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.

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.

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.