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.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
On-Line Everybody Knows if you are a Dog
I was extremely disappointed in one recent on-line exchange between musicians and music listeners and connoisseurs. The object of the exchange involved an incorrect attribution to a certain musician of a recent recording. The exchange would have been innocuous had it not been for a disparaging comment made by one of the participants about the musician whose band was incorrectly identified. Worse, the disparaging commentator was the leader of the band in the recording. Thus, his public insult was also an expression of self-aggrandizing arrogance.
I read recently that America’s first president, George Washington, transcribed Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour In Company and Conversation some time before he was 16 years old. The first rule in the book was “Every Action done in Company, ought to be with Some Sign of Respect, to those that are Present.”
Another website told me that etiquette began in prehistoric times as a result of increasing interaction between people. According to this account, manners made life “easier and more pleasant,” and as a result “early civilizations developed rules for proper social conduct.” The French led the way during the 1600-1700s, not so much to get along better with others but to avoid boredom. Using the French word for “ticket” as a basis, they called the elaborate set of prescriptions for proper manners “etiquette.” The implication is clear: manners would be a person’s ticket into socially engaging and refreshing interaction. Indeed. “Since the 1960s,” the site adds, “manners have become much more relaxed. Etiquette today is based on treating everyone with the same degree of kindness and consideration, and it consists mostly of common sense.”
Did George Washington really transcribe Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour or is this another “cherry tree” myth about the president’s early life? The anecdote is in character but its veracity is beside the point. What matters is that the first rule in this book of manners is that “respect” towards others, especially when they are present, should be paramount. Let’s call this “Washington’s First Rule of Social Conduct,” even if he was not the author.
Is it true that civilization produced manners? If Rousseau were alive today, he would say “No” since, in his view, civilization corrupted human nature (on the other hand, civilization was the result of a social contract---Rousseau is full of contradictions). Hobbes would also disagree, but his take would be that manners were the product of a God-awful type of interaction---the war of all against all---in the state of nature; yes, civilization did produce codes of conduct but only after the protections provided by absolute power made people comfortable enough to interact with each other without fear that “nasty and brutish” behavior would make their life on earth unduly short.
A third website I visited, titled Etiquette From the Past, consisted of excerpts from the book Youth's Educator for Home and Society, published in 1896. One of the prescriptions included in this volume could be considered a variation of Washington’s First Rule. It reads: “The tongue is a little member, but it should be jealously guarded. Harsh and cutting things should not be said after marriage, any more than before. Coarse and unrefined conversation can never be indulged in without a loss of respect which involves a loss of influence and power.”
Manners have certainly changed since the 1960s but I don’t think that the generalization that best describes the changes is that we now treat everyone with the same degree of kindness and consideration. The loophole in Washington’s First Rule is that respect needs to be shown to “those that are present.” The internet broadens that loophole because it is both presence and absence; just like the dog in the New Yorker cartoon who says to the cat: “On the internet nobody knows you are a dog,” it seems that participants in on-line forums feel that they can say anything that comes to mind and that this will reveal nothing about them because no one can actually see them as they say it. In fact, the whole world is witness to their statements, including those whom they talk about, but the consequences that would follow interaction in real, physical time, are not there. Therefore, they can act like dogs under cover of anonymity and with impunity. On second thought, while those who disparage others on-line are seemingly protected by cybernetic distance/absence, when they say "harsh and cutting things" about others they do risk losing not just the respect of their audience but also their own “influence and power.” Thus, the tongue “should be jealously guarded,” as the 1896 book cited above suggests, especially on-line and not just after marriage.
I read recently that America’s first president, George Washington, transcribed Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour In Company and Conversation some time before he was 16 years old. The first rule in the book was “Every Action done in Company, ought to be with Some Sign of Respect, to those that are Present.”
Another website told me that etiquette began in prehistoric times as a result of increasing interaction between people. According to this account, manners made life “easier and more pleasant,” and as a result “early civilizations developed rules for proper social conduct.” The French led the way during the 1600-1700s, not so much to get along better with others but to avoid boredom. Using the French word for “ticket” as a basis, they called the elaborate set of prescriptions for proper manners “etiquette.” The implication is clear: manners would be a person’s ticket into socially engaging and refreshing interaction. Indeed. “Since the 1960s,” the site adds, “manners have become much more relaxed. Etiquette today is based on treating everyone with the same degree of kindness and consideration, and it consists mostly of common sense.”
Did George Washington really transcribe Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour or is this another “cherry tree” myth about the president’s early life? The anecdote is in character but its veracity is beside the point. What matters is that the first rule in this book of manners is that “respect” towards others, especially when they are present, should be paramount. Let’s call this “Washington’s First Rule of Social Conduct,” even if he was not the author.
Is it true that civilization produced manners? If Rousseau were alive today, he would say “No” since, in his view, civilization corrupted human nature (on the other hand, civilization was the result of a social contract---Rousseau is full of contradictions). Hobbes would also disagree, but his take would be that manners were the product of a God-awful type of interaction---the war of all against all---in the state of nature; yes, civilization did produce codes of conduct but only after the protections provided by absolute power made people comfortable enough to interact with each other without fear that “nasty and brutish” behavior would make their life on earth unduly short.
A third website I visited, titled Etiquette From the Past, consisted of excerpts from the book Youth's Educator for Home and Society, published in 1896. One of the prescriptions included in this volume could be considered a variation of Washington’s First Rule. It reads: “The tongue is a little member, but it should be jealously guarded. Harsh and cutting things should not be said after marriage, any more than before. Coarse and unrefined conversation can never be indulged in without a loss of respect which involves a loss of influence and power.”
Manners have certainly changed since the 1960s but I don’t think that the generalization that best describes the changes is that we now treat everyone with the same degree of kindness and consideration. The loophole in Washington’s First Rule is that respect needs to be shown to “those that are present.” The internet broadens that loophole because it is both presence and absence; just like the dog in the New Yorker cartoon who says to the cat: “On the internet nobody knows you are a dog,” it seems that participants in on-line forums feel that they can say anything that comes to mind and that this will reveal nothing about them because no one can actually see them as they say it. In fact, the whole world is witness to their statements, including those whom they talk about, but the consequences that would follow interaction in real, physical time, are not there. Therefore, they can act like dogs under cover of anonymity and with impunity. On second thought, while those who disparage others on-line are seemingly protected by cybernetic distance/absence, when they say "harsh and cutting things" about others they do risk losing not just the respect of their audience but also their own “influence and power.” Thus, the tongue “should be jealously guarded,” as the 1896 book cited above suggests, especially on-line and not just after marriage.
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