What did Metroland, Albany’s weekly newspaper, consider noteworthy in 2010? If you look at the “Year in Pictures 2010” issue, dated December 23-29, you’ll see photos of two guys who set a record for playing dodgeball for more than 31 hours, a guy holding a stick who walked from Troy to Ithaca, a blonde dressed in pink holding cupcakes, and an overweight man with a reddened face patting a cow.
Oh sure, there were pictures of art happenings, of local notables, and of Governor Paterson. Sitarist Veena Chandra had a well-deserved mention and a great picture. There was also a great photo of Taína Asili and La Banda Rebelde. But, as if to make sure that no one would accuse the paper of being too serious or too earnest, there were also photos of a bearded man holding a bunch of orange balloons, one of five guys coming out the back hatch of a small car, and another of a local couple that sells cds and video games.
Um, excuse me, that couple sells used cds and video games. Right, their business is not only small—which is always good—but it is also based on the concept of recycling. Gosh, Mickey! That’s why they made it to the paper! They are so cute and earth-friendly! They even look like they came right out of That 70s Show! (Am I using too many exclamation marks? That should get me into Metroland!! Oh the quirkiness!!!)
I can imagine the rejoinder: “Dr. Cruz failed to mention the pictures that referred to important events such as the Jon Stewart rally in Washington, D.C., of Joanne Epsen’s campaign for the state senate, of the teabaggers rally (yeah, they were important in 2010) in Troy against the Federal Reserve Bank, and of the closing of the Albany YMCA. Yes, our feature juxtaposed scantily-clad women, bare-chested men, and WAMC’s Alan Chartock, but that is precisely what makes Metroland tick: the odd mixture of the ridiculous and the sublime; if we can all agree that “Chartock” and “sublime” in the same sentence is not a crime against nature.”
Right. And you know what I say to that? I say, Hah!; Hah, Hah! And I don’t even have to invoke the Napoleonic code.
Last year, I noted a similar situation in Metroland’s “Year in Review” section. My blog reads:
“From the selections by Metroland’s critics in ‘The Year in Review,’ I cannot help but infer that they review only what’s already prominent commercially and/or what is familiar to them. Thus, unless a Latino artist is well-known and successful in the commercial mainstream he/she will not command their unsolicited attention. It may also be that these critics do not review performances that highlight Latin music and culture because, with the exception of Latin rock, they are not familiar with or do not like other expressions of Latin music and culture such as Latin jazz.”
That blog elicited zero response from Metroland. This leads me to infer that no one there even reads anything other than what they are already familiar with.
I mention my complaint from last year because, if anything, what Metroland did in 2010 is even worse. You don’t need to know anything about Latin music or culture to publish a photo of a Jazz/Latino event, of the Albany Latin Fest, of a Martínez Gallery show, or of the Latino Upstate Summit. In 2010, Jazz/Latino brought to Albany a slew of internationally renowned musicians; the Albany Latin Fest gathered thousands of people from across the state in Washington Park and did for small businesses more in one day than what a couple selling used video games can do in six months; the Martínez Gallery featured the work of prominent Latino and non-Latino artists; and the Latino Upstate Summit generated business for a local hotel and rallied all the major Latino organizations in Upstate New York for a day of analysis of important social issues. Yet, according to Metroland’s review none of this was worth highlighting.
You don’t need to know anything about any of these organizations or about what they do in any kind of detail in order to notice them. No, all you need is to pay attention and to have a little curiosity for the unfamiliar. Of course, there’s much more that Metroland ignores but one guy holding orange balloons is featured and a cultural event featuring ten thousand people doesn’t make it? That kind of omission is simply jarring.
For the past four years Metroland has sponsored the Ahora, Latin/Jazz! concert series. For that I am grateful. But as I said last year:
“The paper has never reviewed any one of the 24 events Jazz/Latino has sponsored in Albany, Schenectady, and Troy since 2007. I do get my shows included in the arts calendar but the calendar will include, in fine print because it is free, anything that is submitted on time. The only prominent coverage my concerts have had in Metroland has been through advertisements but that kind of “coverage” is easy to get as well—all it takes is ability to pay.”
The count goes on: it is now 29 Jazz/Latino events that Metroland has ignored. I’m thinking of standing in front of the paper with the Jazz/Latino banner behind me, holding a sign saying “Please” in one hand, and a bunch of orange balloons in the other. Maybe that’ll get me in the paper. And if I wear a pink tutu, hold a cupcake on my head, and pat a cow, I may increase my chances. But then again, I would need a third hand to pat the cow.
It’s just an idea. A fantasy? Perhaps. This is no fantasy—Until we get some serious coverage, Jazz/Latino will not seek the sponsorship of Metroland and will not buy any advertisements for its events.
I don’t think this will make any difference but I don’t care. In fact, what could happen is that my calendar submissions may get blacklisted. That presupposes that someone at Metroland will read this blog. Fat chance. However, if you don’t see a Jazz/Latino event in Metroland’s calendar ever again, you’ll understand. Happy New Year!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
October 31st, 2010: Day Three in the City
Sunday was a lazy day. By my standards, that meant getting up at 8 am instead of 6 am. The air was cold, crisp, and comfortable. At around noon I headed to Queens to the Louis Armstrong house museum, hoping to catch the one o’clock tour.
I got there past 1pm but luckily I was herded into the house before the official start time of the next tour. The Armstrong house is small and modest and there isn’t that much to see. The marble bathtubs and the gold plated fixtures give the house a touch of old, musty decadence. The kitchen, with its wall-to-ceiling blue formica cabinets and its high-tech (for their time) appliances has a Retro/Jetson quality; back to the future, I guess. As I went from room to room, I could not help but think of the Armstrongs as precursors of The Jeffersons, that caricature of the black, nouveau middle-class of the 1980s, that was supposed to represent the ironic side of black upward mobility.
Alan, the tour guide, was quite animated and passionate about Armstrong. There was not a hint of irony to anything he said, only unabashed admiration. Every word he uttered was complimentary and enthusiastic. He looked silly is his Halloween costume—he was dressed in black, head to toe, wearing dark glasses in the shape of quarter notes, and had a box over his head with holes on the sides for his arms with the introductory bars to West End Blues pasted to the box, front and back. He was very well-informed about Armstrong’s life and career, and had an interesting point of view about Satchmo’s significance, not just to jazz, but to American culture in general.
Armstrong grew up dirt poor in New Orleans but was never spoiled by fame and wealth. He remained consistently humble and unassuming. He overcame poverty but some of the marks of poverty and deprivation could be detected at the house: in his writing (chock full of misspellings and grammatical errors), in the gaudiness of the house décor (silver wall paper that made one room look like it was wrapped in tin foil), and in his vulgarity (a glass in his den was illustrated in Kama Sutra fashion; the copulating figures reminded me of the silver silhouettes of naked women truckers put in the mud flaps of their vehicles).
Alan found it charming that at dinner with the Queen of England Armstrong passed laxatives around the table. I think he assumed that this behavior was motivated by a democratic, irreverent impulse. My sense is that this was simply uncouth behavior. I don’t think that Armstrong was engaging in anti-monarchic disrespect given his firm conviction that laxatives were a therapeutic necessity. With exuberant glee, the tour guide also mentioned a postcard that featured Armstrong sitting on a toilet recommending laxatives as the best way to “leave your troubles behind.” I thought, “Oh dear, where’s the pride in displaying yourself to the world sitting on the toilet?” Bathroom humor is a sign of crudeness and Armstrong was not above it. I did enjoy and appreciate the story about his audience with the Pope. When his Divine Highness asked Armstrong whether he and Lucille had any children, Satchmo replied: “No, but we are working on it.” I’m not sure whether Armstrong intended to be irreverent or not. Probably he did not. The remark may have been completely innocent. I can only imagine what the Pope must have thought about Armstrong’s veiled sexual joke.
Some considered Armstrong an Uncle Tom. But he was a strong advocate and supporter of civil rights. He was also a considerate and generous neighbor. In one of the many letters he wrote during his residence in Queens, he expresses his great appreciation for his fellow residents and is grateful for their concern about his health. He notes how some would call the house to inquire about his well-being if they didn’t hear him practicing his trumpet. He was crazy about kids and the most touching memento in the house is the photo of Armstrong sitting on his stoop, trumpet to his lips, blowing wide-eyed, a small kid on his lap, another sitting on the step right above his, and a third blowing on a toy cornet looking at him. It is as if Satchmo was looking in a mirror at his own image as a little boy in New Orleans. I asked our guide if the trumpet boy had become a musician and he said no. He did return to the house as an adult and was very moved when he saw the photograph.
When Armstrong moved to Corona, there were a handful of blacks in his neighborhood. Now it is a Latino enclave. As I walked towards the house on 103rd street, the first establishment I noticed was the Cibao Express-Cibao Travel, a travel agency. I went by a Colombian bakery next to a Mexican café, by the Rancho Latino, which offered “Dominican and international food;” I walked in front of the Amazonas Café and a few doors down I noticed Maxim Restaurant, which offered Chinese and Mexican food; further along was the “99 Cents Latino Store” located next to the Great China restaurant where customers could enjoy “Chinese and American food.” The throng coming out of the church on 37th Avenue, was 100% Latino. And just before hitting 107th Street, on 37th Avenue, I saw the driver of Mudanzas Papi trying to park his moving van. Queens is only 25% Latino but Armstrong’s neighborhood felt 90%.
Alan mentioned that the news of Hello Dolly topping the charts in 1964, displacing Can’t Buy me Love by the Beatles, caught Armstrong in Puerto Rico. This was my cue to identify myself as Boricua. After the tour, as I scanned the gift shop, Alan said that there was another Puerto Rican in the house and introduced me to Jendar Morales, a museum staff who happened to be the daughter of Dario Morales, a trumpet player with Roberto Roena. I bought the complete Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings CD, and after checking with Jendar about the quality of the food at the Dominican restaurant across the street from the museum, I visited Angelita’s, where I swallowed a plate of rice and beans with a mix of cod fish and scrambled eggs. I was in a hurry. Why is it that the signature salad in Latino restaurants is iceberg lettuce and tomatoes?
From Queens I raced to El Museo del Barrio to catch Bongo Passion, a performance of contemporary Puerto Rican classical music by musicians from the Puerto Rico Conservatory, sponsored by La Casa de la Herencia Cultural Puertorriqueña and the Spanish Consulate in New York. The program began with a really lame composition for bongó and concluded with a piece for clarinet and piano; this piece was bracketed by a boogie-woogie ostinato on the piano. A series of very abstract pieces were played, which prompted the lead musician to explain, rather defensively, that Puerto Rican music was not just Salsa, not just Bomba y Plena, and that if the audience thought that what they had heard was “shocking,” there was no need to worry, there was at least one piece in the program that had a melody. Then the ensemble proceeded to play what sounded like Muzak to me.
Bongo Passion was weird and I did not appreciate or enjoy it. I think nobody did. At one point I caught the executive director of the sponsoring organization yawning quite vigorously. In the end, everybody was polite to the musicians. The audience made an effort to keep the clapping going while all the performers and sponsors lined up on stage for a bow, but the latter were all still up there way after the clapping died out. That was embarrassing. You always want to be able to exit the stage before the ovation is over. During the performance an older woman that was sitting behind me, who did not seem to have any filters, kept muttering to her son: “I thought this was going to be a play” and “this is boring, I could swear you said it was going to be a play.” The son shushed her and, in a tone that suggested embarrassment, told her several times, “No Mami, it’s a concert not a play.” He probably said to her that some musicians were going to play at El Museo and that’s probably the only word she heard. I wondered if she was demented.
The concert at El Museo ended at 6pm. This gave me only a two-hour window to get back downtown, rest for a bit, and then head out to the 8pm show at the Nuyorican Poets Café by Bobby Sanabria and his student big band. I walked the stretch from the hotel to the Café, from 15th and Irving Place down to 3rd street between Avenue B and C. As I hit 3rd St. and Avenue B, I saw a two-legged rabbit carrying a trumpet case and thought, “That must be one of Bobby’s students.” At the Café I had the fortune of bumping into my colleague and fellow Salsaphile, Xavier Totti, his wife Teresa, and Bobby’s wife, Elena Martínez. Just as I was about to take my seat, who walks in but Candido Camero, assisted by his wife; they sat next to me.
The band was clad in Halloween costumes: the rabbit was supposed to be Donnie Darko; the piano player was, according to Sanabria, a “Jewban,” that is, a Cuban Jew; the bass player was a Skipper; another trumpet player simply had a head band that said “bad hair day;” one trombone player was a buff Spiderman and the lead tenor sax was a Franciscan Monk. The conga player had no costume and the conga was barely heard until Candido took over the quinto. The student who was playing clave, was baptized by Sanabria “The Ambiguous Clave Player,” because of his lack of clave verve, I imagine.
As I was enjoying my intermittent conversations with Xavier and Elena, Bobby Sanabria made his entrance wearing a red hat and a black cape, walking on one leg, assisted by a cane, and uttering guttural sounds; he was supposed to be Eleguá but he looked more like Zorro. Sanabria showered the audience with candy. This reminded me of the Q&A after his presentation on the life and career of Tito Puente in Albany, when he threw Vic Firth promotional sticks to audience members who asked questions. Once again I thought: “Somebody is going to get hit in the face,” but this time by a Hershey bar or a bag of Skittles. Mercifully, no one was hurt and we all enjoyed the chocolate.
Then the Café exploded. Sanabria drove those kids like a mad plantation foreman, whipping them into a tsunami of expression and improvisation. At one point he beckoned the one female trumpet player front stage; she looked dumbfounded. She was this tiny girl and Sanabria made her dance like a trompo, except that the poor woman did not know how to dance so le salió batata. On the other hand, when she took a solo, boy, could she play. The show was amazing: the technical skill and rich improvisational vocabulary of those kids was vast. One trombone player was a colleague of Sanabria so his proficiency was not surprising. The “ambiguous” clave player was metronomical but did not have an opportunity to shine; that’s the irony of the clave: it is key but no one leaves a performance saying, in awe, “Wow, that was some clave player!”
I forget what time it was when the show concluded. I said goodbye to Xavier, Teresa, and Elena and as I walked the fifteen or sixteen blocks between the Café and my hotel, I hummed the tune that began to play at the Café immediately after the band finished its set. As I walked past revellers and all kinds of restaurants, I kept thinking of a dry martini and Oaxacan tacos with lemon spiced grasshoppers (chapulines). That’s what I ate at the Global Galaxy Eatery, on 15th and Irving Place, across the street from the Seafarers International House, the place I stayed, on this third day.
I got there past 1pm but luckily I was herded into the house before the official start time of the next tour. The Armstrong house is small and modest and there isn’t that much to see. The marble bathtubs and the gold plated fixtures give the house a touch of old, musty decadence. The kitchen, with its wall-to-ceiling blue formica cabinets and its high-tech (for their time) appliances has a Retro/Jetson quality; back to the future, I guess. As I went from room to room, I could not help but think of the Armstrongs as precursors of The Jeffersons, that caricature of the black, nouveau middle-class of the 1980s, that was supposed to represent the ironic side of black upward mobility.
Alan, the tour guide, was quite animated and passionate about Armstrong. There was not a hint of irony to anything he said, only unabashed admiration. Every word he uttered was complimentary and enthusiastic. He looked silly is his Halloween costume—he was dressed in black, head to toe, wearing dark glasses in the shape of quarter notes, and had a box over his head with holes on the sides for his arms with the introductory bars to West End Blues pasted to the box, front and back. He was very well-informed about Armstrong’s life and career, and had an interesting point of view about Satchmo’s significance, not just to jazz, but to American culture in general.
Armstrong grew up dirt poor in New Orleans but was never spoiled by fame and wealth. He remained consistently humble and unassuming. He overcame poverty but some of the marks of poverty and deprivation could be detected at the house: in his writing (chock full of misspellings and grammatical errors), in the gaudiness of the house décor (silver wall paper that made one room look like it was wrapped in tin foil), and in his vulgarity (a glass in his den was illustrated in Kama Sutra fashion; the copulating figures reminded me of the silver silhouettes of naked women truckers put in the mud flaps of their vehicles).
Alan found it charming that at dinner with the Queen of England Armstrong passed laxatives around the table. I think he assumed that this behavior was motivated by a democratic, irreverent impulse. My sense is that this was simply uncouth behavior. I don’t think that Armstrong was engaging in anti-monarchic disrespect given his firm conviction that laxatives were a therapeutic necessity. With exuberant glee, the tour guide also mentioned a postcard that featured Armstrong sitting on a toilet recommending laxatives as the best way to “leave your troubles behind.” I thought, “Oh dear, where’s the pride in displaying yourself to the world sitting on the toilet?” Bathroom humor is a sign of crudeness and Armstrong was not above it. I did enjoy and appreciate the story about his audience with the Pope. When his Divine Highness asked Armstrong whether he and Lucille had any children, Satchmo replied: “No, but we are working on it.” I’m not sure whether Armstrong intended to be irreverent or not. Probably he did not. The remark may have been completely innocent. I can only imagine what the Pope must have thought about Armstrong’s veiled sexual joke.
Some considered Armstrong an Uncle Tom. But he was a strong advocate and supporter of civil rights. He was also a considerate and generous neighbor. In one of the many letters he wrote during his residence in Queens, he expresses his great appreciation for his fellow residents and is grateful for their concern about his health. He notes how some would call the house to inquire about his well-being if they didn’t hear him practicing his trumpet. He was crazy about kids and the most touching memento in the house is the photo of Armstrong sitting on his stoop, trumpet to his lips, blowing wide-eyed, a small kid on his lap, another sitting on the step right above his, and a third blowing on a toy cornet looking at him. It is as if Satchmo was looking in a mirror at his own image as a little boy in New Orleans. I asked our guide if the trumpet boy had become a musician and he said no. He did return to the house as an adult and was very moved when he saw the photograph.
When Armstrong moved to Corona, there were a handful of blacks in his neighborhood. Now it is a Latino enclave. As I walked towards the house on 103rd street, the first establishment I noticed was the Cibao Express-Cibao Travel, a travel agency. I went by a Colombian bakery next to a Mexican café, by the Rancho Latino, which offered “Dominican and international food;” I walked in front of the Amazonas Café and a few doors down I noticed Maxim Restaurant, which offered Chinese and Mexican food; further along was the “99 Cents Latino Store” located next to the Great China restaurant where customers could enjoy “Chinese and American food.” The throng coming out of the church on 37th Avenue, was 100% Latino. And just before hitting 107th Street, on 37th Avenue, I saw the driver of Mudanzas Papi trying to park his moving van. Queens is only 25% Latino but Armstrong’s neighborhood felt 90%.
Alan mentioned that the news of Hello Dolly topping the charts in 1964, displacing Can’t Buy me Love by the Beatles, caught Armstrong in Puerto Rico. This was my cue to identify myself as Boricua. After the tour, as I scanned the gift shop, Alan said that there was another Puerto Rican in the house and introduced me to Jendar Morales, a museum staff who happened to be the daughter of Dario Morales, a trumpet player with Roberto Roena. I bought the complete Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings CD, and after checking with Jendar about the quality of the food at the Dominican restaurant across the street from the museum, I visited Angelita’s, where I swallowed a plate of rice and beans with a mix of cod fish and scrambled eggs. I was in a hurry. Why is it that the signature salad in Latino restaurants is iceberg lettuce and tomatoes?
From Queens I raced to El Museo del Barrio to catch Bongo Passion, a performance of contemporary Puerto Rican classical music by musicians from the Puerto Rico Conservatory, sponsored by La Casa de la Herencia Cultural Puertorriqueña and the Spanish Consulate in New York. The program began with a really lame composition for bongó and concluded with a piece for clarinet and piano; this piece was bracketed by a boogie-woogie ostinato on the piano. A series of very abstract pieces were played, which prompted the lead musician to explain, rather defensively, that Puerto Rican music was not just Salsa, not just Bomba y Plena, and that if the audience thought that what they had heard was “shocking,” there was no need to worry, there was at least one piece in the program that had a melody. Then the ensemble proceeded to play what sounded like Muzak to me.
Bongo Passion was weird and I did not appreciate or enjoy it. I think nobody did. At one point I caught the executive director of the sponsoring organization yawning quite vigorously. In the end, everybody was polite to the musicians. The audience made an effort to keep the clapping going while all the performers and sponsors lined up on stage for a bow, but the latter were all still up there way after the clapping died out. That was embarrassing. You always want to be able to exit the stage before the ovation is over. During the performance an older woman that was sitting behind me, who did not seem to have any filters, kept muttering to her son: “I thought this was going to be a play” and “this is boring, I could swear you said it was going to be a play.” The son shushed her and, in a tone that suggested embarrassment, told her several times, “No Mami, it’s a concert not a play.” He probably said to her that some musicians were going to play at El Museo and that’s probably the only word she heard. I wondered if she was demented.
The concert at El Museo ended at 6pm. This gave me only a two-hour window to get back downtown, rest for a bit, and then head out to the 8pm show at the Nuyorican Poets Café by Bobby Sanabria and his student big band. I walked the stretch from the hotel to the Café, from 15th and Irving Place down to 3rd street between Avenue B and C. As I hit 3rd St. and Avenue B, I saw a two-legged rabbit carrying a trumpet case and thought, “That must be one of Bobby’s students.” At the Café I had the fortune of bumping into my colleague and fellow Salsaphile, Xavier Totti, his wife Teresa, and Bobby’s wife, Elena Martínez. Just as I was about to take my seat, who walks in but Candido Camero, assisted by his wife; they sat next to me.
The band was clad in Halloween costumes: the rabbit was supposed to be Donnie Darko; the piano player was, according to Sanabria, a “Jewban,” that is, a Cuban Jew; the bass player was a Skipper; another trumpet player simply had a head band that said “bad hair day;” one trombone player was a buff Spiderman and the lead tenor sax was a Franciscan Monk. The conga player had no costume and the conga was barely heard until Candido took over the quinto. The student who was playing clave, was baptized by Sanabria “The Ambiguous Clave Player,” because of his lack of clave verve, I imagine.
As I was enjoying my intermittent conversations with Xavier and Elena, Bobby Sanabria made his entrance wearing a red hat and a black cape, walking on one leg, assisted by a cane, and uttering guttural sounds; he was supposed to be Eleguá but he looked more like Zorro. Sanabria showered the audience with candy. This reminded me of the Q&A after his presentation on the life and career of Tito Puente in Albany, when he threw Vic Firth promotional sticks to audience members who asked questions. Once again I thought: “Somebody is going to get hit in the face,” but this time by a Hershey bar or a bag of Skittles. Mercifully, no one was hurt and we all enjoyed the chocolate.
Then the Café exploded. Sanabria drove those kids like a mad plantation foreman, whipping them into a tsunami of expression and improvisation. At one point he beckoned the one female trumpet player front stage; she looked dumbfounded. She was this tiny girl and Sanabria made her dance like a trompo, except that the poor woman did not know how to dance so le salió batata. On the other hand, when she took a solo, boy, could she play. The show was amazing: the technical skill and rich improvisational vocabulary of those kids was vast. One trombone player was a colleague of Sanabria so his proficiency was not surprising. The “ambiguous” clave player was metronomical but did not have an opportunity to shine; that’s the irony of the clave: it is key but no one leaves a performance saying, in awe, “Wow, that was some clave player!”
I forget what time it was when the show concluded. I said goodbye to Xavier, Teresa, and Elena and as I walked the fifteen or sixteen blocks between the Café and my hotel, I hummed the tune that began to play at the Café immediately after the band finished its set. As I walked past revellers and all kinds of restaurants, I kept thinking of a dry martini and Oaxacan tacos with lemon spiced grasshoppers (chapulines). That’s what I ate at the Global Galaxy Eatery, on 15th and Irving Place, across the street from the Seafarers International House, the place I stayed, on this third day.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
October 30, 2010: Day Two in the City
The collectors’ festival was an interesting experience. This is an annual event where vendors sell LPs, CDs, books, and other Latin music paraphernalia. Panels are also held throughout the day. This year, the closing event was a concert by the Mambo Legends Orchestra. The event ran from 1-10pm at the Taíno Towers on 123rd St and 2nd Avenue in East Harlem. Did the Taíno Towers ever hear of the federal disabilities act? There was an elevator from the lobby to the main hall but otherwise it was stairs everywhere. I prefer stairs to elevators and I could handle them, but they were a challenge to others not as young or fit.
I spotted a few interesting LPs but they were scratched so I did not buy them. The place was really an indoors flea market. A knowledgeable friend, who shall remain nameless, told me, with an air of disdain: “There’s nothing here.” I spotted a vendor that was selling only books but decided that I was not going to pay $40 for a paperback that I could probably get for much less on Amazon or Alibris.
Later, at the Saigon Grill, another friend, who is an erudite and well-respected bandleader, said to our dinner companion about his purchase of Candido’s recording with Billy Taylor: “All those records have been digitalized and made into CDs.” I did not press him, but I assumed he meant all the records that have a collectible value, like Candido’s. Our companion rejoined: “Yes, but I prefer the LP!!” I saw a Cachao LP that I regret not buying. Recently I did an online search for Cachao and that one record did not come up. Oh well, it was scratched anyway.
So maybe my knowledgeable friends exaggerated a bit: there were treasures here and there and not everything has been digitalized and made into a CD.
It was good to eat arroz con gandules, even if the rice was ciego (I think there were three gandules in the rice I got), pernil, and two delicious alcapurrias de carne. I did not enjoy paying $3 for a coke but I had to drink something.
The two panels of the event were very poorly attended. My guess is that most attendees could not care less about the history of the Village Gate. Ironically, while the participants at the first panel were bemoaning the death of Salsa Meets Jazz, Salsa was being sold in droves by the vendors and was being blasted by the DJs to the mass audience downstairs.
I left that panel trying to decide whether the Village Gate closed because Art D’Lugoff could not afford a new more expensive lease or whether he could not afford the new lease because of some bad investments in Canada. Several explanations were offered, but to me it is clear that Salsa Meets Jazz died simply because there was no venue to host the series. There may have been more to it. I did not find the merengue and hip hop explanation persuasive. There certainly was a demographic shift during the 1980s that may have eroded the market base of the series, along with the demise of radio shows and inadequate advertising.
The highlight of this panel was Orlando Godoy’s video clip showing the trumpet battle between Arturo Sandoval and Piro Rodríguez at the Gate. Sandoval seemed dumbfounded and taken aback by his inability to best Rodríguez. The clip shows Rodríguez making a gracious overture to Sandoval after the trades that Sandoval barely reciprocates. But of course, in battle, it is easier to be gracious when you are the winner.
During the second panel, Burt D’Lugoff started by saying he had nothing to add to what had been said by the previous presenters and that he had no expertise. Yet, he turned out to be very informative and engaging. He told us that Bob Dylan composed some memorable songs at the Gate because he was friends with the lighting technician, who would let Dylan crash there. It was not because Art D’Lugoff was friends with Dylan or was acting like his mentor. D’Lugoff knew that Dylan was squatting but simply looked the other way. Another sojourner at the Gate was Sam Shepard, who worked as a dishwasher there before he became known as a playwright and actor of substance. Before he was famous, Woody Allen did over one hundred appearances at the Gate as an opener for some other act. Bill Cosby also did his standup at the Gate long before he was the Bill Cosby we all know.
Burt also said that he and his brother were “on the left,” and therefore were not very well-liked in the neighborhood, especially by residents who resented all those blacks coming to the Gate. The police tried to extort the D’Lugoff brothers but they resisted. It is amazing that they did not wound up dead as a result. Art also worked with Jane Jacobs to prevent Robert Moses from razing Washington Park to build a highway. That may have been Moses one and only defeat.
The story that impressed me the most was the one about D’Lugoff’s booking of blacklisted folk artists during the McCarthy period (this is before the Village Gate). He rented a theatre expecting a crowd of 300; 3,000 showed up. I thought, “Gee, I wish that had happened to me when I started Jazz/Latino.” I did my first series expecting thousands and instead got 300. According to Burt, after the successful show his brother said: “We got something here,” and from there went on to become an impresario. Previously he had tried law school (“Both Art and the law school agreed that he did not belong there,” said Burt), taxi driving, and other subsistence occupations.
Before the concert I spotted Assemblyman José Rivera eating everything in sight while pontificating on who knows what; I did not pay attention to what he said. I concentrated on my alcapurrias. Then it was Mambo Legends time and they were spectacular. I was standing right in front of the stage watching José Madera, George Delgado, and Dandy Rodríguez do their seamless percussion choreography but my meditation was interrupted by two obnoxious and probably drunk individuals who kept shouting while intermittently playing maracas and cowbell along with the band. Well, to say that they were playing along is too generous a statement. Dandy and Madera were momentarily bemused but George kept a face as straight as his tumbao.
From a corner of the stage Bobby Sanabria beckoned me to join him. Frankly, I wanted to stay on my spot but I could not say no to Bobby Sanabria. Before I went up the stage, I saw Dandy Rodríguez perform a neat little trick. When the montuno was approaching, and I’m talking split seconds here, he picked up his bell, which he keeps on top of his case on his right side, and passed it from his right to his left hand under his right thigh. I thought, “Cool. Now, that’s grace under pressure.” Randy Brecker sat in with the legends. And Reinaldo Jorge, Sam Burtis, and Pete Nater blew their horns as well. So there was morning and there was evening, a second day. And it was good.
I spotted a few interesting LPs but they were scratched so I did not buy them. The place was really an indoors flea market. A knowledgeable friend, who shall remain nameless, told me, with an air of disdain: “There’s nothing here.” I spotted a vendor that was selling only books but decided that I was not going to pay $40 for a paperback that I could probably get for much less on Amazon or Alibris.
Later, at the Saigon Grill, another friend, who is an erudite and well-respected bandleader, said to our dinner companion about his purchase of Candido’s recording with Billy Taylor: “All those records have been digitalized and made into CDs.” I did not press him, but I assumed he meant all the records that have a collectible value, like Candido’s. Our companion rejoined: “Yes, but I prefer the LP!!” I saw a Cachao LP that I regret not buying. Recently I did an online search for Cachao and that one record did not come up. Oh well, it was scratched anyway.
So maybe my knowledgeable friends exaggerated a bit: there were treasures here and there and not everything has been digitalized and made into a CD.
It was good to eat arroz con gandules, even if the rice was ciego (I think there were three gandules in the rice I got), pernil, and two delicious alcapurrias de carne. I did not enjoy paying $3 for a coke but I had to drink something.
The two panels of the event were very poorly attended. My guess is that most attendees could not care less about the history of the Village Gate. Ironically, while the participants at the first panel were bemoaning the death of Salsa Meets Jazz, Salsa was being sold in droves by the vendors and was being blasted by the DJs to the mass audience downstairs.
I left that panel trying to decide whether the Village Gate closed because Art D’Lugoff could not afford a new more expensive lease or whether he could not afford the new lease because of some bad investments in Canada. Several explanations were offered, but to me it is clear that Salsa Meets Jazz died simply because there was no venue to host the series. There may have been more to it. I did not find the merengue and hip hop explanation persuasive. There certainly was a demographic shift during the 1980s that may have eroded the market base of the series, along with the demise of radio shows and inadequate advertising.
The highlight of this panel was Orlando Godoy’s video clip showing the trumpet battle between Arturo Sandoval and Piro Rodríguez at the Gate. Sandoval seemed dumbfounded and taken aback by his inability to best Rodríguez. The clip shows Rodríguez making a gracious overture to Sandoval after the trades that Sandoval barely reciprocates. But of course, in battle, it is easier to be gracious when you are the winner.
During the second panel, Burt D’Lugoff started by saying he had nothing to add to what had been said by the previous presenters and that he had no expertise. Yet, he turned out to be very informative and engaging. He told us that Bob Dylan composed some memorable songs at the Gate because he was friends with the lighting technician, who would let Dylan crash there. It was not because Art D’Lugoff was friends with Dylan or was acting like his mentor. D’Lugoff knew that Dylan was squatting but simply looked the other way. Another sojourner at the Gate was Sam Shepard, who worked as a dishwasher there before he became known as a playwright and actor of substance. Before he was famous, Woody Allen did over one hundred appearances at the Gate as an opener for some other act. Bill Cosby also did his standup at the Gate long before he was the Bill Cosby we all know.
Burt also said that he and his brother were “on the left,” and therefore were not very well-liked in the neighborhood, especially by residents who resented all those blacks coming to the Gate. The police tried to extort the D’Lugoff brothers but they resisted. It is amazing that they did not wound up dead as a result. Art also worked with Jane Jacobs to prevent Robert Moses from razing Washington Park to build a highway. That may have been Moses one and only defeat.
The story that impressed me the most was the one about D’Lugoff’s booking of blacklisted folk artists during the McCarthy period (this is before the Village Gate). He rented a theatre expecting a crowd of 300; 3,000 showed up. I thought, “Gee, I wish that had happened to me when I started Jazz/Latino.” I did my first series expecting thousands and instead got 300. According to Burt, after the successful show his brother said: “We got something here,” and from there went on to become an impresario. Previously he had tried law school (“Both Art and the law school agreed that he did not belong there,” said Burt), taxi driving, and other subsistence occupations.
Before the concert I spotted Assemblyman José Rivera eating everything in sight while pontificating on who knows what; I did not pay attention to what he said. I concentrated on my alcapurrias. Then it was Mambo Legends time and they were spectacular. I was standing right in front of the stage watching José Madera, George Delgado, and Dandy Rodríguez do their seamless percussion choreography but my meditation was interrupted by two obnoxious and probably drunk individuals who kept shouting while intermittently playing maracas and cowbell along with the band. Well, to say that they were playing along is too generous a statement. Dandy and Madera were momentarily bemused but George kept a face as straight as his tumbao.
From a corner of the stage Bobby Sanabria beckoned me to join him. Frankly, I wanted to stay on my spot but I could not say no to Bobby Sanabria. Before I went up the stage, I saw Dandy Rodríguez perform a neat little trick. When the montuno was approaching, and I’m talking split seconds here, he picked up his bell, which he keeps on top of his case on his right side, and passed it from his right to his left hand under his right thigh. I thought, “Cool. Now, that’s grace under pressure.” Randy Brecker sat in with the legends. And Reinaldo Jorge, Sam Burtis, and Pete Nater blew their horns as well. So there was morning and there was evening, a second day. And it was good.
Monday, November 1, 2010
October 29, 2010: Day One in the City
Dancing with the Ancestors last night (October 29) at Flushing Town Hall was fantastic, exhilarating, and rejuvenating. Chembo and friends se la comieron. Funny thing: I've seen Harvey Averne so many times at so many different events in New York and every time there would be a sense of faint recognition on my part without really knowing it was him---until last night when he was recognized as part of the audience by Felipe Luciano. One of Ray Romero's daughters insisted that I looked familiar to her even though I had never seen her before. In contrast, some of the musicians did not know who I was when I said hello, even though some have played in Albany as part of my series or I've introduced myself to them several times before. What a thrill to see Phil Newsom in the audience! Recognition is tricky though. How do you forget to mention Manny Oquendo, as Luciano did, when listing the percussionists that have made a significant contribution to the afro-caribbean musical tradition in the United States? The list may be too long but, forgetting Oquendo? Oh well, accidents can happen. Luciano was chagrined when alerted to his omission. And he rectified his path very graciously. But why focus on that? No, no. I'm not focusing on the omission but it was part of the event and it is suggestive of one of our predicaments: we can never do full justice to the contributions that inform and conform this great art form that we all love. On the other hand, if there is a hereafter, and all the great congueros, timbaleros, drummers, and bongoceros that have left us had a chance to listen to Chembo's tribute, I'm sure they are extremely happy. Una noche involvidable para siempre. Gracias.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
El Tema del Apollo
I recently read Chris Washburne’s essay “Latin Music at the Apollo,” included in the book Ain’t nothing Like the Real Thing: How the Apollo Theater Shaped American Entertainment, edited by Richard Carlin and Kinshasha Holman Conwill, and published by Smithsonian Books. In his essay, Washburne tells the Apollo’s other story, the one that only a few know, namely that it was a venue for Latino cultural expression during the 1950s and 1960s just as significant as it was for African Americans.
It is amazing, I don't know how many times I've listened to Eddie Palmieri’s “El Tema del Apollo” and never connected the dots. If you play regularly in a venue you are bound to come up with a theme song. This is what Palmieri did after repeatedly playing there. Duh! So, Palmieri was a regular, as was Tito Puente, who, according to the records unearthed by Washburne, appeared more than Duke Ellington during the period between 1953 and 1965. The difference was not much—ten performances by Puente vs. nine by Ellington, but the comparative frequency is significant enough to raise the question whether this was an African American or a Puerto Rican venue as opposed to both. To settle this question we would need to know the number of times they were each asked to play and could not make it and this we will never know.
I say “Puerto Rican venue” because in East Harlem Puerto Ricans were the majority group, but, also, because it is not appropriate to refer to them as “Latino.” In Memorias de Bernardo Vega, his chronicle of Puerto Rican life in New York City, Vega uses the word “Latin” to refer to businesses in East Harlem but also notes that the predominant lifestyle in El Barrio was Puerto Rican. In Spanish Harlem, Patricia Cayo Sexton writes: “The spirited Latin music of East Harlem, pouring out from open tenement windows in every block, is Puerto Rican.” (My emphasis) In his dissertation about Vito Marcantonio, Gerald Meyer indicates that, after World War II, some Puerto Ricans referred to themselves as Latinos and to El Barrio as “el Barrio Latino,” but it is unlikely that the label signified what it has come to mean since the 1970s.
Before 1970, “Latin” was used to refer to groups with a Latin American ancestry or background. Even though they were American citizens, Puerto Ricans were Puerto Rican first, Latin second, and Americans third. This rank order begins to change during the 1960s. New York City mayor John Lindsay discovered this in 1965, after lecturing a group of Puerto Ricans about the relationship between primary and secondary identities. His auditors were offended and told the mayor they did not need to be reminded that they were Americans. Thus, “Latino” is used mostly to refer to Americans of Central, South American, and Spanish ancestry or background, and secondarily it is used to categorize those who are either residents or visitors.
The majority of Spanish-speaking musicians that played at the Apollo and the majority of the Spanish-speaking audience must have been Puerto Rican and Cuban. That they called themselves “Latin” does not justify calling them “Latino” because they were, in all likelihood, Puerto Rican and Cuban first. Labels usually match with identities but not if they are used retrospectively.
OK, let me look at a couple more pinheads now to see how many angels they house.
Come to think of it, the argument against the use of “Latino” to refer to Puerto Ricans, Cubans, et al. before 1970, can be used to object to the use of the term “African American” as well. It would be more historically appropriate to refer to blacks of that period as “Negroes” rather than African Americans, but for two reasons: 1. In their case, both labels refer to the one group and therefore carry the same descriptive connotation; 2. That descriptive connotation also has a pejorative ring, borne out of the historical context in which it was used. The label “Negro” is not offensive to all blacks, to wit, the decision of the U.S. Census Bureau to use it in the 2010 Census form to allow those who still define themselves as such to find their place in the census. But it is offensive to some and it is archaic.
Washburne claims that the stylistic changes in music during the post-war period can be described as "reflections" of social changes. The more specific claim is that Salsa was inspired by the civil rights movement. Was it? I don't know. Aside from Siembra, Justicia, the two socially aware songs in Barretto's album Together (the title song and "De donde vengo"), and Tony Pabón's La Protesta, what else is there that may be used as an example of inspiration by the civil rights movement? Um, in the album Solo, Jimmy Sabater sings (in English) about social changes related to civil rights; Cheo Feliciano sings (in Spanish) about class in “Juan Albañil;” there’s also Willie Colón’s Honra y Cultura and a few more scattered songs here and there. All of this is really after 1965. So, if the inspiration was the Civil Rights movement, it was not only minimal but also delayed.
Surely, the cultural reflection of social phenomena does not have to be immediate to be real but the time lag makes proving the connection more difficult. There is certainly a connection but the real issue is the use of the word “reflection.” When Palmieri, Barretto, and Blades were composing and recording their salsa comprometida, the Cuban Revolution still had some cachet, Nicaragua was on the throes of overthrowing Somoza, and the Puerto Rican national liberation movement was strong both in Puerto Rico and New York. Maybe that was their actual inspiration? Even so, how exactly did the songs “reflect” those phenomena and events? I know for a fact that the song “Juan González,” in the album by Rubén Blades and Pete Rodríguez, De Panamá a Nueva York, is about Ché Guevara, not about Malcolm X or César Chávez; Blades told me so at the New York club S.O.B’s one night when Celia Cruz was singing and he was hanging out at the bar. Yet, even though you know it must be about Ché, you do because the song evokes rather than reflect his life and death.
I’m sure these artists were influenced by the African American struggle but I am also certain that there was more and, in some cases, something completely different going on in their heads when they composed and recorded those “political” songs. I agree with Washburne that, to understand Salsa, we need to look at the songs, at the performance practices, and the business practices associated with the genre. But in that case we would need to distinguish the cultural product from the context of its production and this would still beg the question which aspect was a “reflection” of the Civil Rights movement. Washburne believes that salsa would not sound the way it does without the social movements connected with civil rights. Maybe. I still would like to see a demonstration of the causal relation between the Civil Rights Movement and, say, Eddie Palmieri’s decision to organize a Trombanga, as his brother Charlie called La Perfecta. I think it is safe to say that Palmieri’s decision had more to do with how Salsa eventually sounded in the 1970s than the Montgomery bus boycott. I don’t think the decision was in any way a “reflection” of any social movement of the period.
Washburne’s research clearly shows that Puerto Rican and Cuban musicians were almost as active at the Apollo, and, in some cases, more active than African Americans. The Apollo was a venue for intercultural exchange between African Americans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, and other national groups from Latin America and the Caribbean. What I find most interesting is that this process of exchange appears to have been acceptable only under certain conditions. Why is it that Latin music programming at the Apollo experienced a boost when Symphony Sid began producing weekly shows there? Could race have been a factor? Why would Sid be in a better position to do this than Puerto Rican or Cuban entrepreneurs? In 1970, when Willie Colón performed at the Apollo, his music did not crossover well. Maybe his band sounded awful. But the explanation that survives in the record is that he was “too Latin” and “did not fit.” We all know the stories about Chano Pozo being resented by some African American musicians in Dizzy Guillespie’s band. He also was “too Latin” for them, although I don’t think the objection was expressed in those terms.
It would be naïve to think that the process of cross-cultural exchange is generally harmonious. The Willie Colón anecdote suggests that cultural exchange at the Apollo was acceptable as long as the African American component was prominent. If this is an apt characterization, and I can’t say definitively that it is, what could have been the motivation? That’s another “tema del Apollo” that needs to be addressed.
It is amazing, I don't know how many times I've listened to Eddie Palmieri’s “El Tema del Apollo” and never connected the dots. If you play regularly in a venue you are bound to come up with a theme song. This is what Palmieri did after repeatedly playing there. Duh! So, Palmieri was a regular, as was Tito Puente, who, according to the records unearthed by Washburne, appeared more than Duke Ellington during the period between 1953 and 1965. The difference was not much—ten performances by Puente vs. nine by Ellington, but the comparative frequency is significant enough to raise the question whether this was an African American or a Puerto Rican venue as opposed to both. To settle this question we would need to know the number of times they were each asked to play and could not make it and this we will never know.
I say “Puerto Rican venue” because in East Harlem Puerto Ricans were the majority group, but, also, because it is not appropriate to refer to them as “Latino.” In Memorias de Bernardo Vega, his chronicle of Puerto Rican life in New York City, Vega uses the word “Latin” to refer to businesses in East Harlem but also notes that the predominant lifestyle in El Barrio was Puerto Rican. In Spanish Harlem, Patricia Cayo Sexton writes: “The spirited Latin music of East Harlem, pouring out from open tenement windows in every block, is Puerto Rican.” (My emphasis) In his dissertation about Vito Marcantonio, Gerald Meyer indicates that, after World War II, some Puerto Ricans referred to themselves as Latinos and to El Barrio as “el Barrio Latino,” but it is unlikely that the label signified what it has come to mean since the 1970s.
Before 1970, “Latin” was used to refer to groups with a Latin American ancestry or background. Even though they were American citizens, Puerto Ricans were Puerto Rican first, Latin second, and Americans third. This rank order begins to change during the 1960s. New York City mayor John Lindsay discovered this in 1965, after lecturing a group of Puerto Ricans about the relationship between primary and secondary identities. His auditors were offended and told the mayor they did not need to be reminded that they were Americans. Thus, “Latino” is used mostly to refer to Americans of Central, South American, and Spanish ancestry or background, and secondarily it is used to categorize those who are either residents or visitors.
The majority of Spanish-speaking musicians that played at the Apollo and the majority of the Spanish-speaking audience must have been Puerto Rican and Cuban. That they called themselves “Latin” does not justify calling them “Latino” because they were, in all likelihood, Puerto Rican and Cuban first. Labels usually match with identities but not if they are used retrospectively.
OK, let me look at a couple more pinheads now to see how many angels they house.
Come to think of it, the argument against the use of “Latino” to refer to Puerto Ricans, Cubans, et al. before 1970, can be used to object to the use of the term “African American” as well. It would be more historically appropriate to refer to blacks of that period as “Negroes” rather than African Americans, but for two reasons: 1. In their case, both labels refer to the one group and therefore carry the same descriptive connotation; 2. That descriptive connotation also has a pejorative ring, borne out of the historical context in which it was used. The label “Negro” is not offensive to all blacks, to wit, the decision of the U.S. Census Bureau to use it in the 2010 Census form to allow those who still define themselves as such to find their place in the census. But it is offensive to some and it is archaic.
Washburne claims that the stylistic changes in music during the post-war period can be described as "reflections" of social changes. The more specific claim is that Salsa was inspired by the civil rights movement. Was it? I don't know. Aside from Siembra, Justicia, the two socially aware songs in Barretto's album Together (the title song and "De donde vengo"), and Tony Pabón's La Protesta, what else is there that may be used as an example of inspiration by the civil rights movement? Um, in the album Solo, Jimmy Sabater sings (in English) about social changes related to civil rights; Cheo Feliciano sings (in Spanish) about class in “Juan Albañil;” there’s also Willie Colón’s Honra y Cultura and a few more scattered songs here and there. All of this is really after 1965. So, if the inspiration was the Civil Rights movement, it was not only minimal but also delayed.
Surely, the cultural reflection of social phenomena does not have to be immediate to be real but the time lag makes proving the connection more difficult. There is certainly a connection but the real issue is the use of the word “reflection.” When Palmieri, Barretto, and Blades were composing and recording their salsa comprometida, the Cuban Revolution still had some cachet, Nicaragua was on the throes of overthrowing Somoza, and the Puerto Rican national liberation movement was strong both in Puerto Rico and New York. Maybe that was their actual inspiration? Even so, how exactly did the songs “reflect” those phenomena and events? I know for a fact that the song “Juan González,” in the album by Rubén Blades and Pete Rodríguez, De Panamá a Nueva York, is about Ché Guevara, not about Malcolm X or César Chávez; Blades told me so at the New York club S.O.B’s one night when Celia Cruz was singing and he was hanging out at the bar. Yet, even though you know it must be about Ché, you do because the song evokes rather than reflect his life and death.
I’m sure these artists were influenced by the African American struggle but I am also certain that there was more and, in some cases, something completely different going on in their heads when they composed and recorded those “political” songs. I agree with Washburne that, to understand Salsa, we need to look at the songs, at the performance practices, and the business practices associated with the genre. But in that case we would need to distinguish the cultural product from the context of its production and this would still beg the question which aspect was a “reflection” of the Civil Rights movement. Washburne believes that salsa would not sound the way it does without the social movements connected with civil rights. Maybe. I still would like to see a demonstration of the causal relation between the Civil Rights Movement and, say, Eddie Palmieri’s decision to organize a Trombanga, as his brother Charlie called La Perfecta. I think it is safe to say that Palmieri’s decision had more to do with how Salsa eventually sounded in the 1970s than the Montgomery bus boycott. I don’t think the decision was in any way a “reflection” of any social movement of the period.
Washburne’s research clearly shows that Puerto Rican and Cuban musicians were almost as active at the Apollo, and, in some cases, more active than African Americans. The Apollo was a venue for intercultural exchange between African Americans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, and other national groups from Latin America and the Caribbean. What I find most interesting is that this process of exchange appears to have been acceptable only under certain conditions. Why is it that Latin music programming at the Apollo experienced a boost when Symphony Sid began producing weekly shows there? Could race have been a factor? Why would Sid be in a better position to do this than Puerto Rican or Cuban entrepreneurs? In 1970, when Willie Colón performed at the Apollo, his music did not crossover well. Maybe his band sounded awful. But the explanation that survives in the record is that he was “too Latin” and “did not fit.” We all know the stories about Chano Pozo being resented by some African American musicians in Dizzy Guillespie’s band. He also was “too Latin” for them, although I don’t think the objection was expressed in those terms.
It would be naïve to think that the process of cross-cultural exchange is generally harmonious. The Willie Colón anecdote suggests that cultural exchange at the Apollo was acceptable as long as the African American component was prominent. If this is an apt characterization, and I can’t say definitively that it is, what could have been the motivation? That’s another “tema del Apollo” that needs to be addressed.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Another Season, (we need to raise) Another Dollar
I will proceed backwards. Ahora, Latin/Jazz! 2010 closed on May 14 with a salon rendering tribute to Doc Cheatham at the Emerson Auditorium at Union College in Schenectady, New York. I presented a short biographical note about Cheatham, and Ray Vega was joined by Ray Alexander on piano, Erik Johnson on bass, and Pete Sweeney on drums for a short set which included songs from Cheatham’s repertoire. Ray Vega opened the set with West End Blues to evoke the fact that during his Chicago days in the 1920s, Cheatham often subbed for Louis Armstrong at the Vendome Theater.
Not many people in the audience knew about Cheatham’s Latin connection, including the fact that he was the lead trumpet in the Ricardo Ray song Mr. Trumpet Man, from the album Jala-Jala Boogaloo Volume II. This was a particularly special salon because Cheatham’s widow, Amanda, and his daughter Alicia, were in the audience. Also, two local musicians, clarinetist Skip Parsons and drummer Tim Coakley, who had played with Cheatham, joined Ray Vega during a conversation with the audience about Cheatham’s life and music. Someone asked Mrs. Cheatham if the man that was described by Vega, Parsons, and Coakley was recognizable as the man she knew at home. Visibly amused, she replied that he was a wonderful man. Daughter Alicia confessed that she never really knew what her father did for a living until Mr. Trumpet Man came out. A child of the boogaloo era, she appreciated the song and after listening to it, she understood what her father’s work was. Before that, she said, his occupation was a mystery to her. All she knew was that he often walked out of the house carrying a small suitcase.
Two other salons preceded the tribute to Cheatham. On May 1st, Grupo Los Santos performed at the Assembly Hall at the University at Albany. Their music was introduced by a talk by Los Santos bassist David Ambrosio titled “Secrets of the Latin Bass;” so the secret is out. Previously, on April 23, Andrea Brachfeld lectured on the role of the flute in Afro Cuban music, also at the University at Albany.
The season opened with an experiment. Last year I decided that I wanted to feature a band composed of band leaders and performers in the preceding Ahora, Latin/Jazz! seasons. I shared my idea first with Chris Washburne one night at Smoke, while I was visiting New York. He thought it was a great idea and I was reassured. Before talking to him I had been doubtful. Every time I think of something, I have a tendency to play worst case scenarios in my head. My biggest fear was that, as I approached musicians individually, someone would say: “I will not play with that guy.” This obviously was not so bad as far as worst case scenarios go, but it did make me hesitate. I did not want to be privy to any bad blood or bochinche amongst musicians I admired.
I don’t remember the order in which I did it, but, after talking to Chris, I invited saxophonist Hilary Noble, co-leader of the group Enclave; drummer Willie Martínez, leader of La Familia Sextet; pianist Nicki Denner, leader of the Nicki Denner Latin jazz Trio and musical director of the all-female salsa band CocoMama; bassist Jennifer Vincent, who played for Jazz/Latino in 2008 and 2009, with Nicki Denner and Willie Martínez; and conguero Wilson “Chembo” Corniel, leader of the group Chaworó. Not only did they all agree instantly to be part of what I decided would be the Jazz/Latino All Stars, they did so respectfully and enthusiastically. I was pleased.
I wanted a front section that included trombone, sax, and trumpet. The only trumpet player I had featured previously was Brian Lynch. Brian was also enthusiastic but in the end could not make it because of a schedule conflict. So I invited Ray Vega, explaining to him that I had not called him first simply because of the concept of the band: Brian had played for Jazz/Latino in 2008 and Ray had not played the series yet. Ray’s participation turned out to be extremely felicitous.
At first, I did not give a second thought to the fact that these musicians did not play together and therefore did not have a repertoire as a working band. I kept recalling a casual exchange with trumpeter John Walsh outside S.O.B’s in New York. That night Eddie Palmieri was playing and I asked Walsh if the band ever rehearsed. His answer was that Palmieri had not had a rehearsal since the Johnson administration. “In this band is sink or swim, you have to know your stuff by heart or you’re out,” he said. I replayed this conversation over and over in my head as I thought about bringing together the All Stars.
Even though the musicians converged in Schenectady from New York, New Jersey, Boston, and Burlington, the logistics of the concert were fairly simple. I was astonished to find out that Ray Vega did not drive. Getting him to the gig was the only significant logistical challenge, which Ray met in his own astonishing way: he flew to La Guardia from Burlington and then rode to Schenectady with Chembo, who picked him up at the airport. I was frustrated by the dietary requirements of Chembo and Ray. Everybody else was fine with Indian food but these guys wanted chuletas! That’s the problem with growing up in Brooklyn or the Bronx—you forget that the border between Puerto Rico and the United States is set in Yonkers. In the end they had to settle for pizza, for crying outloud.
In retrospect, I can see that even for such high caliber musicians, the process of sharing charts by e-mail, coming together the day of the concert for the first time ever as a group, doing a quick run-through of the songs, and then playing the concert cold, must have been at least a bit worrisome. Yet, the performance was flawless. I loved it. They loved it. When you see the video you can see unmistakable signs of enjoyment—the band had a really good time! The audience was ecstatic and the feedback has been superlative. Many who missed the show have expressed their regrets to me.
A few days after the show, Willie Martínez suggested a repeat performance. I saw Chris Washburne two weeks later at Smoke and he said: “People are still talking about that concert,” meaning it was such a great experience. He confessed to having second thoughts after agreeing to play, but his worries were washed away by the outcome. When I saw Ray Vega a month later at the Cheatham tribute we talked about the concert and I shared my ambivalence about doing a sequel, worst case scenarios again playing in my head: What if the chemistry is not right the second time around? Can we avoid the curse of part II? Would a second performance obliterate the afterglow of the first? Wouldn’t it be better not to disturb a good memory? Yet, I also suggested bringing the group back together as “the Jazz/Latino All Stars Play the Music of Mongo Santamaría.” Ray liked that idea. “We have too many forgotten heroes,” he said.
So we’ll see. There’s no doubt that the 2010 season was special and a great success. The afterglow is strong. Yet, in the end, another successful season means we need to start raising another proverbial dollar. Get your wallets; 2011, here we come!
Not many people in the audience knew about Cheatham’s Latin connection, including the fact that he was the lead trumpet in the Ricardo Ray song Mr. Trumpet Man, from the album Jala-Jala Boogaloo Volume II. This was a particularly special salon because Cheatham’s widow, Amanda, and his daughter Alicia, were in the audience. Also, two local musicians, clarinetist Skip Parsons and drummer Tim Coakley, who had played with Cheatham, joined Ray Vega during a conversation with the audience about Cheatham’s life and music. Someone asked Mrs. Cheatham if the man that was described by Vega, Parsons, and Coakley was recognizable as the man she knew at home. Visibly amused, she replied that he was a wonderful man. Daughter Alicia confessed that she never really knew what her father did for a living until Mr. Trumpet Man came out. A child of the boogaloo era, she appreciated the song and after listening to it, she understood what her father’s work was. Before that, she said, his occupation was a mystery to her. All she knew was that he often walked out of the house carrying a small suitcase.
Two other salons preceded the tribute to Cheatham. On May 1st, Grupo Los Santos performed at the Assembly Hall at the University at Albany. Their music was introduced by a talk by Los Santos bassist David Ambrosio titled “Secrets of the Latin Bass;” so the secret is out. Previously, on April 23, Andrea Brachfeld lectured on the role of the flute in Afro Cuban music, also at the University at Albany.
The season opened with an experiment. Last year I decided that I wanted to feature a band composed of band leaders and performers in the preceding Ahora, Latin/Jazz! seasons. I shared my idea first with Chris Washburne one night at Smoke, while I was visiting New York. He thought it was a great idea and I was reassured. Before talking to him I had been doubtful. Every time I think of something, I have a tendency to play worst case scenarios in my head. My biggest fear was that, as I approached musicians individually, someone would say: “I will not play with that guy.” This obviously was not so bad as far as worst case scenarios go, but it did make me hesitate. I did not want to be privy to any bad blood or bochinche amongst musicians I admired.
I don’t remember the order in which I did it, but, after talking to Chris, I invited saxophonist Hilary Noble, co-leader of the group Enclave; drummer Willie Martínez, leader of La Familia Sextet; pianist Nicki Denner, leader of the Nicki Denner Latin jazz Trio and musical director of the all-female salsa band CocoMama; bassist Jennifer Vincent, who played for Jazz/Latino in 2008 and 2009, with Nicki Denner and Willie Martínez; and conguero Wilson “Chembo” Corniel, leader of the group Chaworó. Not only did they all agree instantly to be part of what I decided would be the Jazz/Latino All Stars, they did so respectfully and enthusiastically. I was pleased.
I wanted a front section that included trombone, sax, and trumpet. The only trumpet player I had featured previously was Brian Lynch. Brian was also enthusiastic but in the end could not make it because of a schedule conflict. So I invited Ray Vega, explaining to him that I had not called him first simply because of the concept of the band: Brian had played for Jazz/Latino in 2008 and Ray had not played the series yet. Ray’s participation turned out to be extremely felicitous.
At first, I did not give a second thought to the fact that these musicians did not play together and therefore did not have a repertoire as a working band. I kept recalling a casual exchange with trumpeter John Walsh outside S.O.B’s in New York. That night Eddie Palmieri was playing and I asked Walsh if the band ever rehearsed. His answer was that Palmieri had not had a rehearsal since the Johnson administration. “In this band is sink or swim, you have to know your stuff by heart or you’re out,” he said. I replayed this conversation over and over in my head as I thought about bringing together the All Stars.
Even though the musicians converged in Schenectady from New York, New Jersey, Boston, and Burlington, the logistics of the concert were fairly simple. I was astonished to find out that Ray Vega did not drive. Getting him to the gig was the only significant logistical challenge, which Ray met in his own astonishing way: he flew to La Guardia from Burlington and then rode to Schenectady with Chembo, who picked him up at the airport. I was frustrated by the dietary requirements of Chembo and Ray. Everybody else was fine with Indian food but these guys wanted chuletas! That’s the problem with growing up in Brooklyn or the Bronx—you forget that the border between Puerto Rico and the United States is set in Yonkers. In the end they had to settle for pizza, for crying outloud.
In retrospect, I can see that even for such high caliber musicians, the process of sharing charts by e-mail, coming together the day of the concert for the first time ever as a group, doing a quick run-through of the songs, and then playing the concert cold, must have been at least a bit worrisome. Yet, the performance was flawless. I loved it. They loved it. When you see the video you can see unmistakable signs of enjoyment—the band had a really good time! The audience was ecstatic and the feedback has been superlative. Many who missed the show have expressed their regrets to me.
A few days after the show, Willie Martínez suggested a repeat performance. I saw Chris Washburne two weeks later at Smoke and he said: “People are still talking about that concert,” meaning it was such a great experience. He confessed to having second thoughts after agreeing to play, but his worries were washed away by the outcome. When I saw Ray Vega a month later at the Cheatham tribute we talked about the concert and I shared my ambivalence about doing a sequel, worst case scenarios again playing in my head: What if the chemistry is not right the second time around? Can we avoid the curse of part II? Would a second performance obliterate the afterglow of the first? Wouldn’t it be better not to disturb a good memory? Yet, I also suggested bringing the group back together as “the Jazz/Latino All Stars Play the Music of Mongo Santamaría.” Ray liked that idea. “We have too many forgotten heroes,” he said.
So we’ll see. There’s no doubt that the 2010 season was special and a great success. The afterglow is strong. Yet, in the end, another successful season means we need to start raising another proverbial dollar. Get your wallets; 2011, here we come!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
A Purely Descriptive Blog
I traveled from Albany to New York City on March 19th, 2010 for the sole purpose of going to the Grupo Experimental Nuevayorkino’s show at Hostos Cultural Center in the Bronx on the 20th, and after the first song of the second part of the show, I walked out in disgust, thinking, “I want my money back!”
When I took the Megabus to New York City on March 19th, 2010, the weather was nice. The bus was not as comfortable as I expected and it was crowded. I had to stuff my raincoat in my backpack since there was no overhead compartment. The sun was shining and the upper deck felt like a greenhouse. Once we got going and the air conditioner kicked in, the temperature went down. Pretty soon I was asleep. When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was and I had missed half of the George Carlin monologue I had begun to listen upon departure.
It took us four hours to get to New York. There was an accident on the highway that made us inch our way from who-knows-where all the way to the proximity of the Lincoln Tunnel. The city was warm and, as usual, teeming with people. I took the R to Union Square and walked to the International Seafarers House with apprehension. The price of the room made me wonder whether I would be spending two nights in a roach motel. I was pleasantly surprised. The place was Spartan but clean, and the location was perfect. There was a lot of noise coming from the Side Bar, on the corner of 15th and Irving Place, but after shutting the window, the noise almost went away. For two nights I slept well.
While the main purpose of my trip was to see Grupo Folklorico on Saturday, on Friday night, and thanks to my friend George Rivera, who told me about it, I went to see the Oasis Project by Papo Vazquez at Pregones Theather on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, one block away from the 149th St and Grand Concourse subway stop. Words cannot possibly do justice to this project. The core of Oasis is Bomba and Plena. On that platform, Vazquez built a structure that includes classical music, jazz, Danza, music from Israel, Lebanon, and Spain, and a subtle tribute to the Beatles. The orchestra consisted of trombone, trumpet, tenor and alto sax, violins, viola, cello, harp, bassoon, oboe, flute and clarinet and the rhythm section included piano, keyboard, double bass, drums, batá drums, barriles, panderos, cajón, congas, bongó, timpani, timbales, Chinese gong, and wind chimes. The second song of the first movement included a young ballet dancer and a belly dancer performed during two songs in the first movement and during the closing song of the second movement. The project included poetry and a slide show of tropical images. A young artist completed a painting while the music was playing but I think this was an ad hoc feature.
I did a bit of University business on Saturday morning. During my meeting I had a cup of coffee in a bowl, the way they do it in France. I spent the rest of the day reading the drafts of two legislative bills that purport to reform the redistricting process in New York State and shopping for books at Strand Bookstore, on Broadway and 12th St., where they boast about having “18 miles of books.” I bought a biography of Darwin’s Origin of Species, a collection of stories by Tolstoy, Beyond Belief by Elaine Pagels, and Jodie Foster’s The Accused. Since I did not have lunch, by 5:30 pm I was hungry. I had a very nice meal across the street from the Seafarers International House at a place called Galaxy Global Eatery. Then I headed back to the Bronx.
At Hostos, Grupo Folklorico Experimental NuevaYorkino became Grupo Floklorico Experimental Marcel Marceau, which is why I walked out during the second part of the show, after Chocolate Armenteros played “Me Boté de Guacho.” Thanks to the acoustically deficient theatre and the horrible sound system, the show became an oxymoronic mix of stridency and pantomime. The congas and the violin were never heard. And everything else except the vocals, which sounded foggy, was an ebb and flow of booming sound. The place sounded like a cave; everything was blurry. The horns sounded as if they were being played in a different state. Strangely, most of the time Eddie Zervigón played the flute away from the microphone but even when he played into the microphone the flute was silent, except for a few notes during a solo. When Oscar Hernandez took a piano solo I could see his hands moving but there was no sound. The congas could not be heard. After two songs, Jorge Maldonado asked the audience if they could hear and there were scattered cries of “No, No!” “Is it the volume?” he asked. The sound engineer was exhorted to fix the problem but nothing changed. Later on, someone in the front row shouted: “We can’t hear the trumpet, we can’t hear the trombone,” but nothing was done. It was fortunate that Reinaldo Jorge and Eddie Venegas moved front stage to trade solos because otherwise their effort would have been futile. The pantomime of the congueros during “Yo Soy del Africa” was ironically punctuated by the piercing vocals of Pedrito Martínez. It was a combination of silent gesturing and gritería that nearly ruptured my eardrums. When Chocolate took his trumpet solo, the man sitting next to me plugged his ears. I followed suit and at that point I made my decision: “After this song, I’m getting the hell out of here.” I stepped into someone’s toes on my way out.
Before going to New York I asked some of my musician friends if they were playing in the city Friday or Saturday. I had the good fortune to be invited by Willie Martínez to see La Familia Sextet at the Lenox Lounge on Saturday night. From Hostos I took the number 2 to 125th St. The Lenox Lounge sits right at the intersection of 125th and Malcolm X Boulevard. Willie was just finishing his first set when I went in. During the second set the audience was a small group of mostly Japanese people and myself. I had heard all the songs before except the cover of Hank Mobley’s “This I Dig of You,” which was a scorcher. The third set started way after the officially designated time of 11:30 pm. Three Japanese men and I were the only people in the audience. I feared that the band would decide not to play but they did and how. My God. What a performance.
At Pregones, Papo Vazquez had a full house but the theater is small. Willie Martínez was visibly disappointed at the small turnout at the Lenox Lounge, although that was not reflected in his playing or in the playing of any of the band members, not even for an instant. Eso es lo que se llama corazón. In contrast, Hostos was swarming with people. Grupo Folklorico had a huge audience. Thinking about the event (not the group) I said to myself: “This is like McDonald’s; it is the worst hamburger and yet it sells more than anyone else.” No one should ever play again at that place. Oops. This was supposed to be a purely descriptive blog.
When I took the Megabus to New York City on March 19th, 2010, the weather was nice. The bus was not as comfortable as I expected and it was crowded. I had to stuff my raincoat in my backpack since there was no overhead compartment. The sun was shining and the upper deck felt like a greenhouse. Once we got going and the air conditioner kicked in, the temperature went down. Pretty soon I was asleep. When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was and I had missed half of the George Carlin monologue I had begun to listen upon departure.
It took us four hours to get to New York. There was an accident on the highway that made us inch our way from who-knows-where all the way to the proximity of the Lincoln Tunnel. The city was warm and, as usual, teeming with people. I took the R to Union Square and walked to the International Seafarers House with apprehension. The price of the room made me wonder whether I would be spending two nights in a roach motel. I was pleasantly surprised. The place was Spartan but clean, and the location was perfect. There was a lot of noise coming from the Side Bar, on the corner of 15th and Irving Place, but after shutting the window, the noise almost went away. For two nights I slept well.
While the main purpose of my trip was to see Grupo Folklorico on Saturday, on Friday night, and thanks to my friend George Rivera, who told me about it, I went to see the Oasis Project by Papo Vazquez at Pregones Theather on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, one block away from the 149th St and Grand Concourse subway stop. Words cannot possibly do justice to this project. The core of Oasis is Bomba and Plena. On that platform, Vazquez built a structure that includes classical music, jazz, Danza, music from Israel, Lebanon, and Spain, and a subtle tribute to the Beatles. The orchestra consisted of trombone, trumpet, tenor and alto sax, violins, viola, cello, harp, bassoon, oboe, flute and clarinet and the rhythm section included piano, keyboard, double bass, drums, batá drums, barriles, panderos, cajón, congas, bongó, timpani, timbales, Chinese gong, and wind chimes. The second song of the first movement included a young ballet dancer and a belly dancer performed during two songs in the first movement and during the closing song of the second movement. The project included poetry and a slide show of tropical images. A young artist completed a painting while the music was playing but I think this was an ad hoc feature.
I did a bit of University business on Saturday morning. During my meeting I had a cup of coffee in a bowl, the way they do it in France. I spent the rest of the day reading the drafts of two legislative bills that purport to reform the redistricting process in New York State and shopping for books at Strand Bookstore, on Broadway and 12th St., where they boast about having “18 miles of books.” I bought a biography of Darwin’s Origin of Species, a collection of stories by Tolstoy, Beyond Belief by Elaine Pagels, and Jodie Foster’s The Accused. Since I did not have lunch, by 5:30 pm I was hungry. I had a very nice meal across the street from the Seafarers International House at a place called Galaxy Global Eatery. Then I headed back to the Bronx.
At Hostos, Grupo Folklorico Experimental NuevaYorkino became Grupo Floklorico Experimental Marcel Marceau, which is why I walked out during the second part of the show, after Chocolate Armenteros played “Me Boté de Guacho.” Thanks to the acoustically deficient theatre and the horrible sound system, the show became an oxymoronic mix of stridency and pantomime. The congas and the violin were never heard. And everything else except the vocals, which sounded foggy, was an ebb and flow of booming sound. The place sounded like a cave; everything was blurry. The horns sounded as if they were being played in a different state. Strangely, most of the time Eddie Zervigón played the flute away from the microphone but even when he played into the microphone the flute was silent, except for a few notes during a solo. When Oscar Hernandez took a piano solo I could see his hands moving but there was no sound. The congas could not be heard. After two songs, Jorge Maldonado asked the audience if they could hear and there were scattered cries of “No, No!” “Is it the volume?” he asked. The sound engineer was exhorted to fix the problem but nothing changed. Later on, someone in the front row shouted: “We can’t hear the trumpet, we can’t hear the trombone,” but nothing was done. It was fortunate that Reinaldo Jorge and Eddie Venegas moved front stage to trade solos because otherwise their effort would have been futile. The pantomime of the congueros during “Yo Soy del Africa” was ironically punctuated by the piercing vocals of Pedrito Martínez. It was a combination of silent gesturing and gritería that nearly ruptured my eardrums. When Chocolate took his trumpet solo, the man sitting next to me plugged his ears. I followed suit and at that point I made my decision: “After this song, I’m getting the hell out of here.” I stepped into someone’s toes on my way out.
Before going to New York I asked some of my musician friends if they were playing in the city Friday or Saturday. I had the good fortune to be invited by Willie Martínez to see La Familia Sextet at the Lenox Lounge on Saturday night. From Hostos I took the number 2 to 125th St. The Lenox Lounge sits right at the intersection of 125th and Malcolm X Boulevard. Willie was just finishing his first set when I went in. During the second set the audience was a small group of mostly Japanese people and myself. I had heard all the songs before except the cover of Hank Mobley’s “This I Dig of You,” which was a scorcher. The third set started way after the officially designated time of 11:30 pm. Three Japanese men and I were the only people in the audience. I feared that the band would decide not to play but they did and how. My God. What a performance.
At Pregones, Papo Vazquez had a full house but the theater is small. Willie Martínez was visibly disappointed at the small turnout at the Lenox Lounge, although that was not reflected in his playing or in the playing of any of the band members, not even for an instant. Eso es lo que se llama corazón. In contrast, Hostos was swarming with people. Grupo Folklorico had a huge audience. Thinking about the event (not the group) I said to myself: “This is like McDonald’s; it is the worst hamburger and yet it sells more than anyone else.” No one should ever play again at that place. Oops. This was supposed to be a purely descriptive blog.
Friday, January 15, 2010
You Only Write About What You Know
At the end of 2009, Albany’s weekly, Metroland, listed 43 live music performances that, according to its critics, were the best of the year (“The Year in Review,” December 31, 2009). The only one included that featured Latinos was the show by Los Lobos at the Egg in April. I found this strange and irritating.
In March 2009, the Egg presented the show Palladium Nights, featuring the music played during the 1950s at the famed Palladium Ballroom in New York City. A crowd of 750 nearly filled the Kitty Carlisle Hart Theater to listen to the music of Grammy-winning pianist Arturo O’Farrill and the AfroLatin Jazz Band with choreography by Ballet Hispanico. In April, Jazz/Latino presented a bio-performance by Grammy-nominated percussionist Bobby Sanabria at the University at Albany, highlighting the life and career of Tito Puente, and a concert at the First Unitarian Society of Schenectady (FUSS) by drummer, singer, and composer Willie Martínez and his La Familia Sextet. In May, Jazz/Latino hosted a performance by trombonist Chris Washburne and the SYOTOS band, also at FUSS. In August, the Albany Latin Fest Association held its 14th annual festival, including for the first time a Latin jazz ensemble, Chembo Corniel and Grupo Chaworo, plus the merengue band Doble Filo and the Puerto Rican salsa star Michael Stuart, accompanied by a killer band from Rochester. Finally, in December, Grupo Los Santos brought to Albany their blend of AfroCuban, jazz, and flamenco to the Dublin Underground, formerly known as Savannah’s.
These artists, with the exception of Doble Filo, have well-established careers, multiple recordings, and international reputations. All the shows were critically acclaimed. None were even reviewed by Metroland. So what gives? From the selections by Metroland’s critics in “The Year in Review,” I cannot help but infer that they review only what’s already prominent commercially and/or what is familiar to them. Thus, unless a Latino artist is well-known and successful in the commercial mainstream he/she will not command their unsolicited attention. It may also be that these critics do not review performances that highlight Latin music and culture because, with the exception of Latin rock, they are not familiar with or do not like other expressions of Latin music and culture such as Latin jazz.
For some time now I’ve been saying to myself that Metroland is not really the alternative newspaper of the Capital Region, as the weekly dubs itself. Instead, I think the paper is the outlet for what we could call the “alternative mainstream.” To put it differently, the paper reflects the mainstream within the mainstream. In a sense, when it comes to music, Metroland is rather conventional. It focuses on what most people in Albany and its environs like: folk and rock.
For the last three years I’ve been trying to get the paper to do a story on Jazz/Latino to no avail. I’ve asked the editor and publisher and also the arts editor. They have never said NO. They just don’t do it. The paper has never reviewed any one of the 24 events Jazz/Latino has sponsored in Albany, Schenectady, and Troy since 2007. I do get my shows included in the arts calendar but the calendar will include, in fine print because it is free, anything that is submitted on time. The only prominent coverage my concerts have had in Metroland has been through advertisements but that kind of “coverage” is easy to get as well—all it takes is ability to pay.
It would be nice if the paper tried a little harder to live up to its self-designation as the “region’s alternative newsweekly.” At this point the label is just a living fossil, a set phrase that maybe once described the paper. To be the real press alternative of the region, the paper would have to broaden its focus and recognize that there’s more to music than folk and rock. In those genres, Metroland’s coverage is broad; well-known as well as emerging artists are included. For Latino artists and non-Latinos that play Latin music or Latin jazz, there seems to be a different standard: only artists in the commercial mainstream need apply. Whether this is the case by commission or by omission hardly makes a difference. To correct this situation all the paper needs to do is recruit critics that know something about Latino music. I am certain that its general readership will be grateful.
In March 2009, the Egg presented the show Palladium Nights, featuring the music played during the 1950s at the famed Palladium Ballroom in New York City. A crowd of 750 nearly filled the Kitty Carlisle Hart Theater to listen to the music of Grammy-winning pianist Arturo O’Farrill and the AfroLatin Jazz Band with choreography by Ballet Hispanico. In April, Jazz/Latino presented a bio-performance by Grammy-nominated percussionist Bobby Sanabria at the University at Albany, highlighting the life and career of Tito Puente, and a concert at the First Unitarian Society of Schenectady (FUSS) by drummer, singer, and composer Willie Martínez and his La Familia Sextet. In May, Jazz/Latino hosted a performance by trombonist Chris Washburne and the SYOTOS band, also at FUSS. In August, the Albany Latin Fest Association held its 14th annual festival, including for the first time a Latin jazz ensemble, Chembo Corniel and Grupo Chaworo, plus the merengue band Doble Filo and the Puerto Rican salsa star Michael Stuart, accompanied by a killer band from Rochester. Finally, in December, Grupo Los Santos brought to Albany their blend of AfroCuban, jazz, and flamenco to the Dublin Underground, formerly known as Savannah’s.
These artists, with the exception of Doble Filo, have well-established careers, multiple recordings, and international reputations. All the shows were critically acclaimed. None were even reviewed by Metroland. So what gives? From the selections by Metroland’s critics in “The Year in Review,” I cannot help but infer that they review only what’s already prominent commercially and/or what is familiar to them. Thus, unless a Latino artist is well-known and successful in the commercial mainstream he/she will not command their unsolicited attention. It may also be that these critics do not review performances that highlight Latin music and culture because, with the exception of Latin rock, they are not familiar with or do not like other expressions of Latin music and culture such as Latin jazz.
For some time now I’ve been saying to myself that Metroland is not really the alternative newspaper of the Capital Region, as the weekly dubs itself. Instead, I think the paper is the outlet for what we could call the “alternative mainstream.” To put it differently, the paper reflects the mainstream within the mainstream. In a sense, when it comes to music, Metroland is rather conventional. It focuses on what most people in Albany and its environs like: folk and rock.
For the last three years I’ve been trying to get the paper to do a story on Jazz/Latino to no avail. I’ve asked the editor and publisher and also the arts editor. They have never said NO. They just don’t do it. The paper has never reviewed any one of the 24 events Jazz/Latino has sponsored in Albany, Schenectady, and Troy since 2007. I do get my shows included in the arts calendar but the calendar will include, in fine print because it is free, anything that is submitted on time. The only prominent coverage my concerts have had in Metroland has been through advertisements but that kind of “coverage” is easy to get as well—all it takes is ability to pay.
It would be nice if the paper tried a little harder to live up to its self-designation as the “region’s alternative newsweekly.” At this point the label is just a living fossil, a set phrase that maybe once described the paper. To be the real press alternative of the region, the paper would have to broaden its focus and recognize that there’s more to music than folk and rock. In those genres, Metroland’s coverage is broad; well-known as well as emerging artists are included. For Latino artists and non-Latinos that play Latin music or Latin jazz, there seems to be a different standard: only artists in the commercial mainstream need apply. Whether this is the case by commission or by omission hardly makes a difference. To correct this situation all the paper needs to do is recruit critics that know something about Latino music. I am certain that its general readership will be grateful.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Beauty is also the Beast
During the last five years I’ve come to know many musicians who are not just masters of their trade but also wonderful human beings. I’ve also been disappointed to discover that a few of my artistic idols have feet of clay. Yet, I’ve continued to admire them on the basis of their work rather than their personality. This is not always easy.
Last Sunday, as I read Paquito D’Rivera’s eulogy to Jacques Braunstein, a Venezuelan musician that D’Rivera dubbed the father of Venezuelan jazz, I was aghast at his denigration of president Hugo Chavez by referring to him as “ese orangután ridículo que ahora desgobierna la tierra de Aldemaro, de Lauro y de Rómulo Gallegos.” [That ridiculous orangutan that misgoverns the land of Aldemaro, Lauro, and Rómulo Gallegos.] (Latin Beat Magazine, December 2009, News Section) This racist comment took me by surprise and my first thought was “I’ll never buy any more CDs nor attend any performances by him.” Then I thought that this was another case of an idol with feet of clay, an instance in which it was important, although difficult, to separate the person from the artist.
I remember when, during his speech on race, Obama talked about how he could not disown his grandmother despite her prejudice. I think his example was meant to suggest that even good persons can be racist or engage in racist thinking as a result of cultural socialization. D'Rivera’s comparison seems to be one of those cases. I'm not accusing him of being racist. He just need to be told that his chosen metaphor is racist, even if he did not intend it that way.
How do we explain the dissonance between a statement and an attitude? More often than not, racist notions become so ingrained and generalized, that they lose their racist connotation at face value. As a result, people use them without much awareness or realization of what they are doing. Look at Rafael Hernández, the famous Puerto Rican composer, a black man, talking about the "negra maldad" [black malice] of the tyrant in his song “Lamento Borincano.” We have grown so used to associate evil with darkness, that we don't stop to even think how the adjective may be ultimately racist. Historically, we have come to associate, instinctively, darkness with disaster and wrongdoing (e.g. references to "black Friday," "dark episode," "dark motives," etc.). And yet, so many wonderful things happen only in the darkness! (music, movies, sex, sleep, dreams, etc).
The use of "orangutan" as an epithet against Chávez, uncritically reflects the prejudice inculcated by society against primates as lowly creatures. It also reflects an association between race and individual attributes. If Chavez were white his detractors would not call him "El Mono" and I doubt that D'Rivera would have called him "orangutan." In this case, the association between race and low character can be detected by inference but it is there. And that type of association is the essence of racism; it matters little if the racist comment is proffered by a good person but it does matter: a good person should not make racist statements; on the other hand, one would hope that a good person would be open to criticism and be wise enough to acknowledge his/her fault and do something about it.
I don't doubt that D'Rivera is a good person, just like my grandmother was saintly (in my biased opinion), and yet, would say things like "esa señora es negra pero tiene el alma blanca” [That woman may be black but her soul is white]. No one is exempt from prejudice. But some of us are more a product of our cultural socialization than others. The key to freedom from conventional wisdom is self-awareness, openness to criticism, and willingness to change.
To say that the person is not the same as the artist is to suggest that it is possible to embrace the artist’s work no matter how horrible he/she may be as an individual. Which means that whether D'Rivera is racist or not is irrelevant to my appreciation of his music. The distinction is difficult but not impossible. This may be hard to accept but sometimes beauty is also the beast.
Last Sunday, as I read Paquito D’Rivera’s eulogy to Jacques Braunstein, a Venezuelan musician that D’Rivera dubbed the father of Venezuelan jazz, I was aghast at his denigration of president Hugo Chavez by referring to him as “ese orangután ridículo que ahora desgobierna la tierra de Aldemaro, de Lauro y de Rómulo Gallegos.” [That ridiculous orangutan that misgoverns the land of Aldemaro, Lauro, and Rómulo Gallegos.] (Latin Beat Magazine, December 2009, News Section) This racist comment took me by surprise and my first thought was “I’ll never buy any more CDs nor attend any performances by him.” Then I thought that this was another case of an idol with feet of clay, an instance in which it was important, although difficult, to separate the person from the artist.
I remember when, during his speech on race, Obama talked about how he could not disown his grandmother despite her prejudice. I think his example was meant to suggest that even good persons can be racist or engage in racist thinking as a result of cultural socialization. D'Rivera’s comparison seems to be one of those cases. I'm not accusing him of being racist. He just need to be told that his chosen metaphor is racist, even if he did not intend it that way.
How do we explain the dissonance between a statement and an attitude? More often than not, racist notions become so ingrained and generalized, that they lose their racist connotation at face value. As a result, people use them without much awareness or realization of what they are doing. Look at Rafael Hernández, the famous Puerto Rican composer, a black man, talking about the "negra maldad" [black malice] of the tyrant in his song “Lamento Borincano.” We have grown so used to associate evil with darkness, that we don't stop to even think how the adjective may be ultimately racist. Historically, we have come to associate, instinctively, darkness with disaster and wrongdoing (e.g. references to "black Friday," "dark episode," "dark motives," etc.). And yet, so many wonderful things happen only in the darkness! (music, movies, sex, sleep, dreams, etc).
The use of "orangutan" as an epithet against Chávez, uncritically reflects the prejudice inculcated by society against primates as lowly creatures. It also reflects an association between race and individual attributes. If Chavez were white his detractors would not call him "El Mono" and I doubt that D'Rivera would have called him "orangutan." In this case, the association between race and low character can be detected by inference but it is there. And that type of association is the essence of racism; it matters little if the racist comment is proffered by a good person but it does matter: a good person should not make racist statements; on the other hand, one would hope that a good person would be open to criticism and be wise enough to acknowledge his/her fault and do something about it.
I don't doubt that D'Rivera is a good person, just like my grandmother was saintly (in my biased opinion), and yet, would say things like "esa señora es negra pero tiene el alma blanca” [That woman may be black but her soul is white]. No one is exempt from prejudice. But some of us are more a product of our cultural socialization than others. The key to freedom from conventional wisdom is self-awareness, openness to criticism, and willingness to change.
To say that the person is not the same as the artist is to suggest that it is possible to embrace the artist’s work no matter how horrible he/she may be as an individual. Which means that whether D'Rivera is racist or not is irrelevant to my appreciation of his music. The distinction is difficult but not impossible. This may be hard to accept but sometimes beauty is also the beast.
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