Havana: The Golden Era
Havana, Cuba, circa 1949: A dance club resplendent with the elegance of the
island's nightlife before the Revolution. Sparkling chandeliers, bow-tied
waiters, couples dressed to the nines. On stage, a big, brassy band fronted by
a slick-haired heart-throb. There is the kind of gaiety in the air that can
only brew in the company of young people and everyone here is young. There is
drinking and dancing and flirting. The ambience is a curious mix of abandon
and formality. When a young man asks a young woman to dance, the gesture is
rendered with great respect and formality; the young man gently extends an
upturned hand.
But on the dance floor, things are considerably looser. The rhythms echoing
in the hall play the bodies like marionettes, a ritual unleashing of desire.
And yet, for all the seemingly spontaneous force of the music and dancing,
there are clearly defined patterns. The bodies pace and twirl to the music's
6/8 rhythm, and even more specifically, to five accented beats within that
signature, what is known as the clave, the root of tropical music. There is
plenty of room for improvisation among both musicians and dancers, but the
limits are known to all. It is exuberant, even "dangerous" music,
kind of tropical rock 'n' roll where the sexuality is barely, if at all,
contained, but it is also tightly structured, a modernist hurricane.
The Ghosts of History
The singer croons of heartache and devotion, of love requited and not and,
subtly, with light or dark double-entendres and innuendo, of desire itself.
But he also invokes that which is beyond desire. The metaphors often involve
fire and water: direct references to ancient deities that crossed, and
survived, Middle Passage and gave birth to the New World Afro Caribbean
religion of Santer�a, the spiritual heart of Cuban music. Indeed, the
syncopated rhythms and similarly complex lyrics symbolically link with some of
history's greatest events: the meeting of Old and New worlds, slaves and
masters, the feudal and the imperial, the advent of the modern in the 20th
century life in the city. It's all there to be heard in the instrumentation,
which is European (brass), and African (percussion) and, loosely,
"American" (the manner in which tropical music incorporates jazz
influences).
In the Americas, we speak of "mestizaje," the melding of
disparate lineages that resulted from the Conquest, but that ultimately belies
such an absolute term. If Africa and the ancient Americas had truly been
conquered, everyone would perform and dance waltzes today. The grooves of
tropical music on the continent --Cuba has long been recognized its undisputed
leader-- provide great catharsis, an affirmation of life itself, of cultural
and spiritual survival.
If
you'd been at the Buena Vista Social Club in Havana, circa 1949, history
itself would have danced before your eyes. And it does so once again, through
the music and the film. We return to the proscribed Island, a place that was
rendered at once mythic and hopelessly superficial through the lens of the
Cold War. We also return to a past that was virtually proscribed in Cuba
itself.
The wistful irony of this story is that the club at the mystical heart of
the music and the Wim Wenders documentary that PBS now presents no longer
exists. The revolution of 1959 stands as a border in time. The music of Cuba
emigrated to the United States and Europe throughout the early part of the
20th century causing not a few "crazes" among Latinos and
non-Latinos alike. But by the mid-1960s, after the Cold War embargo of the
island took effect, a generation of music and musicians suffered a premature
death. True, the forms that had originated on the island continued to thrive
abroad, via the energy of �migr�s. But by the late 60s, the distinctness of
the myriad sub-genres of Cuban tropical music began to blur, diluting into the
generic "salsa" that we have today. Not that there isn't some great
music amid the commercial product inspiring audiences around the world these
days, but a link with the past has been lost. The Buena Vista Social Club is
about re-establishing that link, not as a nostalgic nod, but as a necessary
reconciliation.
Over the last forty years, Cold War politics have stood in the way of that
reconciliation. The fall of the Berlin Wall did not do away with what remains
as one of the last vestiges of that conflict: the U.S. embargo against Cuba.
In cultural terms, the Cold War played itself out on the island by way of the
state project of fomenting art directly linked to revolutionary ideals. It is
important to note that some fascinating music resulted from this endeavor
including such Nueva Canci�n ("New Song") artists as Silvio
Rodr�guez and Pablo Milan�s, both of whom have been introduced to U.S.
audiences in recent years by the likes of former Talking Heads front-man and
world music guru David Byrne. But pre-revolutionary music -- the music of the
great bandleaders like Arsenio
Rodr�guez and Beny Mor� --
fell into disfavor under Castro's regime, associated by the Revolution with
the "decadence" of the Batista era.
The Resurrection
By the time that producer Nick Gold and guitarist and producer Ry Cooder
arrived on the island in 1996, many of the personalities from the classic big
band era had faded away. Some had died, others were living a quiet retirement
in exile. Among those that still lived on the island, many were forgotten and
unemployed.
The
Buena Vista Social Club, the album and the film is the story of a remarkable
re-living of the classic era of Cuban popular music, the resurrection of
musical forms and personalities that have wielded an extraordinary influence
over Western music. It is the story of one of the most unique musical
narratives of our time. Its impact has been not only of bringing a crew of
great musicians out of ignominy on the island, but also of providing, for
audiences in the U.S. and Europe, a kind of Rosetta Stone, a way to interpret
the Latin influence on world music over the last half century.
In so many ways, this is a classically "American" story using the
broad, continental definition of the word. The characters hail from Cuba (all
the principal musicians, of course, and also musician-producer Juan de Marcos
Gonz�lez), Europe (filmmaker Wim Wenders, producer Nick Gold), the United
States (guitarist and producer Ry Cooder). Africa is powerfully present as
well, through bloodlines and vast cultural influence. Two visions formed the
primary impetus for the project. Nick Gold, a renowned personality in the
world music scene, had in mind to record a unique collaboration between West
African and Cuban guitarists in Havana, and invited Ry Cooder to sit in. The
American virtuoso, fresh from "global" collaborations with V.M.
Bhatt (A Meeting by the River) and Ali
Farka Tour� (Talking Timbuktu), enthusiastically signed on. But a twist
of bureaucratic fate -- the African players were denied visas -- nipped this
original notion in the bud.
Juan de Marcos Gonz�lez was the other visionary. A former rock 'n' roller
who'd rediscovered his Cuban roots mid-career, Gonz�lez knew all the players
who eventually would perform for the initial album project; they'd been his
mentors and heroes. He dreamed of a tribute album to these musical pioneers.
When the Afro-Cuban project fell through, Gold, Cooder and Gonz�lez joined
forces to fulfill Gonzalez's ideal.
Throughout the production, there were moments when it seemed that all would
come to naught. The tape machine at the legendary Egrem
Studios in Havana, where all the album sessions were held, promptly broke
down before a single song was cut. There was also the matter of contacting the
musicians and (sometimes literally) dragging them into the studio. After all,
most of the players were now quite senior (at 89, Compay Segundo was the
eldest when the sessions began), and many had not played in years. Pianist
Rub�n Gonz�lez was said to suffer from such a terrible case of arthritis
that he couldn't bear to touch the keys; vocalist Ibrahim Ferrer was shining
shoes for a living. Among the dozen others that eventually showed up, there
were several whose whereabouts were, simply, unknown. In a frenzied flurry of
networking, the former stars were gathered at Egrem.
Even with the crew assembled, however, there was considerable doubt as to the
outcome of the sessions. But, of course, magic happened.
Just
about everyone involved in the project remembers the moment that Rub�n
Gonz�lez showed up at Egrem for an "audition." Nick Gold, Juan de
Marcos Gonz�lez and Ry Cooder watched from the control room as the
diminutive, plaintive-faced Gonz�lez sat at the piano in the booth. The
lights were dimmed. Gonz�lez caressed the keys, executing a tumbao
progression. Without prompting, Orlando "Cachaito" L�pez joined in
on bass. After several minutes, the lights came up; Gonz�lez took it as a bad
sign. "I thought they wanted me to stop playing," he recalled. Just
the opposite: everyone in the control booth was keenly aware that the master
still had "it."
And so it was with the rest of the cast. The inimitable Ibrahim Ferrer's
pipes still hit the high notes without cracking. Cachaito's fingers plucked
the upright bass with rhythmic and tonal precision. Cigar-chomping Compay
Segundo's voice harmonized beautifully and he fingered the guitar
effortlessly. Eliades Ochoa made his own self-styled guitar (a cross between a
traditional six-string and the Cuban tres) sing sweet as ever. Omara
Portuondo's voice seemed to have grown both bigger and more poignant with age,
like wine in a barrel. P�o Leyva, (reunited with his former band-mate Comapy
Segundo) and Manuel Licea ("Puntillita") provided priceless chorus
harmonies. At the end of three weeks, three albums, The Buena Vista Social
Club, Introducing Rub�n Gonz�lez and Afro-Cuban All-Stars were complete,
ready for mixing and mastering.
The story, of course, does not end there. Two years later, the production
team reassembled for Buena Vista Social Club Presents Ibrahim Ferrer. Eliades
Ochoa, Compay Segundo and Omara Portuondo have since gone on to cut their own
albums as well.
Then there were the legendary concerts in Amsterdam and at Carnegie Hall,
which, along with the Ferrer sessions in Havana, provided acclaimed German
filmmaker Wim Wenders (Wings of Desire, Paris Texas) with dozens of hours of
filmed material for the documentary.
The Latin Boom
So, Buena Vista -- the music, the musicians, the film, the history, the
vision -- now lives on CD, on film, on the Web, on the dance floor. The
phenomenon occurs in the context of a remarkable renaissance of interest in
things Latin in the United States and Europe. It seems clear that this has
everything to do with the global era we live in which new economic forces
spawn massive movements of capital, as well as human migration and the rapid
exchange of information (most of it in the form of "culture," as in
movies, music, etc.). Buena Vista could never have occurred without the
presence and influence of Latin American immigrants in the "First
World."
The fact that "tropical" music now seems to represent everything
Latin is problematic, and speaks to a lingering superficiality in terms of
cultural dialogue (especially in the U.S., where by far the largest numbers of
Latinos have roots in Mexico, a land influenced by Cuba's tropical music, but
with a vast legacy of its own genres and styles). But it is a dialogue
nonetheless, one that has finally breached the old Cold War border between the
U.S. and Cuba. Seen in the best possible light, the Western world has awakened
to the fact that it does indeed share the globe with distinct and
distinguished cultures deserving of attention and respect.
Arguably, Buena Vista is the crowning achievement, thus far, of the
"world beat" era in both critical and commercial terms. It is a
model of everything that is right with the global vision of culture, which
also means that it avoids the pitfalls of the same: exoticizing or fetishizing
of "Third World" artists and artifacts, superficial representations
of history and culture.
Often times with such First-Third world co-productions, the stars wind up
being the First World "discoverers" of the Third World talent. But
Ry Cooder's dealings in this arena are of an entirely different nature. His
name does not appear on the covers of the albums. Indeed, he seems no more
than a session player that merely lends a hand on a couple of numbers. (He is
more than that, of course his obvious joy at communing with the Cubans was one
the driving passions of the project but he chose, consciously or not, to be a
highly self-effacing presence in every way.) There are probably more people in
the United States and Europe who've heard of The Buena Vista Social Club
family of albums than of Ry Cooder, the American slide-guitarist. Credit has
gone where credit was due.
Through this story, then, we return to the Island, one that we really all
inhabit: the island of history, with all its twists and turns, its ironies and
cruelties. This is the story of a dozen or so musicians that were trapped by
history but who were also ultimately granted a reprieve, very late in their
lives, from it. Experience, then, the music, the film, and this Web site. And
whether this is your first exploration of the Cuban or the Latin American or
the Global, or part of a lifelong identification, may this be just one stop
along a never-ending journey through culture and its life force, history
itself.