, causing entrants to pass through dancers on their way to tables. The Corso in Yorkville, 205 East 86^th Street, upstairs and “open ’til 6 a.m.”, had great music but a bad reputation until standards were lowered, as would be the case at Studio 54.

When the building was sold and the Palladium was gone, a second Palladium was attempted on East 14^th Street in the 1960s but its location defeated it. The venerable Roseland continues providing pleasure, having offered names like Hector Lavoe, Milly y Los Vecinos, Orchestra La Sensual, Angel Canales, Machito, Santiago Ceron and Yomo Toro, Davilita, along with veterans like bassist Leo Fleming, conguero Candido, and timbalero Manny Oquendo.

Going back to the 1930s, we would memorialize the Park Placa (now La Iglesia Cristiana Pentacostal) that we can call the progenitor, with our heads bowed in recognition of the past and present genius that is alive still as it was performed by, for instance, Doroteo Santiago, Pagani's Happy Boys, Panchito Rizet, etc. Que dios los bendigan todos.

It wasn’t Madison Square Garden, the New Yorker Music Center or at the Audubon Ballroom where we personally found our most supreme dance experience. It wasn’t El Liborio, Tropicana or even in the bateys of Havana. It wasn’t at the Casino Intrnational in Port au Prince, the Silver Slipper in Nassau, the Scheherazade in Paris.

It was under a canopy riddled with billions of diamonds, where a carpet of low hanging stars danced along with us. Out on deck in the darkness, off the coast of Bahia while crossing the equator under the Southern Cross, where we frolicked with gravity, rolling with the ocean, rocked in the cradle of the ship while land was a thousand fathoms beneath our feet. We were dancing on the ocean.

Nací Para Bailar, or: If it wasn’t for the rumba, I wouldn’t be here

2007-10-04T11:22:00.000-07:00

Latin entertainment has always found a comfortable climate in New York. Carmen Miranda’s samba, Valentino’s tango, José Greco’s and La Argentinita’s flamenco, Lecuona’s piano and the romantic boleros of Mexico’s Tito Guizar, Cuba’s Arsenio and Puerto Rico’s Rafael Hernandez found a home here.

Although Latin talent remained unaffected, a change occurred in the nightclubs. The business began to distance itself from its “Spanish” identity. This was due to the fascists’ Spanish Civil War victory—a factor that caused club owners to avoid the correlation by adopting French names for venues featuring the hottest Cuban and Puerto Rican orchestra. The matchbook advertisements for the Havana-Madrid club shows only the Moro Castle and conceals the “Madrid” image. The owners, the Lopez brothers, opened a second club called Chateau Madrid at 42 W. 58th Street, just two blocks from the swanky Copacabana, when it was located at 10 E. 60th Street, in a less liberal-minded neighborhood. This matchbook showed only a French-style chateau. They obviously were aware of the political variance of the times. By their new location, they now could continue to enjoy the “Spanish” Madrid aspect, as well as their liberal West side Broadway image.

The very popular La Conga was forced to change its name to China Doll due not to the Spanish Civil War outcome, but rather due to competition from Chin Lee’s. With Machito y sus Afro-Cubanos, it still called itself “New York’s only Chinese nightclub.” This in spite of its tropical palm tree décor and shows.

El Libario left the upscale area of W. 57th Street in order to open at 884 Eight Avenue, a more liberal-minded area. The décor of El Libario changed from a very elegant raffinée display to one of jibaros and sugar cane fields, and featured the very young Celia Cruz. This move was not so much due to fickle political sensitivity as it was to better situate its accessibility to the rumba crowd.

Continuing the trend towards contrived French-titled clubs in the 1940s was the elegant Versailles at 151 E. 50th Street, where upper-crust café society enjoyed the best Latin Saturday rumba matinees. At FeFe’s Monte Carlo, 49 E. 54th Street, you found excellent rumba. “Styled and designed by Dorothy Draper,” Hollywood’s interior decorator. This interest in novel décor was inspired by the flashy zebra-striped walls of Club El Morocco. As part of an artistic awakening after World War II, it caught the attention and imagination of the club-going public, as well as the general public.

Two other Latin clubs with French inclinations were the popular La Martinique at 57 W. 57th Street, featuring José Curbelo, and the Embassy, also on 57th Street, but east, featuring Fausto Curbelo. La Martinique, owned by Ramon and Dario, two brothers, captured the rumba crowd by turning its air conditioning up more than its rivals at a time when air conditioning was just arriving on the scene in congested dance clubs.

The Latin Quarter, upstairs at 200 W. 48^th Street, had the largest dance floor and the largest Latin bands. It called itself “America’s Smartest Night Club,” with branches at Palm Island Casino, Miami Beach, and Boston. Today, you can find it presenting great bands on Madison Avenue, where you might run into Larry Harlow.

While top rumba bands played for shows that at times featured average Apache dancers from France at Gaston Edourd’s Monte Carlo, the club scene became ever more a mixed bouillabaisse. In spite of its West Houston Street location, S.O.B.’s proved that it’s not always “location, location, location.” The music is the draw. Originally Brazilian, S.O.B.’s offers West African, Haitian drums, Portugese fado, a cappella, jazz and great salsa among other attractions. The kitchen is challenged nightly to prepare menus for a variety of palate demands. With a prime location on the corner of the Empire State Building at Fifth Avenue and 34^th Street., the Riverboat, with excellent salsa, couldn’t survive with an after-work crowd, since at 11pm, the building closed for the night, discouraging attendance. Son Cubano, on W. 14^th Street, comes alive in the late-hour meat market locale, with Marin’s Latin band. The Corso, with another excellent location on E. 86^th Street, upstairs, could not survive its sordid suspicious activities. (The location of the 1940s Yumuri, with authentic Cuban sounds, was in a bad area that even great music couldn’t hide.)

A split-level club called One If By Land, Two If By Sea, situated in a coach house once owned by Aaron Burr at 17 Barrow Street, was once a restaurant called 17. In 1939, when it was the Café Latino, I shot dice in the basement with José Mangual, Sr., and the conjunto members. The very exotic Middle Eastern, early 1970s stylish Ibis Supper Club, 59 E. 54^th Street, had top Latin bands. On top of the World Trade Center, a rumba band played nightly at Windows on the World. The music from Africa Lejana had reached, in a way, its zenith.

The lowly throwaway matchbook, which is disappearing with less smoking, preserved the history of some long-gone dance clubs. At a time when a room with bath in the heart of Times Square at the new Astor Hotel charged $3 a night, there was a Latin club called Gold Coast at 249 Sullivan Street. It was advertised as being “around the corner from 50 Washington Square South. ¾ lb. Delmonico steak: 65¢; Spaghetti: 35¢.” It was there on the dance floor during a slow rumba that my father proposed to my mother. That’s the night I was born…to dance.

How Believers Are Born

2007-07-17T11:49:00.000-07:00

If Leo in mid-heaven conjuncts Jupiter, they say you will be in the company of nobility during your lifetime. If celebrities are our present-day nobility, then I’ve known my share of such encounters. Here are some:

How else could I bump into the Duke and Duchess of Windsor one dark night in Portofino? They were exiting Il Pitsofero restaurant—he, wearing the same colorful Bahamian shirt as I was. We had to have engaged the same tailor since there was but one shirt maker there in 1952, who was making such shirts long before they were for sale all over the West Indies. Celebrities are ordinarily caught trying to run and hide, but with such an opening encounter, I felt that they might have enjoyed some conversation. However, with their two small dogs barking at my Maltese and disturbing the locals, who rose with the early tide, and with my starving stomach joining in the growling, we parted.

One morning at the Carlton, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Sullivan entered the elevator I was in: he, wearing a red jacket and pink pants, and I, a pink jacket and red pants. Mrs. Sullivan looked at us and said, “You guys ought to get together.” On another encounter, Carmen Miranda gave me a big kiss because I said “Excuse me” in Portuguese. Without such heavenly intercession, how else could I be doing a fast rumba with Virginia Hill in front of Bugsy Seigel at the Beachcomber on the same night that I met Miguelito Valdés, Mr. “Babalu”?

I was behind Orson Welles in the revolving doors entering the Hotel Cipriani. Had he not scurried across the lobby so fast—perhaps hurrying to the john or to the restaurant—I would have liked to have told him that I had been the gaffer at his Mercury Theater rehearsals of War of the Worlds, on Halloween 1938. I would have mentioned how, during the actual broadcast, I was having a drink around the corner, relaxing while all the patrons including the bartender ran out in panic into Central Park to look up in the sky.

It wasn’t a beach day at Maracas Bay, Trinidad, but whenever we docked in Port-of-Spain, I got out of town and into the surf. To get there on the Atlantic side, where the waves hit, meant a long but beautiful drive over mountain roads built by the Seabees (construction battalions of World War II). Except for a discreet pair of lovers off in the far distance, there was only one other person visible, jogging along toward me. Known for his love of swimming and keeping fit, it was Robert Moses. Since working on ships keeps you safely uninformed about events on land, I had no idea that he was being vilified for wanting to extend Fifth Avenue by cutting through Sullivan Street, where my family once owned Number 117. I had heard about Robert Moses Park, so that when he asked my opinion about the Village project, about which I knew nothing, I said I felt that he was doing much to improve the city, together with Mayor LaGuardia. No doubt this response made his day. Swimming against a rising tide, he lost his struggle with politicians, landlords, tenants, heritage groups and progressive Democratic party boss Carmine Disapio. Imagine tenants and landlords teaming up, and early environmentalists flexing their power!

The brilliant musical genius, Ernesto Lecuona, sent me a note via his first violinist. It read, “Please come to my dressing room.” I was sitting up front at the Teatro Payret, and couldn’t wait for the concert to end. I found him sitting at a small piano in his bathrobe. “You are the first to hear this,” he told me while playing “Estas siempre en mi corazon,” (“You are always in my heart”). “Come to my Sunday bar-be-COO,,” he said, pronouncing “cue” like the French word for derriere. I happened to be “busy” that Sunday, and backed out.

The most famous prostitute in New York in 1949 was Mickey Jelke’s (the wealthy oleo-margarine heir) mistress, Pat Ward. Before rising to fame, she would visit us to play with our baby until, one day, comedian Joey Adams came and took her bodily out of the apartment.

Speaking of nobility, that prince of the church, Cardinal F. J. Spellman, was on his way to the Eucharistic Congress, in Rio. At the captain’s cocktail party on board the S.S. Brazil, I introduced him to the captain and his staff. Later, on shore at a reception the cardinal offered, he shook my hand and held on to it a bit longer than necessary.

Petrillo, the all-powerful head of Musicians’ Union 108, was heading for Italy aboard the T.V. Leonardo da Vinci. In the receiving line, he extended his pinky to shake my hand, due to his fear of germs.

M. Louis Viutton and I once had a vocal disagreement concerning the quality of his luggage. The Istanbul airport, built on low ground, was flooded. My luggage lost its shape, having sat there for some time. I had expected some polite apology; instead he shouted, “Your mistreated it!”

Montgomery Clift was another difficult celebrity. He was staying at the British Colonial Hotel where Bess Meyerson, the then Miss America, and the Maharani of Baroda, were also installed. The actor was so shy that it soon became clear that he was effeminate, especially when I mentioned Greenwich Village.

Señor Wences, the ventriloquist, resented my asking him to take part in the amateur passenger show aboard the T.N. Raffaello, even though James Roosevelt had volunteered to be a judge. Jan Peerce was humorous and a true gentleman but Rudy Valee, I think, resented my introducing him while wearing a tartan dinner jacket of the style that was popular in the 1950s. On the same program was Jessica Dragonette at the end of her career. Rose Bampton Pelletiere offered to entertain our shipboard passengers very graciously.

Marjorie Merriweather Post raised hell with me over the dusty condition of her private railroad car that was to take her from Miami to Palm Beach. She was absolutely correct. But I had to offer many apologies.

Her Highness Princess Elizabeth Chulalonghorn of Thailand was amazed by the size of our double door refrigerator. “The light goes on when you open the door!” she exclaimed with delight, never having seen one.

These run-ins with the famous came and went, but one remains with me especially. In 1941, in Guanabacoa, Regla, across Havana Harbor, a santero, Juan Beson, blessed me, saying “You will carry this music around the world.” So it was that in ’52 I did just that, teaching Latin dances on a world cruise and continuing to hope that, in spreading a musical gospel of salsa before the public, I can help make this world a bit merrier, for others and for myself.

El Muerto Se Fué de Rumba

2007-07-10T12:18:00.001-07:00

At East Harlem's Julia de Burgos Cultural Center, I attended Carmen and Rafi’s wedding recently. La musica got me up to dance with two girls as I had seen rumberos do at the Park Plaza and in many dance halls. To see two women dancing for lack of partners was like seeing a woman in a restaurant eating alone. Since I never met una puertoriqueña who didn’t know how to dance, I was not hesitant to twirl the two gals around in a fine salsa. What was to be a short dance turned out to be a performance by an 87-year-old bailarín with two gals, whose combined ages didn’t equal mine.

The same thing happened at St. Paul’s Apostle Church during the annual affair sponsored by the IPRPM. Aurora Flores with Dario at the piano and Papote gave me a big welcome, and I had to do something to deserve their recognition. Two elderly ladies were, in this case, dancing off by themselves and not together. I took the nearest one first, then the second one, and the three of us did the plena. One thing about this music—unless you’re drunk or a clown, age doesn’t stop Latino parejas or personas mayores from doing well on the dance floor. You rarely see that in an Anglo-crowded disco, sorry to say.

What is this “dancer” doing in a list of thirty-five musicians that included Dave Valentin, Cachao and Rene Lopez, all legendarios? Especially since all he could manage to play were maracas and the campana? It was at the Smithsonian Institute’s Museum of American History that I was honored to lecture to a small audience on my donation of posters, and then a bit about the very early days of la musica: the Cabarojeño Club in the Bronx in 1937, the Teatro Cervantes, the ’39 Cuban Village at the World’s Fair, the Café Latino in Greenwich Village in 1937 with Jose Mangual Sr., the Miami Beach dance studio and La Conga craze across the nation in 1940, the La Playa dancers at the Wonder Bar in Detroit in 1938, Tony and Lucille Colon’s studio at Grossinger’s, and talk about Anselmo Sacassas, Julio Andino, Electrico, Rene and Estela, the Havana Madrid. Everything I mentioned there involved bands, conjuntos, grupos or espantaneos. Musicians.

When we paint the picture of los veteranos de la musica Latina, los bohemios, little note is given to the rumberos like Raul and Eva Reyes, who performed, taught and carried the flag around the country. I can add that they fought for it as well, since it was threatened by forces like Arthur Murray’s and Fred Astaire’s studios. Those operations may have helped a bit to bring la danza before the public, but it just wasn’t the real thing, lo nuestro.

What’s a six-foot Italian-American Brooklynite who didn’t speak la idioma doing playing “Bruca Manigua” on a harmonica for the audience at the Teatro Cervantes in 1937? What is he doing in the company of the greatest musicos, allowed into their dressing rooms, back stage and in their homes, invited to bautizos, weddings, birthdays like Louis Mangual’s 54^th in Yonkers?

Never was I made to feel unwelcome, out of place or intruding. On the contrary, the abrazo fuerte bien puertoriqueño was the greeting, like two hermanos de leche. It’s more than hospitality, good manners and friendship—it is the affection, the gran afecto, that one feels like a mano, like the looseness I felt while singing a duet (“Tu no comprendes,” a song our long-gone friend Doroteo Santiago recorded in ’38) with Leo Fleming Jr. in my kitchen. How come he could greet you with “Ecobio monina boncó,” an amigo de pecho, could do a tornillo and ate chicharones de Bayamon?

How come he knew the lyrics to “Ofelia tenia un platito,” “Niebla del riachuelo,” “Vereda tropical,” “Pare cochero,” “Negro de sociedad,” “Un poquito de tu amor,” “Fufuñando,” “Santa Barbara bendita,” “La ultima noche” and “Timba timbero”? How did he find himself dancing along with Los Dandy’s de Belén? He was even digging Candido at El Kursal in La Vieja Habana in 1940, and in Maestro Lecuona’s dressing room at the Teatro Payret, opposite Sloppy Joe’s. He danced to Trio Caney on the patio of the Beachcomber, hung out with Louie Varona and “Jack, Jack, Jack” Bolivar at the El San Juan Hotel. He stayed at the Normandi Hotel, swam in El Convento’s small pool and had a shoeshine at the corner of Calle Luna.

Uneraseable reflections…stories behind the music that will be with him, not in la blanda cama, but while dancing with his nurse to “Chacumbele, el muerto se fué de rumba.”

Chinese Rhumba

2007-07-06T07:16:00.000-07:00

When the old La Conga on West 51^st Street became the China Doll overnight, the “rhumba-nik” crowd became quite concerned. Was their favorite club losing its Afro-Cuban flavor in favor of some Oriental concoction?

What happened was this: Beginning in early 1940, the Jewish community discovered chop suey, chow mein, egg foo yung, et cetera. They began to abandon Toffinetti’s Italian cuisine on Times Square in favor of Ruby Foo’s Chinese cuisine. Ruby Foo’s itself was inspired by an unknown upstairs restaurant crowded with customers at 49^th and Broadway. The place was called Chin Lee’s.

Lucky Mr. Lee had a gold mine. It was not in the same order as other Chinese restaurants operating at that time. His offered a “revue,” with “no cover, no minimum.” He gave customers free tea refills unlimited and the free fortune cookie gimmick. His matchbooks published prices for a general public that mistrusted nightclub price tactics; he portrayed his establishment in this way as being forthright and honest-dealing. His matchbooks stated: Lunch. 40¢. Dinner. 80¢, except Saturday evenings. Lunch, Saturdays and holidays. 45¢. After-theater supper. 85¢. Wholesale and retail. For your health and good food. Use Chin Lee coupon books for free meal. With Chin Lee's list of twenty or thirty choices on an exotic menu, big servings of steaming hot or sour, mild or spicy rice dishes, using cheap labor and an amateur hula-hula girl revue, it was clear to Mr. Harris that his La Conga had to do something.

Chin Lee’s restaurant came to life at the end of the Great Depression’s baked beans and chili bill of fare at Horn and Hardart’s automat. He was a breath of fresh air. Furthermore, Mr. Harris saw Lee opening a second spot called Chin’s at 44^th and Broadway, lit up with enormous Chinese lanterns. Even Ruby Foo’s had opened a second larger place down in South Beach, Florida, for the winter crowd. Chinese restaurants around the city were installing entertainment, finding that music and dining went well together, like corned beef and cabbage.

When it became clear that the Jewish public—comprising the majority of La Conga’s music-loving clientele—and Chinese food had discovered each other, Mr. Harris was forced to save his place by giving birth to the China Doll, if only in name. He boldly advertised it as “New York’s only Chinese nightclub,” with “shows at 8, 12 and 2:30” and “never a cover charge”—omitting reference to a minimum. “Deluxe dinners from $2.50,” giving his address as “East of Broadway,” rather than West 51^st Street.

His menu was still steaks and chops, but without the Latin rice and beans plates. He had difficulty finding English-speaking help among the Chinese, and Orientals couldn’t mix drinks at the bar. Chinese food filled you and later you were still hungry—people still came to the China Doll now to dance to Machito or Noro Morales, but not to eat. Harris tried putting acts like the José Greco Dancers that broke away from the strictly Afro-Cubans…acrobats, Mexican, flamenco and Los Chaveles de España.

One night after the last couple left, he and I sat at the bar with only the bar lights on—to save electricity, I surmise. It was a somber moment even with the conga craze in full swing all over the country. He poured us double shots of his strongest rum and added, “Here’s a drink you can’t get—.” He never spoke the words “Chinese restaurants.” (The sudden growth of “Chinese” can be compared to the pizza phenomenon of the 1970s.)

He toyed with the idea of broadcasting nightly, using top personalities of stage, screen and radio, or giving free conga lessons, but his competition was getting stronger day by day. The Chinese were winning the market. Perhaps this sounds familiar, but fortune is fickle.

In 1941, Sam and Joe Barker opened the Beachcomber in Miami Beach featuring spicy dishes, tropical drinks, strong Zombies, air-conditioning and Xavier Cugat with Miguelito Valdes, “Mr. Babalu.” The Copacabana opened on East 61^st Street with Carmen Miranda–type beautiful show girls all over the place. Chin Lee couldn’t compete with the “rhumba” bands and Tony Martin and Jerry Lewis floor shows. Then World War Two put the lights out on Broadway. The Chinese Chin Lees are gone now, while the Copacabana is still around.

Looking back to that era, perhaps if Mr. Lee had foreseen the future, had recognized the potential of a Chinese/Latin jazzy combination for his restaurants on that afternoon when Julio Andino, José Mangual and I with other guys were auditioning there for a “job on Broadway,” playing “Cachita” as a wild rumba for the happy customers, perhaps Mr. Lee would not have come up and asked us, “Please play American fox trots.”

El Rey del Timbal: Tito Puente

2007-06-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

One matinee at La Conga, a short, good-looking 17-year-old was seen cutting his way through the tables. He was carrying something half hidden on his way to the rear of the bandstand. He did this without disturbing the moment, which happened to be a romantic “precioso bolero.” No doubt he had come, not to sit in with the band, but to practice his bongos with Noro’s approval. He sat off the bandstand in a corner. It was the first time I heard someone say, “Tito Puente.”

The next time I saw him was at the Papagallo Bar at the Avila Hotel in Caracas. He played the carnival every year. We spoke of the Billo Boys and Venezuela’s growing musical influence. The third time was at the St. Regis Hotel bar. He was kind enough to greet me and my lady friend. Having Tito Puente embrace you in front of your date is indeed a cool occurrence, a fortuitous happenstance. The fourth time was at the Boys Harbor in El Barrio. He was on his way to give percussion lessons to the neighborhood kids with his manager, Joe Conzo. I complained to them that contributions to the Tito Puente Scholarship Fund were not going exclusively to Puerto Rican youngsters as I had been led to believe would be the case.

Last time I saw him, he was lying in state. He had risen to join the family of music’s historic nobility. From the silent, darkened chapel, I walked out into the sunshine. Looking up at the sky, there he was with his sticks, jamming “Ran Kan Kan,” segueing into “Mambo Diablo.”

I went to a bar across the street, where I ordered two añejos, one for Tito and one for myself.

Julio Andino, 1914–1983: A Latin Music Visionary

2007-06-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

In the winter of 1938, shortly after Machito arrived from Cuba, I met the bassist Julio Andino at the Park Plaza ballroom on 110^th Street in Harlem. He stood out physically with broad shoulders, like a young Abe Lincoln, gentle-spoken in good English and carefully dressed considering that he was a poor mulatto. It was during the Great Depression and while the rest of New York was emerging, Harlem was still deep in despair. The Park Plaza was a refuge from the sadness of the time, offering melodies and memories of the islands that the locals had left behind but not forgotten. He had not come to the Park Plaza to dance but to listen and learn from the Happy Boys, the house band, with Doroteo Santiago singing. Pagani, the leader, invited Julio to sit in, as Noro Morales used to do with the then young Tito Puente.

When I spoke to Julio we saw that we shared a similar ambition, namely, to bring Latin music from Harlem to Broadway. But to come down the three short miles from 110^th Street to 52^nd Street meant conquering more than distance. An invisible shield kept the two worlds apart. Julio idealized a cultural crossover employing the magic of music as the means. He had ventured downtown and could foresee working beyond the confines of the black community where employment might be found. In doing so, his overlooked contribution was to become the uniting and strengthening of cultural/musical interests in the Anglo/Latino world. Without Julio’s vision and ambition for self and society’s betterment, Latin music might still be restricted to niches, jibaros and campesinos rather than the universal music it has become.

Cuba became a true nation when the Spanish military bands of Santiago blended with the Afro-influenced rumbas of the sophisticated nineteenth century Havana, a crossover opposed by aristocratic gentry of the time. This resembled the union of the West and East coasts thanks to the railroad that made us a proper nation. Julio’s ambitious dream was to hitch his music to the American dream, joining two worlds like Columbus. He had inherited a disrespectful musical world, one in which the phenomenal “Peanut Vendor” was to be a fluke, a melodic freak. He championed a lost cause, all the while knowing that buried treasure existed in the souls of all nations, waiting to manifest itself. “La rumba no hay frontera.” His dream was not primarily to lead an orchestra like Cachao and Oscar D’León, bass players, but to bring cultures in synchronization, not to join the country club of the pantheon of Puerto Rican all-stars for self-glorification, but to benefit all people; like an outcast prophet, he labored unrewarded, insufficiently acknowledged, where even Nicola Tesla and the scientist Fleming eventually received their high honors. He died leading his orchestra when actually it was the whole world he wanted to see, bounded in harmony, as Tito Puente has since done.

At the Park Plaza, the dance floor resembled a rush hour A train, except that the dancers were not stepping on toes. They were the very best dancers in that winter of 1938–39. Rene and Estela had just ended the routine that they had performed in Hollywood’s Thin Man movie, this time for the enjoyment of Lo Nuestro.

The dancers Electrico, Midnight and Chino (even a mulata was dancing on crutches) were competing during continuous applause—nonstop encouragement. The sweet scent of the tobacco of the tropics came up from the basement lounges, blending with the cologne in vogue, called Tabu. Most of the dancers were from the area around 116^th Street (the main street before 125^th Street became known as such) and from 114^th Street, the most dangerous street in Harlem, perhaps in the whole city. They were frenetic but with wholesome Latin exuberance under the spell of a band that brought them “home,” to the islands of their enchantment, unlike the latter day sick Studio 54 that set dancers adrift, lost somewhere “far out” in space. The young girls, so shapely in their homemade, well-fitted dresses; the sharp guys with their black and white shoes, the mark of an accomplished rumbero. Slickened hair managed to overcome the huge overhead fans that were intended to cool off overheated dancers. In a musical orgy, like a feeding frenzy in a steam bath, they possessed the stamina of prizefighters. When the seemingly inexhaustible band gave signs of taking a break, the dancers were seen to prostrate themselves, pounding their fists in mock protest! Using silence as a clever device, the beat continued pounding there, like claves. All this punishing trickery would be skillfully and mercifully ended by the piano ever so casually, softly resuming the melody followed by the full band, released like wild horses. (During four days of Carnival in Rio, samba is nonstop.) Some dancers fell to their knees, pleading and supplicating the exhausted band. The entire company, dancers and musicians, ended in a joyful victory that defeated the gloom of the world outside.

There was no set closing time. It ended when the last couple went for their coats. Once outside, they crossed the street into Central Park to play out their deep arousals. The rowboats lining the lake soon served to cradle the partners under a cold grey sky. Here, far from palm trees, they shared mankind’s most heavenly encore. For the few who walked home alone, they could still hear Doroteo singing “Tu no comprendes” like a surrogate lover. Quite soon, they were in the arms of Morfeo. Tomorrow, Sunday, there would be another dance, bigger and better.

This then was the scene at the Park Plaza, where Doroteo’s untrained voice would sprinkle lyrical kisses over the heads of the dancers who sang along with him. Like an angelical conspiracy, it evoked a sweet tenderness that replaced the hopelessness of 1938 Harlem. Julio spoke with me during breaks. I couldn’t speak the language and couldn’t dance or play an instrument; still he viewed me as a way to help him defeat the dark pit of Harlem. Was he mad like most visionaries? To attempt to bring this Latin phenomenon to the lights of Broadway—into the big time in the Big Town!

“Forming the orchestra would be simple,” he said. There was an overabundance of unemployed talent. Placing a non-union band in “off limits” territory only needed some show-biz luck and a San Lazaro—or St. Jude.

First we needed a group photo to show us as already existing, at least on paper. Julio picked up a pianist (perhaps it was Ruben Berrios), two brothers playing great guitarras, and a young kid named José Mangual. I was to be the clavero, campanero, maraquero and manager.

Placing the “band” became the problem. I brazenly called the Major Bowes Original Amateur Hour located in today’s Ed Sullivan Theater, where several music publishing businesses had offices, including Sunshine Music Publishing Company that printed sheet music in Spanish and English.

A date for an audition was set. Minus our bongocero, José Mangual, most unfortunately, and inadequately rehearsed, this band with no name that resembled some hungry subway musicians, set up in the radio studio. With two songs only heard in Harlem, featured in the Cancionero Picot (a songbook distributed to bodega customers free of charge), we began. Toward the end of “Letrago,” we went into the montuno. The two judges mistook this totally unfamiliar change of tempo to be some sort of sloppy befuddlement on the part of the band. When we encored with “Tabu,” we realized we'd failed, but at least we had “played on Broadway”!

We left the studio defeated, but upbeat. The bright lights of Broadway in ’38 hardly reached up from 42^nd Street to where we were on 53^rd. Julio suggested a drink, not in celebration but rather to cheer things up. He mentioned the Half Moon on 81^st off Broadway. Walking over a mile in thin clothing was impossible with the instruments. We entered the five-cent subway at 50^th Street, where on a bench we found a pocketbook with fourteen dollars! Dividing this small fortune, we began to understand the whimsicality and capriciousness of show biz.

...to be continued

Buyú’s Harmonic Finale

2007-06-07T11:56:00.001-07:00

When I was a year old, Mrs. William Randolph Hearst awarded me a medal. Her husband was running for president. The medal was a political gimmick. In order to attract new immigrant voters, Hearst opened “baby milk stations” in poor neighborhoods. So as to win the medal, I was fed high-fat milk until I was morbidly overweight. Since my eyes became slits, I was called “chink,” a derogatory label applied to the Chinese in the twenties. I was a pawn fattened for the slaughter but as I grew older, I accepted it philosophically.

In the mid-forties, the streets of Greenwich Village were empty. “We have it in our power to begin the world over again,” said Alexander Hamilton, years earlier. Wonderful things could have happened to our society with just a lucky shove from destiny. We already possessed a spirit of bohemian rebellion. There existed an attitude of refined curiosity and sly humor. Not having read sufficient history, we lacked wisdom. There was no Chopin or Verdi to compose an anthem, or a Dvorak to lend us more militancy. Our literature was not Jeffersonian. Kafka still amused us, Brave New World was still too upsetting and Orwell was far off. Soon we assembled in Washington Square Park to lay on the grass like self-centered cows. If the forties were at best, witty, then this silly century is a bad joke. We are all obliged to accept its artful, fanciful plastic philosophy, including the counter culturists.

“The last thing we possess is our philosophy,” Anatole Broyard once told me. One day I visited Mother Cabrini Hospital to be with my old friend José “Buyú” Mangual Sr. I casually asked his nurse if she knew who her patient was. She did not. “He is the world’s greatest bongo player,” I said. Buyú’s eyes had been closed all the while I was in his room. He suddenly opened them and with a beatific smile on his face, he closed them for the last time.

In the end, when all is said and done, with music in the air, I want to possess Buyú’s self-confident contentment. His homophonic “philosophy.” Like the masons who built the gothic cathedrals, José spent his life unknowingly building a monument to his own musical genius. His was an enviable finale without the benefit of philosophy.

—Amico sed magis amicus veritas, Plato

Musical Missionary

2007-06-07T11:45:00.001-07:00

At the beginning of the last century, many Anglicans left New England bound for Hawaii, the islands of the Pacific, and China. They were missionaries trained in medicine who were seeking to save souls by distributing Bibles and healing the sick. Often among hostile populations, they were not always welcomed. Like the early Jesuits who spread out in Southeast Asia and Japan, they were hoping for converts. In Honolulu, someone told me, “We exchanged our land for their Bibles.”

Ever since a santero, Juan Besson, told me that I would “carry this music around the world,” I have distributed cassettes instead of Bibles to everyone who would listen to my message. I even left them in hotel rooms, like the Gideon Society leaves the New Testament. The message, or as it is called, the “good news,” that I preach through Latin music is something that goes like this: “God love music.” If God is love then music is love in its most harmonious form. Where harmony is absent, love is absent. St. Paul, the fisher of men, sent Epistles all around the Mediterranean world, obeying the command of a higher power. When you hear Latin music, it is like a command to rise up and dance. For me, the music turned me into a professional dancer. But it was the command of the santero that was a religious experience that turned me into a “musical missionary.”

There is a Cuban song that says, por vivir en quinto patio / desprecias mis besos. Basically, “You disrespect me because I am poor.” Referring to the eighteen-hour documentary called Jazz, it is obvious to the thirty million Latinos in the USA that they are not only ignored by are used to benefit jazz. Latinos have been (ever since Mario Bauzá composed “Tanga,” a piece rarely heard and one that jazz influenced to its detriment) “Los Amigos Invisibles” of the jazzistas. Things are changing it seems and the complacent invisible friends are emerging from the shadow that jazz cast upon them unjustifiably. The January 28 issue of Variety says that “The Business Now Loves the Latins.” Jennifer Lopez just beat out the number one Beatles and she, like Ricky Martin, is not a true Latina. Another tune called “Cuando Llegará” can be answered now: “Ya Llegó.”

To close this sermon, let me quote from Luis Pales-Matos: “Ahi vienen los tambores! Ten Cuidado hombre blanco, que a ti llegan para clavarte su aguijón de música…te picará un tambor de danz o Guerra.”

“El son es lo mas sublime para el alma divertir quien pro bueno no lo estime, debe de morir.”

Some Stories Behind the Music

2007-06-05T14:05:00.001-07:00

Most Anglos' knowledge of la musica Latina begins with Desi Arnaz and ends with Tito Puente, with little in between. Yes, perhaps Perez Prado, called the Father of Mambo, but how about Papote, Papaito, Perico, Paquito, Patato or Pupi? Anglos know B. B. King and “Jelly Roll Blues,” but how many of them know Miguelito Valdez, or that Cab Calloway imitated Miguelito’s authentic Nañigo ritualistic chanting, turning it into a gibberish called “Heidi, Heidi Ho” that made a mockery of an authentic Afro incantation? It made Calloway a millionaire, with no thanks or acknowledgement to Valdez.

One can learn to dance salsa easily enough, but where does one acquire the ability to discuss the merits of Manny Oquendo y Libre versus Larry Harlow, as Nashville does with their numerous Country Western stars, or talk about Marc Anthony and José José or the greatness of Celia Cruz?

To fully feel the music, one must know the players. Imagine enjoying your rock and roll and never knowing anything about Elvis. That is the sorry state of the Latin music scene as it concerns the Anglo adherents. Information gained concerning the music you are listening to or dancing to makes one a skilled player in the conversation setting as well as on the dance floor. Max Salazar’s Mambo Kingdom is an excellent source book along with The Latin Tinge, but more of the same is needed, especially in the popular press, on the Internet or in the living room.

The following encounters with the music and the individuals involved as experienced by an outsider, an Anglo like yourself, can bring this remarkable music into your life and give you el alma creola.

Anglos might know the “Watermelon Man,” Ramon “Mongo” Santamaria, but how many have heard of Candido (Julian Cabrera), who at age 87 is still beating conga around the world?

I first heard Candido at the Kursal club in Old Havana. It was sixty years ago while I attended the University of Havana and steered tourists around the many hot spots for pocket money. We took them to the Teatro Shanghai to see the stage show that openly featured the big star (porno), Superman, a household name.

We had mojitos at La Zaragozana for lunch, rum añejo before dinner at Sloppy Joe’s, Scotch and sexy super-spectaculars at La Tropicana and a late morning dip in the pool at the Hotel Nacional. When the Tropicana show began, gamblers returned to their tables, a problem for the house, that has since been remedied in Las Vegas by separating both activities into “rooms” that share charge admissions

Spanish names like Rodriguez make for a blended, extended “family” made more confusing by the tendency to add somewhat of a clarification in the form of “pet names.” For example, Candido Cabrera is not to be confused with Candido, the timbale player named José Rodriguez, or bongoceros using “bongo” as a middle appellation such as Bobby Romero and Harry (Bongo) Rodriguez. The greatest in my opinion and in that of many others was the extraordinary bongocero José Mangual Sr., who adopted Buyú as his stage name.

I first met Buyú in 1937 at the Café Latino on Grove Street in the Village, and was at his bedside toward the end at Mother Cabrini Hospital seventy years later. Until that meeting, the only “Spanish Music” I knew was “La Cucaracha” and “Alla en el Rancho Grande.” When Buyú beat on what some people called bongos (“tom toms”) and maracas (“rattlers”), I went searching for the real thing. I traveled from Fort Hamilton across Manhattan and up into the Bronx to the Cabarojeño Workers Circle to hear it. Closer to home was the Park Palace on 110^th and Fifth Avenue. It was there that I met Julio Andino in 1937.

Invitation to the Dance

2007-06-05T11:49:00.001-07:00

For many years, dance hall posters could be seen on corner lampposts around the city. They added a bright note to an otherwise grey concrete world. Some communities were awash in colorful invitations to the dances. Many remained visible long after the event they served, but with the beginning of the Quality of Life policy they were outlawed, along with stale election campaign slogans, eyesores and graffiti. Post No Bills was enforced. Climbing a lamppost to get at one of these disappearing treasures became increasingly risky. The sponsors became aware of a thief and began to secure their posters ever higher and more securely with tape, staples, glue and nails. Soon these cheerful placards became a dying artifact, replaced by handbills distributed at dancehall entrances like throwaway circulars, or leaflets arriving by third-class mail.

During the 1890s, announcements of events took the form of playbills, especially along the 14^th Street’s theatrical district. Unlike Europe where paper was expensive, “towns in America were covered with posters lacking artistic value,” wrote Jules Cheret in The Poster by Alain Weill. Nineteenth century posters advertising many various products such as bicycles or soap were “puns in design,” similar to the 1980s Roseland poster, “Women’s Lib Dance.”

The scope of the exhibit portrays the growth and expansion of Latin music from 1970 to the present. A portion of it displays classic Anglo festivities such as Thanksgiving Day, Memorial Day, Sadie Hawkins Day and the Fourth of July. When the first “Latino Music Festival” opened at Madison Square Garden in the early ’70s, admission was $7 and it featured ten bands. Today, general admission is $45 and may show one band. If ten top celebrities are billed, they will appear on stage only to receive applause but not to perform. Like the baseball fan, loyal to his sport, the Latino is devoted to his joyous music. “Rumba for breakfast, rumba for lunch, rumba for dinner,” as the saying goes.

Historically important is the Corso poster. This dancehall marked the “crossover” from East Harlem’s barrio to the German-American neighborhood of Yorkville. It played top bands from “9pm to 6am.” Latino valentinos came down Lexington Avenue and kept going. It awakened communities to the pleasure of “going dancing” on Saturday night. Beyond the borders of the barrio, Latinos felt free in this Home of Latin Music. Before this, La Conga, China Doll, the Martinique and the Embassy were nightclubs and not dancehalls. They avoided using street corner posters. The venerable Roseland and the theatrical Palladium lacked the intimacy of the darkened ambiance of the Corso, where black and white blended and bonded. The Corso can be said to have begun the disco scene in New York.

In third world countries, where there are no movie houses, people attend dances in a local schoolhouse. Open air makeshift dirt floors serve quite well. In the ’30s and ’40s, along Havana’s Malecon, street floor apartments served as dance “clubs.” An improvised bar on the kitchen table sold shots of rum for cinco kilos (five cents). Usually, the family were the musicians together with neighbors who helped round out the modest conjunto. These spots catered to the average Habenero or to the after-work passerby who would step in for a precisos bolero, to relax or to pursue a romantic interlude.

Latin bands produce beautiful music with powerful basic discipline and synchronous relaxed movement. While sustaining the values of traditional holidays, these dancehalls celebrate life in spite of linguistic separation. Abre paso! (Give way!) is a popular dance floor expression along with Dale aire! (Give me air!…Give me room!…to show my stuff). These words may well symbolize the Latino’s cry for fuller recognition of a melodious culture. Allow Babalu to become Negro de Sociedad.

Thousands of people come to Times Square seeking “something.” Unfortunately, they ignore the colorful posters on the corner lampposts with their odd names: Buyú, Mongo, Corso, Caborojeño.

Although there is much electricity in the air, like the rush you feel as you begin to dance your way onto a crowded dance floor, the crowds should accept the invitations extended by the posters. The Audubon, the Park Plaza, the Broadway Casino…these salones de baile, where musicians give you the very air in their lungs, the nimbleness in their fingers, their sweating talents. They will send you dancing off into space, they will satisfy your wish to fly. Seek no more.

That famous Broadway ballroom, the Palladium, was a barn-like showplace that could hold a dozen Park Plazas. The modest Park Plaza served to compact the dancers. It concentrated the impact of the music that shook the building. Like the famous Cuban sala, the “salon” is where one goes to dance and not to see a show with dancing to follow. The salon is not the elite “room” or the unwholesome disco. It is where in an atmosphere of overlapping perfumes one might hear lyrics like, “Nacieron las flores cuando naciste tu.” Where one can find a more romantic stimulation outside of “la blanda cama” (the soft bed) or the frenzy that makes sensuality a graceful art form?

“You will carry this music around the world,” a Babalao once told me. Was it a command or a prophecy? So I solicit you, who carry this music in your hearts: Go forth, propagate this gift…invite the world to dance!

¡A bailar!

Dirty Dancers: Miami Beach, 1940

2007-06-05T09:37:00.000-07:00

When the 1940 winter season ended and the Carousel Club closed, Miami Beach was expected to await the arrival of Thanksgiving 1941, when tourists would return. Instead, a building boom took place beginning with the National Hotel and continuing up Collins Avenue from 16^th to 23^rd Street, with the Rooney Plaza Hotel.

The rumba dancers that performed at the Five O’clock Club, the Beachcomber, Club Bali and Carousel either went north or remained for the summer, out of work. When we learned that the new hotels were installing dance studios to serve guests, and welcoming teachers, we joined the new National Hotel. In return for performing at the pool with free rumba lessons for hotel guests, we had the use of the studio, free of charge. A business was born.

Miami Beach and rumba and conga became synonymous. Bathed in Latin rhythms from nearby Havana. A chain of dance studios—one in every new hotel—would have paid off very handsomely we thought except that there were not enough dance teachers to fill the growing demands. Furthermore, the hotel owners were now asking for a percentage of the take and were thinking of charging for dance studio space. To hire teachers or to work on a percentage basis without contracts was clumsy since they could make deals with the hotels eliminating my partner and me. Things were up for grabs.

Since the National Hotel was number one in 1940, our studio was well known. And considered the pioneer in this dance studio business: in hopes of dealing with more sound (read: honest) establishments, we approached the venerable Tatem Surf Club, and Anglo-Saxon private club for the old guard Floridian “aristocracy.” At the entrance, a sign read Restricted. The management agreed to permit a trial studio seeing that we had run the Conga Nights at the prestigious Coral Gables Country Club. When there were absolutely no customers from the Tatem Surf Club membership, we quit. No doubt the rumba was considered ethnically incorrect: “Jewish.” The Anglos scorned the dance and today they are seen at a loss on the dance floor trying to learn the box step

The Great Noro Morales

2007-06-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

The dance floor, like the bandstand at the old La Conga nightclub, was the size of a postage stamp. Performing during the popular rumba matinees of the early forties, Noro Morales had to sit sidesaddle at his piano due to his corpulence and the cramped angle. The patrons came from the nearby fur market, garment center and millenary district. These were Jewish bosses with their Italian models. Four huge “palm trees” dominated the décor. Twenty-four round tables seating four were set so closely that conversations and casual comments overlapped, adding to a close congeniality even among business competitors.

“Rumbambola” had just ended. The perspiring dancers wriggled their way back to their tables like bouncing balls. In spite of the AC on full blast, everyone in the club was wringing wet. With a clever change of pace, Noro went into “Rumba Rumbero,” causing the exhausted couples to gulp down their drinks in order to hurry back onto the floor. One might say this was bad for business in a way. As soon as you sat down, you were up again like puppets on a string, manipulated by the cords of a musical magnetism: You were still jumping in bed that night.

When it became time to clear out for the dinner crowd (who had come to see Carmen Amaya, Diosa Costello, Jose Greco, Pedro Flores or Pedro Ramirez or Tondaleyo), the patrons were slow to leave. It was like emerging from a theater into sunlight. You were a performer! A star! One felt a reluctance, a disbelief like a shocking conclusion. You felt that “I want more” feeling until the rhythm slowly evaporated as you walked distractedly down Broadway. These were the same people who arrived early when the doors opened and while the band had not as yet shown up. The same people who would brave the heaviest rainstorm to dance carrying umbrellas into the club. Once settled, they would watch the musicians come in carrying their instruments over the heads of those at the tables. They would watch the band assemble. Testing, tuning, talking and turning to one another, the musicians were godlike, a congregation of talent. When the bongocero lit his Sterno, you knew you were in for a hot time. Noro, seated calmly at the piano; the dancers hushed at the tables—it was full artistic appreciation to watch things fall into place. This performance reached its climactic moment when Noro would raise his hand as if to say, as they do at the Indy 500: “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

(photo by William Gottlieb, 1947)

Cuba's Cohesive Tumbao

2007-06-05T08:19:00.000-07:00

Music is poetry in the air…. J. P. Richter

Nowhere is music more in the air than in Cuba, where the lowliest solo musician is a poet. When combined, these poets produce a weltweisheit…a philosophy of contentment that gives music a high priority in every Cuban’s everyday life. The “Blue Danube,” the waltz that swept Europe, made Vienna that gayest capital of its time. Havana may not be the gayest capital, but its music has no borders. They use their music as medicine to handle their misfortunes the way Neopolitans do…“O Sole Mio” traveled around the world but is mostly forgotten, like Argentina’s tango, “Comparsita.” Parma, the birthplace of Verdi’s twenty-four operas, is called the City of Music, like Strauss’s Salzburg, but one simple melody, “The Peanut Vendor,” put Havana on the map. Paris, famous for la Gaiete Parisienne, produced the cancan, and rests on its laurels like New Orleans after Mardi Gras. The Rio Carnival is incomparable but, seemingly exhausted, retires to prepare for next year. Spanish gypsies provide excitement and merriment like the Russians and Hungarians but are basically tragically oriented with their musical bipolarity. Germany’s music may start you marching but salsa stirs your toes. The Irish, like the Greeks who dance in circles, need a pint to get on the dance floor. Japan’s rock and roll is imitative and in Hong Kong the sound of the cash register is music. When Um Kulsum sang in Cairo, the Muslim world came to a halt, but she is gone. Truly irresistible music is rare and most music is not. In Brazil, samba does not serve to bring sufficient joy into the life of the average Carioca the way salsa has in Cuba and Puerto Rico, where its mystique is well understood.

* * * *

Many cities claim the title of “Paris of the…whatever.” Buenos Aires is called “the Paris of the Latin America,” Beirut was called “Paris of the Middle East,” Saigon was “Paris of Southeast Asia.” This terminology could refer to the architecture as well as to the spirit one found in these cities, but when one called Havana “el Paris del Nuevo Mundo,” they meant the joie de vivre principally…the excellent rum, fine tobacco, the Habaneras or the cool spray along the Malecon that makes you love the place. Is it the constant hum of a silent rhythmic generator, the spicy lyrics or sexy citizens? When these lyrics contain ironic humor, it becomes a Laurel and Hardy world…more bearable and more true to life, unlike the message found in the malingering sophistry of Country or Western music.

At one time, you could sail or fly to Havana for very little. A weekend was sufficient to enroll you as a lifetime supporter of the phenomenon you discovered there. You had tasted the brand of universal happiness that, as an elderly black lady once told me at the end of her cruise to Nassau, “I never knew life could be so sweet.” Had she gone to Havana, she would have known what made it so. She was referring basically to her experience aboard the ship. The truly sweetened life is the one in which dark thoughts are drowned out by a musical antidote…one that can be shared like a bottle of wine with your supportive neighbors. Your woes are spread across a spectrum of understanding sympathizers. Music, they say, is medicine. What is it that makes Cuba rock, swing, jump…that puts poetry in the air? It is called tumbao, the cohesive poetry in the African drum.