In Memory of Catalino "Tite" Cuuret Alonso: Memoirs of a life in salsa.
Edward-Yemil Rosario
I was saddened to discover the Tite Curet Alonso passed away. He was
probably the greatest living latino composer. His songs, aside from
being energetic and infectious, were full of meaning and passion...
fuck! It's really beyond me at this moment to really put into words
what Tite has meant to me in my own life. Never met the man, but he
had an impact on my life as well as in the lives of many others. May
he rest in peace and may his body of work never recede in the dustbins
of time.
Instead, I'll repost this article -- let his own words ring out:
Alonso, C. T. C. (2002). Memoirs of a life in salsa. Situating salsa:
Global markets and local meaning in Latin popular music. L. Waxer. New
York, Routledge: 187-200.
MEMOIRS OF A LIFE IN SALSA Catalino "Tite" Curet Alonso Translated by
Lise Waxer
Tite Curet Alonso is one of the most important composers in salsa
history, having penned landmark songs for nearly every famous salsa
performer of the 1960s, '70s, and '80s. His bits include "Anacaona,"
"Las caras lindas," "La Tirana" "Pueblo Latino," "Plantacion adentro,"
"La Oportunidad," and many, many more. Curet's compositions are
characterized not only by tuneful Melodies, poetic lyricism, and
catchy refrains, but also incisive social commentary and a strong
critique of injustice, oppression, and neocolonialism. Along with
singer-songwriter Ruben Blades (profiled below), be is one of the
leading proponents of salsa with a social message."
A lifelong resident of Puerto Rico, Tite Curet was born and
raised in the salsero neighborhoods of Barrio Obrero and Santurce in
San Juan While a close friend to many stars, (including famous
vocalist Ismael "Maelo" Rivera, fig. 2.1), be has never lost his touch
with the people and can often be seen conversing with friends and
acquaintances in the streets of San Juan. In addition to his career as
a composer, he is also a journalist, sociologist, and a former
Postman. The recipient of two honorary doctorates and numerous
accolades, Tite Curet Alonso is revered by musicians and aficionados
as the elder statesman of salsa. The following five autobiographical
vignettes are taken from his book La Vida Misma (1985). Together, they
constitute an important insider's perspective on the salsa world. In
these pages, Tite Curet recounts his personal memoirs of musicians,
producers, and also his own experiences as a salsa composer. We are
grateful and honored to be able to include a translated version of
these chronicles here.
[Page 188
FIGURE 8.1. Tite Curet Alonso (right) with Ismael Rivera "El Sonero
Mayor" in Loiza, Puerto Rico, during the first Fiesta de Loiza, early
1970s. Courtesy of Tire Curet Alonso.
PANCHO CRISTAL
Pancho Cristal was the record producer who launched Tite Curet on his
path as a successful salsa composer in the 1960s. Cristal worked for
Tico Records, an important New York salsa label that produced albums
by such renowned bandleaders as conga players Ray Barretto and Mongo
Santamaria, and pianists Eddie and Charlie Palmieri. In the following
memoir, Curet outlines his encounter with Cristal, who served as
liaison between the composer and popular vocalist Guadalupe "La Lupe"
Yoli. La Lupe recorded three songs by Tite Curet that not only became
her sig-
[Page 189]
-nature tunes, but made him famous and entered the repertoire of Latin
popular music as widely loved classics: "La Tirana," "Carcajada
final," and "Puro teatro" (the last of which was used in the
soundtrack to Pedro Almodovar's film Woman on the Verge of a Nervous
Breakdown). In this vignette, Curet also mentions other important
salsa bandleaders of the 1960s: timbalero and pachanga pioneer Joey
Quijano, who recorded one of Curet's very first songs, and the well
known percussionist and "Mambo King" Tito Puente, who performed with
La Lupe during the period that Curet wrote his famous tunes for her.
I don't know what direction his life has taken. This business is
like that. It takes us from one place to another without our realizing
it at times. The first time I heard his name was in 1965. Back then he
was producer of Tico Records, in the Latin music branch. Under his
wing, individuals such as Ray Barretto, Tito Puente, Mongo Santamaria,
and La Lupe became famous, along with other stars in Latin dance and
romantic music of the day.
The name "Pancho Cristal" was the last word in prestige and
authority. To know him and be his friend were the same thing.
Something spontaneous. He needed a local promoter, and I, who knew the
scene by memory, lent my services. Furthermore, to be perfectly
honest, I needed to earn a few extra dollars to bolster a lifestyle
that was, at the time, devoted to one spree after another. That was
all.
The big things came later. My career as a composer had already
burst open with a son titled "Efectivamente" [Effectively], recorded
by Joey Quijano and his Combo Cachana. The year was 1965, when Raffy
Torres and I produced the radio show Ritmo Rendezvous [Rhythm
rendezvous] on Station W, broadcast from the neighborhood of Hato Rey,
Puerto Rico.
The singer La Lupe kindled my urge to write, for her dramatic and
shocking style. I liked her. When I heard her sing "El Amo" [The
master] my decision was already made, and Pancho Cristal helped to get
my bolero "La Tirana" [The female tyrant] to her. The tune was a hit
that brought me five hundred dollars. It felt glorious when my name
was mentioned along with those of "La Yiyiyi" [1] and Tito Puente, who
was arranger and accompanist for the sensational singer. Later,
through Pancho Cristal's connections once again, La Lupe accepted
another two tunes of mine, "Puro teatro" [Pure theater] and "Carcajada
final" [Last laugh]. Two more hits!
"The Pancho Cristal Connection" was a trampoline for me. just
what I needed. The author, the promoter, the artist, and a person full
of faith who believed in me -- Pancho Cristal, nicknamed for a brand
of Cuban beer, Cristal. His real name: Morris Pelman.
[page190]
After he left Tico Records and then moved on from a record shop
he later had on New York's Tenth Avenue, I never saw him again. They
say that once retired from the world of business, he moved to the city
of Miami, Florida.
They say. I'm not clear what happened when he retired. I do know
that I, grateful, will always have a high place of honor for him in my
memory, very high. He was my open door, the piston and valve necessary
to launch my career in an extremely difficult and competitive field:
musical composition.
I have enjoyed public applause in many places. Plaques, eulogies,
diplomas, cultural, legislative, and mayor's awards, triumphs in song
festivals celebrated in various countries. All a pleasure!
Here, in secret, at the bottom of my being I give a standing
ovation to that superb gentleman who gave me his hand without thinking
twice, placing me on the road to triumph: PANCHO CRISTAL.
Like that, all with capital letters that, for me, he deserves!
THE LETTER THAT CORTIJO WON'T BE ABLE TO READ
Bandleader and percussionist Rafael Cortijo was one of the most
important innovators in Puerto Rican popular music of the
mid-twentieth century. During the 1950s, he adapted the traditional
rhythms of' Afro Puerto Rican bomba and plena to the dynamic format of
an eight member ensemble that featured Cuban percussion, trumpets,
saxophones, piano, bass -- and the inimitable lead vocals of Ismael
"Maelo" Rivera. Founded in 1954, the group of Cortijo and his combo
inaugurated a new era in Latin popular music, breaking away from the
large, staid dance bands of the 1940s to introduce a more energetic
presentation marked by driving rhythms, catchy refrains and horn
choruses, and infectious dance routines by the front line of
vocalists. Cortijo's bomba and plena recordings were enormously
popular not only in Puerto Rico, but also Colombia and Venezuela. The
band lasted until 1962, when Cortijo and Maelo suffered problems with
the law owing to marijuana possession. The rest of the band, under the
leadership of pianist Rafael Ithier, regrouped under the name El Gran
Combo de Puerto Rico, which continued Cortijo's legacy to become
Puerto Rico's most stalwart salsa orchestra.
The following memoir was written as a letter to Cortijo shortly
after the percussionist's death in 1984. Tite Curet recounts his close
personal friendship with Cortijo, candidly recalling the experiences
they shared together. Of note is his commentary on the hard times
Cortijo faced after the disbanding of his first combo in the 1960s,
when the music industry turned its back on him. The letter opens with
reference to the incredible public outpouring at the maestro's funeral
-- in Puerto Rico, The death of a famous musician becomes an occasion
not only for mourning, but for exuberant celebration and music making
in homage to the memory of the beloved artist.
Rest in peace, friend, now you don't need anything, not even to
breathe. Your death has caused such grief that the public poured out
their hearts to you. Santurce [Cortijo's neighborhood] knew how to say
"see you later," with panderetas, drums, dance bands and singers
gathered together, pumping out plenas and bombas at full steam. It
looked like one of those massive fiestas, full of people. You knew how
to penetrate to the very heart of the populace, since [forming your
combo in] 1954. There you remained openly, like a manifesto, without
obstacles or restrictions. There was a multitude that spilled out into
the streets to remember you and cry tears of love, to the strains and
rhythms of your captivating music.
At one time you put the name of Santurce and Puerto Rico high up
in the world, very high up. And the people repaid you with a
spectacular funeral as moving as the end of a global war. Or the
beginning of a true peace.
Now that you aren't here it's good to know that I shared your
struggles through the moments of triumph and hardship, from close up
and afar. You were that unselfish friend who put his wallet at my
service during my worst times of alcoholism. And when he saw me
without a single cent put his dollars in my hand, "so that you can go
shopping for your kids." Favors that I felt were never repaid even by
all my attempts to reciprocate, not even with the music that I later
wrote, with pleasure, for the combo.... From close up, from afar, it
was most remarkable to be your friend and your brother, in life and in
music.
That time with "Pa' los Caserios" [For the small towns] and the
awards that the CRUV conferred on us on television, in full color...
we looked like a pair of black princes both crowned as kings. The
truth is, we brought down the house.
I always viewed your career, filled with trophies, plaques,
awards and emblems, without a trace of envy, as one does when truly
grounded in the fundamentals of friendship. You planted a tremendous
seed of music and sentiment when you raised the so-called music of the
streets to the valued position it occupies today. Before your red hot
combo, any musician who lived well had to belong to one of the big
orchestras. With your triumph, you brought them honey and pastries
[easy times]. You broke that monopoly and superiority.
You put expensive clothes on our everyday music, luxurious
garments of fine cloth... records, radio, television, movies, sacred
exports. This innovative task falls only to the creators, it does not
matter if they
[page192]
later have to confront, as in the case of some heroes, people's
indifference. In the long run, that which shines, shines. The
mediocre, while it may shine, will tarnish and remain stuck in its
given time and place. Such is life and so it will be.
In difficult times I suffered a lot for you and with you. When
your two children Timber and Zoila arrived in this world, you were
already fifty years old. And after reaching a half century, such
things worry anyone, for obvious reasons of love.
It was then that the owners of the music business turned their
backs on you, promoting those who reaped from you instead.[2] It seems
that they were waiting, slyly, for the moment that this would most
hurt and maim you. I remember you, roaming the streets in a struggle
to tough this out. And also your words, "It's now that I've got two
children that I feel happy, but worried about not being able to offer
them comfort and all the other things they need… "
The only thing you needed was work, to settle your new situation
as a father. I knew it. Just as you had been charitable to extremes,
even to the point of being cleaned out on numerous occasions, you
never liked asking for a handout. I saw how they closed doors to you,
ruining whatever business you launched.
I was shocked to find out, and forgive me for telling this, how
they tried to make someone kill you. And how death's emissary, before
your largesse and sincerity, repented from doing so. There are just
some men too great and beloved to be eliminated like that, by a paid
pistol shot. And there are little guys who grow a bit larger by
motivating their conscience to not pull a trigger for a few dollars.
After your passing I looked in a book that was published about
Puerto Rican musicians. They barely dedicated a few lines to you. All
of it parsimoniously expressed, almost as if by fluke. But it doesn't
matter. I know that in the heart of your people you wrote an
encyclopedia of affection, music, and rhythm. The people showed it on
October 6. Your career was glorious. Your life overturned sadness,
converting it into happiness and color. You were a total winner. You
established a new era for our music and our musicians. Everyone knows
that and now nobody argue that or take that away from you.
Rest in peace now ... Be calm, my friend and brother. Where you
are now, you don't need anything ... Not even to breathe... !
CHEO FELICIANO IN THE CENTER FOR FINE ARTS, BY HIS OWN RIGHT
(Chronicle dedicated to Fernando Sterling and Luis Maquina)
Vocalist Jose "Cheo " Feliciano is a long standing veteran of the
salsa
[page 193]
scene, most commonly associated with the famous Fania All Stars. He
launched his performance career in the mid-1960s with the sextet of
boogaloo pioneer Joe Cuba (see Flores, chapter 4), recording such bits
as "Bang Bang," "El Pito," and his signature tune, "El Raton."
Feliciano struggled with drug addiction and was jailed for narcotics
possession in the late 1960s, but upon his release launched a solo
career. His association and friendship with Tite Curet is legendary
among salsa aficionados -- in this memoir Curet alludes to the
constant stream of advice he gave his friend concerning the singer's
delivery and style. Many of Feliciano's most renowned tunes were
composed by Curet, including "Anacaona" (a song with strong
anticolonialist undercurrents), "Nabori," "Salome" and several others.
In 1973, Curet composed an entire album's worth of songs for Feliciano
during a downslide in the singer's career and personal life. The
recording, prophetically titled With a Little Help from My Friend, was
released by Fania Records and received much critical acclaim. Curet
refers to this project below.
This chronicle originally appeared as a newspaper column about
Feliciano's appearance at the Centro de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts
Center) in San Juan in the mid 1980s, a period when popular artists
began breaking through barriers of race and class to appear in venues
formerly reserved for elite culture. Indeed, during the early 1990s a
considerable debate was raised by the proposal, later scuttled, to
rename the Centro de Bellas Artes after Rafael Cortijo. Curet
positions Feliciano's performance in this theater as a legitimization
of the artist's long and turbulent career as one of salsa's most
popular vocalists.
The singer Cheo Feliciano and I met each other in New York City
on 110th Street, almost at the corner of Madison Avenue. That is, in
El Barrio [Spanish Harlem]. It was during his time as vocalist with
the Joe Cuba Sextet, when the salseros of the time crowded about to
see him sonear [improvise] and the ladies sighed to hear him sing
boleros in a smooth and infectious manner that inspired romance.
Right there on that marvelous corner of the city, I unloaded my
first critique on him. "Cheo, brother, when you are soneando [singing
improvisations] you stray too much from the main theme, so you should
really think much harder about that… "
A very special and long-lasting friendship grew from this point
forward. My advice rained on him each time we met in Puerto Rico or in
the metropolis. A mutual friend who introduced Cheo and I, Nandy
Sterling, had already given the lead… "Cheo, there's a friend of mine
in Puerto Rico who thinks highly of you and has great
things planned for you."
[page 194]
These so-called "great things" had to wait their turn. The man
flung himself down the negative side of life. Many people turned their
backs on him. They saw him in a bad light, wandering through the
neighborhood streets of Santurce, destitute. Our friendship remained
the same. A meeting with him meant a bear hug, and then that gesture
of "What do you need?"…
When he decided to get himself together I silently applauded
him... Knowing he was on the road to recovery and beginning to prepare
projects for him was one and the same thing. Jerry Masucci, the
director of Fania Records, saw me with the hefty stack of papers
called the Cheo Feliciano Project, and in his fractured Spanish merely
commented: "Yes but you're in charge of him, you deal with Cheo… "
Honey over pastry. The project waited another couple of years more...
And physically and mentally detoxified, the man set out on a sure
path...
Then came those hits with "Anacaona," "Pa' que afinquen," Mi
triste problema," "Franqueza cruel," "Este es el guaguanco" And into
his hands, fortune. He seemed like a child handling a new toy. One
called fame.
Mexico, Chile, Holland, Panama, Venezuela, England, Argentina.
Peru, Colombia, Japan, United States, Dominican Republic, Africa.
France, where he sang in the Miden Festival of Cannes, and in the
world-famous Olympic Theater of Paris... The crowds adored him and
from afar I tasted the satisfaction of having won my bet on the
"underdog."
Meanwhile, in Puerto Rico the singer led a family life, the easy
life that he had not enjoyed for some time. In his leisure time he
devoted himself (among other things) to gardening and planting
vegetables despite my jokes that consisted of calling him "the Jackie
Robinson of agriculture, the first black farmer of the modern era."
And dozens of similar compliments. To be sure, he was happy, and to an
extent I was happy for myself too. Jerry Masucci's requirement that I
take charge of him was followed to the letter. And to that of the
music...
Then came a stretch of total idleness. During this lapse he
hardly recorded any albums, and those that he did make were not hits.
He went back to cloistered meetings with that irritable big brother of
his. New warnings and shakings by the neck… "Life changes, you have to
get involved in something else, kid."
When he went back to the recording studios a string of successes
returned to him: "Los entierros pobres," "Estampa marina," "Juan
Albañil," "Trizas," and a hell of an accomplished bolero written by
Juan Nogueras titled "Amada mía," considered to be the master work of
sentimental song....
[page 195]
Our friend Cheo is already big. He's a grandfather. And he
continues to be as outstanding as a certain whiskey.
He has completed twenty-five years in lyric song. A quarter
century pleasing the public and offering his warmth as an exquisite
singer. They are going to celebrate all this through a concert, a sort
of double bill, this Friday in the Festival Salon of the Center for
Fine Arts. Something that he as much as his public deserves.
There I will be in the audience, whether it goes ahead or not.
And although we won't be able to see each other, for obvious reasons,
in the prevailing semidarkness, he will be aware of my presence, which
will be like the best wish for everything to go well. A wish that they
applaud him deliriously. Because you all cannot imagine how much I
love him and esteem him, this accomplice of my career as a composer
and other things. This Cheo Feliciano, tremendous partner.
ISMAEL MIRANDA: A WELL-OFF SONERO
Ismael Miranda is another famous vocalist of classic 1970s salsa, who,
like Cheo Feliciano, has long been associated with the Fania All
Stars. He launched his career at the age of seventeen, earning him the
sobriquet "El Niño Bonito de la Salsa" [salsa's pretty boy]. Through
the early 1970s, Miranda was lead vocalist with the salsa band of
pianist Larry Harlow (Harlow was also a chief producer for Fania
Records), before going solo in the middle of the decade. Although born
in Puerto Rico, Miranda grew up in New York City and did not speak
fluent Spanish which Curet advised him to learn to do before
attempting a solo career. In contrast to salsa artists who have
struggled with substance abuse and personal finances, Miranda has
enjoyed great stability thanks to his sharp nose for business
investments.
The following memoir outlines Curet's relationship with Miranda,
touching on the singer's early years and subsequent path to stardom.
During the late 1960s, Miranda was a friend and contemporary of
another rising salsa vocalist, the legendary Hector Lavoe (see
Valentin, chapter 7). Curet recounts how the fledgling singers pursued
their idol Ismael Rivera, the famed singer who fronted Cortijo and his
combo in the 1950s and was an important influence for salsa in the
1960s and 70s ,see Berrios Miranda, chapter 2). As he did for many
salsa vocalists, Curet penned some of Miranda's most popular hits,
including "La oportunidad" and "Galera tres."
The man himself told me the story, in a bar located in the now
not very luxurious sector of Miramar. He drank a beer, and me, that
ever-present soda! [3]
[page196]
"I pursued Ismael Rivera there in New York. Same as my friend
Hector Lavoe, who shared an apartment with me. We both wanted to be
soneros [singers] no matter what, and we were really surprised that a
star like Ismael Rivera would let two eager novices share the stage
with him. We liked the attitude he had." He and I imagined how the
next day went, with them telling their friends in the barrio: "Last
night we sang with Ismael Rivera. He's our buddy and said we sounded
great.
Life, the son, the guaracha, followed as usual. Ismael Miranda
was signed to the Larry Harlow orchestra, then known for the style of
son montuno that Harlow had learned in Havana watching dance sets by
the conjunto of Arsenio Rodriguez, the most important cultivator of
that style.[4] The so-called "Amazing Blindman" owing to his skill
playing the tres [Cuban guitar]. With reason!
The truth is that Ismael belted out some incredible high notes
when singing boleros, and his vocal timbre seemed to have been
invented for those montunos with four-line choruses. Stupendous! And
since he was a good dancer and well-groomed fellow, in time he was
nicknamed "The Pretty Boy of Salsa. "
The Latino dance crowd -- thirsty for new idols and now
completely recovered from the postwar slump -- gave great importance
to singers, so like everyone else he wanted to set out on his own
path, with a band of his own. It was logical.
My advice for him was quick. I recommended that he take some
extra time before launching himself as a soloist. "A year," was the
sentence. "You have to learn how to speak correctly, or the best
possible, in Spanish. You're still saying a lot of words and terms
very poorly, not the way they should be. Take it easy and then we'll
see. I'll be standing b you."
After a year was over he called me. He was speaking Spanish "by
the book." With an enormous desire and spirit to triumph. He also
expressed his concerns about living in Puerto Rico. In beloved
Puertorro! Here, with his people. After all, he was no more than a
little country boy from Aguada [5] trying to make his fortune.
"Now you're on. This very week tell Masucci [director of Fania
Records] that I will send a tune made to your wishes." And it arrived
just in time to record it. Titled: "La Oportunidad" [The Opportunity].
It ended up being his first big hit as a soloist. "At long last it's
come. Now my time has come for sure. And this time I'm not letting it
pass. My opportunity has come." Remember, salseros? That was
tremendous!
From that point on everything was honey over pastry, whether it
was bolero or guaracha and son montuno, that kid was an ace in the
hole. His personal manner through all this did not vary. He would dine
[page 197]
in a luxury restaurant just the same as when he went to the beachfront
in Piñones to eat a pair of alcapurrias [6] with gusto. In terms of
alcohol, he never was a habitual drinker. He hardly drank more than a
glass of whiskey.
In his triumphant career he always was an interpreter who,
although he knew how to compose and had some solid original hits,
never turned his back on me. He kept asking me for work continuously.
A thousand thanks! There was a moment, however, that was a top hit for
both. It concerned "Galera tres" [Ward three]. It came at a moment
when there were many uprisings in the jails and prisons. A female
colleague in journalism studies told me that the song was a
best-seller in Peru and other countries. At that time, another
university colleague of mine from back in the 1940s, a tremendous
mulatta woman and lawyer named Irba Cruz de Batista, was director of
the Department of Correctional Services. She was receiving strong and
harsh criticisms. After all, the situation in the penal system hasn't
changed much, despite the sermons of the distinguished lady and
professional Doha Trina Padilla.
Let's come back to Ismael Miranda. If there was something to
admire in him, it was his good instinct for business. First he was a
tire dealer, then property sales, then urban development, restaurants,
and an office building in the Golden Mile, the banking zone. He's
made! It's well known than he has millions of dollars. May San Pedro
bless every one of them!
We know that he doesn't need to sing for a living, since he
invested well in his future. He had enough vision so that now, in his
adult life, he can live at ease. Even so, singing tugs at him. And he
returns to the stage with the same charm as always. To earn applause
on all continents.
A good artist never retires. We see this in the case of [Cuban]
singer Olga Guillot, and this tells us why. There is Ismael Miranda on
the scene once again, ready to sing with all the sabor that salsa
requires and awaits from one of its grand maestros.
RUBEN BLADES
Rubén Blades is the most renowned singer-songwriter of 1970s and '80s
salsa, and one of salsa's most political artists. A native of Panama,
Blades studied law as a young man and eventually earned a doctorate in
law from Harvard University. Moving to New York in the early 1970s, he
worked as an errand boy for Fania Records before launching his singing
career in 1974 with the band of conga player Ray Barretto. In 1976, be
moved to the band of legendary trombonist and composer Willie Colon
replacing Colon's former vocalist Hector Lavoe. Colon and Blades
recorded some of the most important salsa albums of the late
[page 198]
1970s, including Metiendo Mano and Siembra, which pointed strong
criticism at capitalism, social prejudice, and injustice. Included in
these albums was Tite Curet Alonso's anticolonialist "Plantacion
adentro."
Blades stands alongside Curet as author of some of salsa's most
socially conscious repertoire. The hard-hitting commentary of Blades's
songs, modeled on the Latin American protest genre Of nueva cancion,
attracted thousands of new listeners to salsa in the late 1970s,
particularly leftists, intellectuals, and university students. Blades
left Colon in 1980 to record and perform with a band of his own,
continuing to produce acclaimed albums while branching out as an actor
in Hollywood films. He returned to politics after receiving his law
degree in 1985, and ran as a presidential candidate in the 1994
Panamanian national elections. In the following chronicle, originally
published in two parts, Curet recognizes Blades as a friend and
kindred spirit, referring to several of his hit songs and also
discussing Blades's involvement in politics. Notably, Curet
acknowledges Blades's "salsa with a social message" as an important
contribution that smoothed out the rough, barrio-oriented edge of
salsa prior to that time and got listeners thinking more profoundly
about broad social issues of the day
. It was at the corner of Ashford and Magdalena Avenues, in the
middle of Condado district.[7] There it was, although I don't remember
the date anymore. The hour, yes, it was night, under the stars and out
in the open, one of those hours that are good for getting into a long
conversation which leads to a firm friendship. Rubén Blades has been
that, a good friend made initially through our connection to Caribbean
music, and then consolidated by the support of friendship itself.
His dreams of triumph shone through in his gaze. First he had to
complete his law studies in Panama, his native country, in order to
venture forth and unleash the flood of inspiration that trembled
inside him. His path was already laid out. He knew where he was going.
The animated chat continued on that corner. Both of us
practically immobile alongside the relentless horns of cars locked in
a traffic jam. They proved his streetwise philosophy that "corners are
the same everywhere. "
Brazil and its music drew both of us. We talked about "over
there" as if we had found ourselves on the sidewalks of Copacabana or
on the streets of Ipanema next to the hexagonal Bar Veloso, where the
poet Vinicius de Moraes and the composer Antonio Carlos Jobim,
watching the exquisite girl Eloisa Helena pass by, wrote the famous
bossa nova titled "Chica de Ipanema," which became popular worldwide.
Neither one of us even imagined that in time he was going to record
[Page199]
my samba, "La palabra adios," and the hymn like guaracha "Plantacion
adentro," based on an Amazon theme. It was, well, a happy encounter,
seasoned with comments about how much good he could do for Caribbean
music, bestowing it with work that both of us, hopeful, catalogued as
"high thought."
As we nonchalantly agreed, the learning exchange that night was on
both sides, both of us pinned down at Magdalena and Ashford, a corner
like any other, because after all, "corners are the same everywhere,"
although the surroundings change.
One resounding triumph after another. Salsa music and its many
thousands of worshipers have come to accept the singer Ruben Blades
without limits. Salsa with a social message has produced a string of
hits, and also smoothed out the genre a little, making young people
think about the issues of the moment, of the everyday path.
"Pedro Navaja," "Chica plastica "El Cantante," "Cipriano Armenteros,"
"El Tiburon,'' Ligia Elena," "El Camaleon," the work El solar de los
aburridos and a world more of tunes from his pen and in his melodious
voice -- all of them didactic and proclaiming his name as a
singer-songwriter, perhaps the best of them all in the salsa business.
Nobody doubts his talent at producing hits now. The public adores him,
it follows him and pursues him from one place to another. On many
occasions he has had to resort to protection from police or security
guards, since he is valuable property. Sometimes human affection, when
en masse, can hurt the person who is admired. He has even made it to
Hollywood films. Now he's quite international.
From that position as errand boy in the offices of Fania Records he
went, without guide ropes, climbing the slope to fame, a steep
trajectory that costs much hard work and much dreaming. Yes, the
slope, the slope.
I understand him very well. The same here in this capital city of San
Juan as over there in the city of New York; however many times we've
met he's been the same. He hasn't changed a bit. We share opinions
about each other's new projects, shaking hands and ideas whether we
have time or not, given that his life has left him with few spare
moments because of obligations and more obligations. He has traveled
so much of late that he seems like a minister of external affairs. I
don't know how he managed to take the time out to complete his law
studies and graduate with a doctoral degree in law from prestigious
Harvard University, but he hasn't let go of the music, the backbone of
his life, the field where he conquered the public's love.
Within him stirred another social force. Politics! Some people do not
tire of affirming that he wants to be president of Panama, thus
entering
[Page 200]
the public life of the homeland that he has lived far away from for
obvious reasons, but that he has never stopped thinking about. And for
his native isthmus, he wants the best.
"It's not that I want to be president, unless the position comes from
the mandate of the people. Yes, I would like to form part of the
government that settles many things that are not going well over there
for the people on the bottom."
"Really?"
"Yes, but I'm no magician. It would have to be operating a group of
leaders, people willing to struggle for the common good. Alone I
couldn't do it, you know."
We were conversing this time in his dressing room at the Poliedro
Stadium in Caracas. Backstage, we could hear ovations from the
restless public, eager to see and hear him sing on the wide stage with
his group Los Sees del Solar, tonight augmented by wind instruments.'
He left for the stage then, escorted by security guards.
I stayed far back, observing his triumph. Every bit a great artist!
Suddenly I thought about the labyrinths of Latin American politics,
where vendettas rule. And where to this day there's always been an
inflamed rivalry that usually doesn't hold back, attacking, injuring,
and even fatally eliminating the opposition. May God keep you, Ruben
God keep you!
EDITOR'S NOTES
1. "La Yiyiyi" was a nickname for La Lupe, owing to the yelps she
often emitted in performance. See Aparicio, chapter 6 this volume.
2. A possible reference to El Gran Combo, which capitalized on the
sound it had developed with Cortijo's band to successfully launch
itself in the early 1960s.
3. An allusion to Curet's own victory over alcoholism.
4. In 1957, while still a teenager, Harlow left his native New York to
live, travel and study music in Cuba for a few months. He spent much
of his time attending performances and hanging out with the famous
conjunto (ensemble) of Arsenio Rodriguez, a pioneer who revolutionized
the Cuban son in the late 1930s by adding a conga drum, piano, bass,
and more trumpets to the traditional instrumentation, and
concentrating on heavy, slow grooves known as son montuno.
5. Miranda's birthplace.
6. A typical Puerto Rican snack made of fried mashed plantain mixed
with different types of meat.
7. An upscale neighborhood and tourist zone in San Juan, Puerto Rico.
8. Blades's group Seis del Solar was a small combo that featured
synthesizers instead horns; for the concert Curet refers to,
additional wind instruments had been added to the ensemble.
Always,
Edward-Yemil Rosario (Eddie)
luc...@ix.netcom.com
eros...@fifthave.org
www.fifthave.org
" Be the change you want the world to be."
- Ghandhi
malanga
"Edward-Yemil Rosario" <luc...@netcom.com> wrote in message
news:ob0ajvsf9le0l0r4l...@4ax.com...
> PANCHO CRISTAL
This is a not too frequently mentioned/relatively unknown outside the
industry personage who was responsible for producing some of the best
afro-cuban music of the 60s and 70s and as the article indicates helped to
launch the career of a number of artists.
Pancho Cristal, for those who don't already know, was a Cuban-born Jew,
whose real name was, if I recall the lore correctly, Morris Francisco
Perlman (Pelman?) or Francisco Morris Perlman (Pelman?) (?).
Another fine example of the organic diversity and multiculturalism of our
music.
malanga
"Edward-Yemil Rosario" <luc...@netcom.com> wrote in message
news:ob0ajvsf9le0l0r4l...@4ax.com...
>
>PANCHO CRISTAL
>
Wow...now there's a name that doesn't receive much "airplay" among the
afro-cuban music cognoscenti.
In fact, he gets nowhere as much "airplay" as he deservers, given his
seminal role in producing some of the finest examples of the genre during
the 60s/70s and as the article noted launching the career of a number of
really famous and important songwriters and artists.
And...as a Cuban, and a Jew, a shining example of the diversity and
multiculturalism (if I may be allowed to use those oft-used words) which is
*organically* inherent in afro-cuban music.
Edward-Yemil Rosario
wrote:
:
:"Edward-Yemil Rosario" <luc...@netcom.com> wrote in message
:news:ob0ajvsf9le0l0r4l...@4ax.com...
:
:> PANCHO CRISTAL
:
:This is a not too frequently mentioned/relatively unknown outside the
:industry personage who was responsible for producing some of the best
:afro-cuban music of the 60s and 70s and as the article indicates helped to
:launch the career of a number of artists.
:
:Pancho Cristal, for those who don't already know, was a Cuban-born Jew,
:whose real name was, if I recall the lore correctly, Morris Francisco
:Perlman (Pelman?) or Francisco Morris Perlman (Pelman?) (?).
<snip>
I wonder if you even read the freakin article:
"The Pancho Cristal Connection" was a trampoline for me. just
what I needed. The author, the promoter, the artist, and a person full
of faith who believed in me -- Pancho Cristal, nicknamed for a brand
of Cuban beer, Cristal. His real name: Morris Pelman."
:Another fine example of the organic diversity and multiculturalism of our
:music.
<snip>
and... careful reading!
Bendito!
DeRayMi
Bands, Fans Pay Homage to Tite Curet
SANDRA IVELISSE VILLERRAEL
Associated Press
SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico - Musicians gathered in Puerto Rico's capital on
Sunday to croon a final goodbye to late composer Catalino "Tite" Curet
Alonso on the eve of his burial.
Thousands of people viewed Curet's body at the Institute of Puerto
Rican Culture in Old San Juan. Two interior patios of the historic
building were used for bands to play some of Curet's 2,000 dance songs
and ballads.
Curet's body was in a golden coffin and he was wearing his
characteristic straw hat and traditional multicolored shirt.
The composer, who despite his success continued working at a post
office in San Juan for three decades, died Aug. 5 of respiratory
failure at age 77.
Veteran singer and former Sen. Ruth Fernandez said one of Curet's
legacies was "giving elegance to salsa."
Many came from far-flung corners of the island to see Curet for the
last time and dance to his songs. "I have his complete repertoire,"
said Adelina Rodriguez Sanabria, a 58-year-old teacher from
south-coast Salinas, as she waited in line to see Curet's body.
Curet died in a hospital in Baltimore where he had been visiting his
daughter, Ilda. His body arrived to this Caribbean island on Saturday,
when a private viewing was held.
On Monday, the body was to be taken to San Juan's City Hall, and later
that day buried in the Santa Maria Magdalena de Pazzis cemetery in Old
San Juan.
Since Thursday, local radio stations have been allowed to play Curet's
music for a week after being banned from airing it by a 1996 federal
court order. A music association and corporation filed a lawsuit
demanding royalties from more than 30 radio stations.
At the news of his death, the Association of Composers and Editors of
Latin American Music and the Latin American Music Corp. allowed the
radio stations to play his music.
Curet, born in 1926 in southeastern Guayama, wrote in many genres
including Latin musical styles like samba, salsa and danza. His best
known songs include "The Pretty Faces" and "By All Means, Rosa," both
popularized by salsa great Ismael Rivera.
Curet is survived by a son, Eduardo, and wife, Ilda Velazquez.