© Mark Lomanno, 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TOPICS ON AFRO-CUBAN JAZZ IN THE UNITED STATES By Mark J. Lomanno A thesis submitted to the Graduate School-Newark Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey in partial fulfillment of requirements for the degree of Master of Arts Graduate Program in Jazz History & Research Written under the direction of Professor John Howland and approved by ________________________ ________________________ Newark, New Jersey May, 2007 ABSTRACT OF THE THESIS Topics on Afro-Cuban Jazz in the United States By Mark J. Lomanno Thesis director: Professor John Howland As a musical form that unites two cultures, Afro-Cuban jazz has been historically problematic for jazz historians and critics to address. In a discipline that embraced a dominant historical narrative emphasizing continuity of style and substance, early Jazz Studies had little or no regard for Cuban contributions to the American jazz aesthetic. Since the advent of New Jazz Studies in the 1980s, new attention has been focused on the underrepresented and forgotten idioms and figures of jazz history. In this spirit, this thesis examines how New Jazz Studies has reacted to Afro-Cuban jazz and whether or not this music has been given ample critical attention. While addressing critical issues that impede American scholarship on Afro-Cuban jazz, this thesis also suggests several fresh methods for re-examining this music, many of which are already used in the study of other jazz idioms. These methods are applied to two seminal musical interactions from the Cuban/American musico-cultural canon: the late nineteenth century interaction between danza and ragtime, and the collaboration of Dizzy Gillespie and Chano Pozo—known as cubop—which, sixty years later, continues to inspire musicians. Preface My interest and passion in Afro-Cuban music began with a trip in March 2002 to Santiago de Cuba. It was among my newfound friends in the neighborhood of Tivoli that I found, for the first time, a means of simultaneously engaging my academic and performative interests. When selecting a thesis topic, it only seemed appropriate that, after five years of performing Afro-Cuban jazz with my own groups, I should devote my time and energy to gaining a more complete and studied knowledge of this music using the resources of New York City and the Jazz History and Research program at RutgersNewark. I am indebted to many people for their assistance in the completion of this work. The faculty at Rutgers-Newark—Professors Lewis Porter, John Howland, and Henry Martin—have been indispensable for their time and energy spent in guiding my fledgling career. A special debt of gratitude is owed to my thesis advisor, Professor John Howland, whose exhaustive and probative suggestions helped me focus and refine my work. Thanks to both Professors Howland and Porter for their support and guidance in my application and decision process for my upcoming Ph.D. in ethnomusicology. The staff at the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers-Newark has been especially helpful, as has the Interlibrary Loan Department of Dana Library. For their support and assistance, I wish to thank all my fellow students in the Jazz History and Research program. Thanks also to: Peter Brainin, Professor Solomon Mikowsky, Dr. Marcello Piras, Bobby Porcelli, and Dr. Billy Taylor. A heartfelt dedication goes to the late Manny Duran. I dedicate this thesis to my son, Paolo, and my wife, Tamia, without whose constant support, love, patience, and home-brewed pots of coffee this work would never have been possible. Table of Contents Abstract of the Thesis ii Preface iii Table of Contents iv Introduction 1 Chapter One: 3 Critical Issues in the American Reception of Afro-Cuban Jazz Chapter Two: 36 Ignacio Cervantes and the Influence of the Cuban Danza on Ragtime Music Chapter Three: 54 Exploring Cubop: A Transcultural Approach Chapter Four: 76 Personal Interview with Manny Duran Chapter Five: 97 Personal Interview with Bobby Porcelli Discography 127 Bibliography 147 Introduction This thesis is not intended to be a complete discussion of the history of AfroCuban jazz in the United States. The breadth of the topic warrants a much more substantial work. It is my hope that, in these chapters, readers will see the potential for new, innovative (and long overdue) English-language scholarship on Afro-Cuban jazz. As a musical idiom whose defining characteristics are borne of another culture, AfroCuban jazz can prove elusive for both the musician and the scholar, i.e. what separates Afro-Cuban jazz from culturally familiar American jazz is the afrocubanismo that can be difficult for Americans to grasp. By identifying these musico-cultural markers and studying them, we can come to a more complete understanding of this genre. To that end, chapter one explores the critical issues surrounding previous scholarship on and critical examinations of Afro-Cuban jazz. Unifying the work of Cuban ethnomusicologist Fernando Ortiz with hybrid identity theory and New Jazz Studies, a new model for evaluation of Afro-Cuban jazz is proposed. Chapter two employs some of the methods discussed in the previous chapter in order to examine a particular moment in the history of the Cuban/American musicocultural canon. This chapter investigates the musical world that had to exist so that “Jelly Roll” Morton could make his famous “Spanish tinge” comment. In the search for Morton’s musical forefathers, the possibility of the Cuban danza as an influence on American ragtime is explored. As two composers who best represent their respective genres, Ignacio Cervantes and Scott Joplin are discussed in this chapter. The thematic treatment of characteristic rhythmic cells is postulated as an indication of cross-cultural influence. A documented case of cross-cultural interaction is the focus of chapter three, namely the collaboration between Dizzy Gillespie and Chano Pozo. This is perhaps the most discussed episode in the history of Afro-Cuban jazz. However, this chapter refocuses critical attention on Pozo’s musical contributions to the collaboration, which, although discussed, have seldom been quantified or analyzed. This lack of study has influenced how cubop—as it came to be known—has been represented in the historical narratives of jazz. Also discussed in this chapter is a comparative analysis involving two musicians who recorded cross-cultural albums: American saxophonist Charlie Parker’s “Latin jazz” recordings for Norman Granz’s Verve label and Cuban percussionist Walfredo Reyes’s recording, Cuban Jazz. The nature and “effectiveness” of these crosscultural experiments are explored through the transcription and theoretical analysis of compositions recorded by both artists. A model for subsequent scholarship, this chapter gives an indication of the breadth of topics still unexplored in Afro-Cuban jazz studies. Chapters four and five are personal interviews with two storied sidemen of AfroCuban jazz: the late trumpeter Manny Duran and the saxophonist Bobby Porcelli. It has been my pleasure to know both these men as friends, on and off the bandstand. Theirs are two stories that have not been told. They are representative of a whole population of underappreciated and unrecognized personalities in Afro-Cuban jazz whose rich personal narratives enliven the history of this idiom. The thesis closes with a selected bibliography and discography. These sections are meant to be starting points for research on Afro-Cuban jazz, not a compendium of all the available resources. 4 Critical Issues in the American Reception of Afro-Cuban Jazz Scholarly discourse about jazz has been centered on explicating perceived dualities. For example, duality exists in both the jazz idiom’s categorization as folk or art music and in its critics as scholars or aficionados. The most pervasive duality is jazz’s racial identity, which has been viewed as either solely African American, or as a mix of both Euro- and African American heritage. The theory of these dualities (or binary oppositions), notably discussed by Andre Hodeir in the 1950s, has been challenged following the rise of New Musicology.1 By exploring jazz through the social sciences and other scholarly approaches outside traditional musicology, a more complete understanding of the nature and development of jazz is emerging such that these dualities can be discarded as obsolete simplifications of a multifaceted art form. One of the goals of New Musicology is to expose the critical trends that have affected jazz historiography. This type of inquiry allows the scholar to uncover parts of the jazz narrative that have been outside the normative realm of scholarship and appreciation during its history. Three of the critical trends that have most notably impacted the jazz narrative are transculturation (cross-influence between cultures), exoticism (perceptions of phenomena “outside” one’s culture), and canon formation (the process by which certain historical figures or events are included or excluded from a historical narrative). Certain musicians have been promoted for their connection to societal ideas of foreign or folk influence.2 Others have been victimized by 1 Andre Hodeir, “The Evolution of Jazz and the Idea of Jazz Classicism,” in Jazz Its Evolution and Essence, trans. David Noakes (New York: Grove Press, 1956), 21-38. 2 For example, see Eric Porter, “Passions of a Man: The Poetics and Politics of Charles Mingus,” in What Is 2 (mis)appropriation of cultural identifiers by a dominant race.3 Still others have been excluded from the jazz narrative because they fell outside the established canon.4 Much of the scholarship written about these artists has continued to preserve the most prevalent duality in jazz discourse: that of African-American and Euro-American musico-cultural identities as the only significant cultural forces in the jazz tradition. The issue of which race has exercised the greater influence on jazz is irrelevant in this case, because the premise of this duality is false. For example, in the interests of fully representing the global contributions to jazz, one must discuss also the European and Asian jazz scenes, especially in discussions of postwar jazz. But the most glaring omission in the scholarly discourse is the Latin-American influence in jazz. This influence is not only recent, but has been constant since the origins of jazz music in postbellum America and the late nineteenth century. On this problem, the ethnomusicologist Christopher Washburne has noted that: Latin music styles … have shared a common history with jazz, intersecting, crossinfluencing, and at times seeming inseparable, as both have played prominent roles in each other’s development. Regardless, in much of the jazz literature, this role has been diminished or downright ignored.5 Despite the importance of this historical role of Latin music in jazz —its ubiquitous presence in, influence on, and contributions to the jazz narrative—there is a great paucity of scholarship employing the accepted methodologies that are applied to AfricanThis Thing Called Jazz? African American Musicians as Artists, Critics, and Activists (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 101-48. 3 For example, see Jeffrey Magee, “Before Louis: When Fletcher Henderson Was ‘The Paul Whiteman of the Race’,” American Music 18/4 (Winter 2000): 391-415. 4 For example, David Ake, “Jazz Historiography and the Problem of Louis Jordan,” in Jazz Cultures (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 42-61. 5 Christopher Washburne, “Latin Jazz: The Other Jazz,” Current Musicology 71 (2001), 410. 3 American and Euro-American topics in jazz. This chapter will address the three issues of transculturation, exoticism, and canon formation in American scholarship on Afro-Cuban jazz, while attempting to explain the absence of this music in the canon of jazz scholarship. Transculturation and Hybridity The process by which Afro-Cuban music came to influence jazz is difficult to elucidate. The constant intermingling and multicultural identities of both genres make distinguishing causal musical events especially difficult. At its simplest, Afro-Cuban jazz is a hybrid of two hybridized musical forms: the union of African and Spanish musics in Cuba and the union of African and European musics in the United States. And while one might be tempted to regard the African influence as a common denominator, it should be remembered that its mere presence does not encapsulate the entirety of its influence. The way in which African culture interacts with other cultural idioms and environmental conditions determines the nature of the new hybrid. While it is helpful to maintain awareness of a common African ancestry in all of these musics, it is not nearly as instructive as remembering that the path of development for any subsequent descendent creates a resultant art form with wholly unique and independent characteristics. Prior to the work of Cuban anthropologist Fernando Ortiz, the cultural interaction between Afro-Cubans and Ibero-Cubans (i.e., Cubans of Spanish descent) was viewed as unidirectional—as an acculturative process in which the Eurocentric influence was absorbed into the Afrocentric. As an alternative to this theory, which perpetuates a 4 Eurocentric hierarchical model while negating reciprocal influences, Ortiz proposed his own theory of transculturation: Transculturation recognized the selective and often subversive adoption of aspects of the dominant culture by a subaltern group and proposed that such asymmetric cultural encounters did not entail reductive processes of assimilation or acculturation by the subordinate group.6 Ortiz first introduced this idea in his 1940 book, Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar, a first-rate allegorical study in which he “convincingly [shows] that Cuba’s cuisine, language, daily customs and music were indelibly impacted by the presence of Africans in Cuba.”7 Ortiz believed that acculturation was an incomplete model for understanding the multidimensional nature of Cuban culture: I have chosen the word transculturation to express the highly varied phenomena that have come about in Cuba as a result of the extremely complex transmutations of culture that have taken place here, and without a knowledge of which it is impossible to understand the evolution of the Cuban folk, either in the economic or in the institutional, legal, ethnical, religious, artistic, linguistic, psychological, sexual, or other aspects of its life.8 As seen here, Ortiz expounded on his idea of transculturation as a more apt descriptor of this process of cross-cultural exchange. He stresses the distinction between acculturation, which describes the adoption of one (usually dominant) culture by another (usually subaltern), and transculturation. This latter idea allows for the interchange of culture between the two groups such that “in the end … the result of every union of cultures is 6 Jairo Moreno, “Bauzá , Gillespie, Latin/Jazz: Difference, Modernity, and the Black Caribbean,” The South Atlantic Quarterly 103/1 (2004), 88. 7 Vernon Boggs, “Musical Transculturation: From Afro-Cuban to Afro-Cubanism,” Popular Music and Society 15/4 (Winter 1991): 75. 8 Fernando Ortiz, Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar, trans. by Harriet de Onis (Durham: Duke University Press, [1940] 1995), 98. 5 similar to that of the reproductive process between individuals: the offspring always has something of both parents but is always different from each of them.”9 The idea of transculturation was originally postulated to trace the contributions of the subaltern to the aristocracy. Even though the process is bi-lateral, the concept that African is lesser and Cuban (Iberian) is greater is preserved in this process. As Ortiz suggests, “from the point of view of what was heterogeneous to the dominant social articulation … transculturation was a powerfully threatening instrument of social subordination, not of redemption.”10 In an effort to remove the hegemonic associations of transculturation, scholars have postulated hybridity as a complementary process for explaining the phenomenon of cross-cultural interaction—which “transculturation” seeks to do—and as a process that is not tied to the preservation of established hierarchical structures. According to Alberto Moreiras, “it is possible to place hybridity at the service of a critique of hegemonic identities.…Cultural hybridity always appears in its mainstream formulation as critical of Euro-centrism, since it aspires to a displacement of Euro-centrism as the hegemonic ideological formation in the history of modernity.”11 The theory of hybridity seeks to represent the syncretic result of cross-cultural interaction as one in which each cultural contribution is of equal importance and value. Also, the new culture supplants its progenitors such that, once this interaction has taken place, the original cultures cease to exist in the context of the new hybridized environment. This new identity is wholly original and must not be articulated in terms other than its own. And while understanding its origins are important in providing context 9 Ibid., 102-3. Alberto Moreiras, “Hybridity and Double Consciousness,” Cultural Studies 12/3 (1999), 375. 10 11 Ibid., 395, 401. 6 for evaluative statements, this new identity has its own aesthetic and its own discourse in which all analyses must be rooted. This hybrid model can be used when examining the relationship between AfroCuban and American musics. When discussing the role of each culture in the formation of jazz, the Afro-Cuban contribution is traditionally viewed as the subordinate one. Hybridity does not allow for hegemonic structure, and so the nature of this interaction should be re-examined. While Afro-Cuban influence has been especially apparent at particular moments in jazz history, its less overt but constant influence on American jazz suggests that a hybrid of the two cultures has existed since the inception of jazz. Inasmuch as Cuban musicians integrated the language of American jazz into their music, Americans incorporated Cuban music into theirs. Not only is it important to discover the cultural indicators in a hybrid genre such as Afro-Cuban jazz, but also the overall transculturative process between the Cuban and American identities.12 In addition to knowledge of their origins, understanding the conditions under which these cultural contributions are made and how they are received is equally vital to fully comprehending the process of transculturation. In terms of the interaction between Afro-Cuban music and American jazz, it is not only important to understand what characteristics of each genre have been taken up by the other, but also the way in which the musicians encountered them, how these characteristics were disseminated, and what other factors affected the “rate of absorption.” What did the American musician hear in 12 Nomenclature can be particularly difficult when discussing Afro-Cuban jazz. Here and throughout the thesis, “Afro-Cuban jazz” describes any musical form that results from a Afro-Cuban/American jazz hybridity. “Cubop,” which is a subset of Afro-Cuban jazz, will be used when referring to the AfroCuban/bebop hybridity. This particular subgenre was an outgrowth of the Gillespie-Pozo interaction. Finally, “Latin Jazz,” of which Afro-Cuban jazz and cubop are subgenres, is the collection of music borne from a juxtaposition of Latin American or Caribbean music with American jazz. 7 Afro-Cuban music that he defined as culturally unique? Is this an element that the Cuban himself would say is a defining characteristic of his music? How accurately was this incorporated into jazz? How does his American identity influence his interpretation of what he’s hearing and how he reproduces it? How does the reaction of the American audience influence at what rate and in what manner this new music is disseminated? All these questions must be addressed if the process of transculturation in this tradition is to be understood. This union then is best understood as a confluence not only of musical genres but also of social and cultural forces that drove its participants toward certain permutations of two diverse and hybridized musical vocabularies.13 When viewed this way, arguments for “authenticity” (as a descriptor of an unadulterated cultural transmission) have little bearing. Instead, gradations of influence prove to be much more effective in evaluating the content of a particular piece of music.14 There is still a place for “authenticity,” however. Certain stylistic markers of genre exist—the habanera rhythm, standard big band instrumentation, archetypal compositions or arrangements, etc.—of which accurate replication is an indication of stylistic adherence. It is here—in this process of stylistic 13 The importance of social and environmental factors on these musics is acknowledged by, among others, Thomas Porter; see Porter, “Music in the Americas: The U.S./Cuban Connection,” Freedomways 21 (1981), 201-2. 14 Although acknowledging the transculturative process, Vernon Boggs calls for “a well-defined musical model, an ‘ideal type,’ in order to judge its [Afro-Cuban jazz’s] authenticity.” See Vernon Boggs, “Latin Jazz, Afro-Cuban Jazz, or Just Plain Ol’ Jazz?,” Annual Review of Jazz Studies 6 (1993), 209. Creating an “ideal” makes the analytic process valuative, rather than evaluative. In a hybridized art form in which cultures are constantly influencing one another, determining an ideal musical model—a constant against which other performances can be judged—would be nearly impossible. It is possible to identify certain musical processes that suggest authentic replication of musico-cultural markers. However, any archetype of authenticity would have to be constantly changing to reflect the current interaction and cross-cultural influence between Afro-Cuban music and jazz. In short, a perpetually fluctuating ideal/archetype for authenticity would have no instructive purpose as it could only be anachronistically applied. 8 replication rather than in arguments for cultural “purity”—that “authenticity” plays an instructive role. Another key means for evaluating authenticity involves an examination of a performer’s intentionality. Not only is the accurate execution of these stylistic markers important, but the forethought of their inclusion in the music is also a prime point for consideration. And while intent can be hard to gauge, ascertaining a performer’s spheres of influence and his musico-cultural perspective can help inform such an analysis. Coupled with the presence of authentic stylistic markers, the performer’s intent can help place his music within the context of other performances on a graded scale of genres. Since both American jazz and Afro-Cuban music are fundamentally hybridized as well, a definitive understanding of whether a performer has created an “authentic” union of the two genres is impossible to achieve. It is only possible to identify the presence of certain characteristics within the music that can be attributed to either of the genres. Having dispatched the idea of large-scale authenticity as an effective means of evaluation, the concept of binary opposition must also be dismissed. Inasmuch as the authentic/inauthentic model does not apply to hybridizations, applying the American/Cuban opposition (or the African-American/Cuban or the AfricanAmerican/Afro-Cuban) to a piece of music does not accurately represent its identity. Despite its prevalence in jazz literature and its popularity in early jazz scholarship, these kinds of binary opposites serve no instructive purpose. In fact, the influence of AfroCaribbean music on jazz has been largely underestimated and under-investigated because it has traditionally fallen outside of the binary oppositions so often applied to jazz history, 9 such as “sweet”/“hot,” “folk” or “popular” music/art music, and “moldy figs”/“beboppers.”15 As noted, this chapter focuses on the process by which important elements of one genre are encountered, interpreted, mimicked, and altered by performers from another genre. Critical evaluation of this process must be able to account for the most exact replication and the most liberal variation. Because the critical goal is to examine the extent to which these two hybrid cultures interacted, both positive and negative outcomes must be tabulated—that is, instances of deculturation and acculturation. According to Moreiras, The concept of hybridity is complex and particularly suggestive because it can be used to subsume phenomena that derive both from territorialization and from deterritorialization. In the latter case, hybridity refers to the processes of loss in previously determined position … In the former case, hybridity refers to the positivity which such loss structurally or constitutively entails … Hybrid reterritorialization and hybrid deterritorialization are then two—different—sides of the same coin.16 It is self-evidently pointless to try to measure stylistic authenticity in these overtly hybrid interactions between musical idioms. The only authenticity to be found lies in the process: is the integrity of these identifying “elements” preserved in the transfer of musical practices from one culture to another? Once these definitive elements have been identified, the transmission and dispersal of these elements to another culture can be 15 According to Washburne, “[T]he Latin presence in jazz history complicates the black/white dichotomy of racial politics in the United States jazz scene.” Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 420. For more on the listed binary oppositions, see the following: Kathy Ogren, “Prudes and Primitives: White Americans Debate Jazz,” in The Jazz Revolution: Twenties America and the Meaning of Jazz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 139-161; Roger Pryor Dodge, “Consider the Critics,” in Jazzmen: The Story of Hot Jazz Told in the Lives of the Men Who Created It (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1939; reprint New York Limelight, 1985), 301-42; and Bernard Gendron, “‘Moldy Figs’ and Modernists: Jazz at War (1942-1946),” in Jazz Among the Discourses, ed. Krin Gabbard (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995), 31-56. 16 Moreiras, “Hybridity,” 395. 10 documented. Measuring the acculturative process between the two musico-cultures could then be accomplished by using a line graph: with the two poles corresponding to the least acculturated music in each genre, all the musics in question can be plotted on the graph according to which culturally identifiable elements are present. Christopher Washburne suggests that the music of the early jazz and swing eras can be classified stylistically on a jazz/Latin continuum of sorts, where bands played music that ranged from straight swing numbers with little Caribbean influence, to swing numbers with a certain degree of Latin influence, to Latin dance numbers with a certain degree of jazz influence, to straight ahead Latin dance numbers.17 If the preferred method of critical evaluation is to plot pieces of music on a graded scale according to the presence of stylistic markers, what are these markers and by whose definition are they attributed to their respective genres? In many ways, attempting to answer these two questions is just as perilous as any attempt to authoritatively quantify “Afro-Cuban jazz” as a genre. Eschewing subjectivity, one must rely on performance practice rather than contemporary criticism, especially when considering those works that lack any critical commentary. For example, to count among the characteristics of American jazz a “swing eighth note feel” is to invite a lengthy epistemological debate on the nature of “swing.” My intent lies elsewhere: namely, in acknowledging the existence of such characteristics (whether quantitatively defined or still under debate) as integral to a particular genre. 17 Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 413. There is precedent for this manner of investigation in other musics as well. Deborah Pacini-Hernandez argues that “given the complicated dynamics of racism in the United States, particularly since the 1960s, it is perhaps more accurate to think in terms of a rock/R&B continuum, which ranges from predominantly European sensibilities at one end to predominantly African American sensibilities at the other, with considerable overlap throughout.” Deborah Pacini Hernandez, “Amalgamating Musics: Popular Music and Cultural Hybridity in the Americas,” in Musical Migrations, Vol. 1: Transnationalism and Cultural Hybridity in Latin/o America, eds. Francesca R. Aparicio and Candida F. Jaquez (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2003), 14. 11 With performance practice as a guide, in considering Afro-Cuban music, the most contentious stylistic marker has to be the clavé. Instrumentation, repertoire, and even rhythmic content are not nearly as elusive as the clavé to non-initiates. Adherence to the clavé pattern is perhaps the most central identifier of Afro-Cuban music, and yet few attempts are made by American jazz musicians to honor this seemingly integral part of the music.18 One of the more direct attempts can be heard on Art Blakey’s 1957 album Orgy in Rhythm (which pairs Blakey with Carlos “Patato” Valdes, Ubaldo Nieto, and others), but according to Ingrid Monson even with the Afro-Cuban percussion section … clavé is not maintained to the strictness of Afro-Cuban standards. This is not surprising. Clavé as a structural principle involves phrasing in two-bar units that are internally differentiated into a call-and-response relationship (3-2 or 2-3). The swing ride cymbal beat, by contrast, is a symmetrical time-keeping pattern that can be phrased in many different units, including two-bar phrases. Art Blakey plays his hi-hat on 2 and 4 during his solo, phrasing symmetrically against the clavé feel established by the percussionists. This is an interesting amalgam of an African American feel and a Cuban one. This is not to say that there are not considerable stretches when clavé is maintained, but that it is likely that Blakey “picked up on it” rather than studied its rules.19 The American attitude of indifference to the clavé—that it can be followed or ignored as the performer wishes—is reinforced by critics and scholars who speak of “jumping the clavé,” that is, the outsider practice of not deliberately playing against the clavé but rather proceeding as if it were not there at all.20 Whereas in Afro-Cuban music a successful melodic line of music must coincide with the rhythmic pattern of the clavé, jazz 18 Christopher Washburne notes some notable exceptions—mainly from early New Orleans jazz. See Washburne, “The Clavé of Jazz: A Caribbean Contribution to the Rhythmic Foundation of an AfricanAmerican Music,” Black Music Research Journal 17 (Spring 1997): 69-78. 19 Ingrid Monson, “Art Blakey’s African Diaspora,” in The African Diaspora: A Musical Perspective, ed. Ingrid Monson, 329-352 (New York: Garland, 2000), 341-2. 20 Marshall Stearns, The Story of Jazz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1970), 177. 12 musicians tend not to subjugate their melodies to such rules.21 This indiscretion establishes a clear hegemonic order indicating that Afro-Cuban influence, relegated to indifferent subjectivity, “has been felt more indirectly, in the realm of aesthetics, rather than directly via the unmediated performances of Spanish Caribbean musicians.”22 As Jon Bendich suggests, one of the reasons for this subjugation could be associations of Afro-Cuban music with the “primitive”: The concept of the primitive has long been associated with the ideas of ways that are raw, or uncivilized. Of course, this usually is code for more sexual, more unrestrained by convention when it comes to expression and fulfillment of desire, or appetite. Primitive as original, therefore is also often taken to mean more authentic in the sense of unmediated by the repression of civilization … [A]ll these associations of the primitive with simplicity belie the reality of the deep sophistication involved.23 Because of their specialized knowledge, often the musicians of the originating genre enjoy a revered status among those of the other genre. Their ability to most accurately represent a certain desired element of music establishes a hierarchy in which the emulators look to the progenitors for approval and sanction in their attempts at reproduction. (The topic of exoticism will be discussed later in this chapter.)24 Reproach is also a possible response from those in whom authority has been vested. The history of the interaction between Cuba and American Jazz is replete with episodes of vociferous disapproval brought about by perceptions of stylistic 21 See Chapter 3, “Exploring Cubop: A Transcultural Approach.” It has also been suggested that American jazz musicians were unable to conform to the clavé; see Gene Santoro, “La Cucaracha: A Survey of Cuban music,” in Stir It Up: Musical Mixes from Roots to Jazz, ed. Gene Santoro, 144-150 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 146. 22 Hernandez, “Amalgamating Musics,”16. 23 Jon Bendich, “Chano Pozo and the Eroticization of the Primitive,” unpublished paper. 24 See Monson, “Art Blakey,” 345. 13 misappropriation or severe deculturation. In 1939, Emilio Grenet published a book of Cuban compositions with common contemporary errors corrected in an attempt to stave off deculturated performances of which he had become accustomed to hearing.25 From a skeptic’s viewpoint, the lack of accurate replication of stylistic markers devalued and deemphasized the importance of the Afro-Cuban contribution leading to a generalized “Latin” influence. For example, according to the critic Roger Pryor Dodge (writing in 1958), imitators without the ability of its [indigenous folk music’s] innovators will naturally appropriate more and more of the popular element until a new genre has been created. This new genre will strike a chord in a larger public who will respond to it as a music after its own heart. Then gradually the original folk artists find their popularity waning until they themselves start incorporating some of the more salable elements into their music. At first they so transform these elements that they lose none of their delight; eventually they degenerate into something no different from the cheapness of their competitors. Or, if the performers maintain their integrity, find themselves so outmoded that they rarely work.26 This viewpoint is supported by the ethnic unspecificity that permeates the description of Afro-Cuban/jazz hybrid music throughout jazz history.27 On many recordings from the cubop era, the “Spanish tinge” has become little more than a novel setting for the statement of a melody, after which the rhythm section and soloist settle into the more familiar terrain of swing. This lack of specificity is also reflected in the mislabeling of the compositional genre. Anthony Branker proposes that it was the success of the recording of “El Manicero” [sic] (“The Peanut Vendor”) by Don Azpiazu that cast Cuban music in a dominant role. This “watered-down” version of Cuban popular music became a sensation from the airwaves of the 25 Washburne, “The Clavé of Jazz,” 67. Roger Pryor Dodge, “The Cuban Sexteto,” in Hot Jazz and Jazz Dance: Roger Pryor Dodge’s Collected Writings, 1929-1964, ed. Roger Pryor Dodge, 260-68 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 265. This admittedly generalized and pessimistic view of the transculturative process nonetheless describes the introduction of Cuban music to American popular music with reasonable accuracy. 26 27 See below, n.33. 14 cities to the big screen of Hollywood. While this craze was labeled “rhumba,” it was actually a version of the son, and showed, for the first time, the great influence of the son in the U.S. The transformation of this style of son was reminiscent of what has happened throughout history to authentic forms as they are embraced by commercialization.28 As his account suggests, hybrid forms are often susceptible to such criticism. Lisa Lowe posits that: “hybridities are always in the process of, one the one hand, being appropriated and commodified by commercial culture and, on the other [hand], of being rearticulated for the creation of oppositional ‘resistance cultures.’”29 In this case, it is important that commercial success was equated with deculturated music, such that record companies began marketing their Afro-Cuban recordings as “authentic” music to cater to the changing tide of popular opinion—the resistance culture of which Lowe speaks. Because music from the Afro-Latin diaspora often satisfied a craving for the exotic among American audiences, record companies had to reassure their potential clients that whatever they were purchasing was in fact every bit as exotic as they expected. This meant that “Latin American musicians … were obliged to conform to Hollywoodinspired expectations of what Latin music should sound like.” 30 This expectation was accomplished in several ways besides altering the music, such as by the reinforcement of exoticism through album cover art and liner notes. Exoticism 28 Anthony D. J. Branker, “Cubana Bop, Cubana Pop: The Music of Cuba and It’s [sic] Influence on the United States,” Jazz Research Papers 12 (1992), 30. 29 Lisa Lowe, Immigrant Acts: On Asian American Cultural Politics (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996), 82. 30 Hernandez, “Amalgamating Musics,”15. See also, Hernandez, “Amalgamating Musics,” 25, for “racialized images of authenticity” on album cover art. 15 The American fascination with the “exotic” can be traced back to the idea of “Manifest Destiny,” in which Americans assumed the right to not only visit but annex unfamiliar territories. This sentiment-turned-government-policy was at the center of the United States’ interest in the Spanish-American War, whose very name belies the nature of the conflict.31 During this conflict, Cuban dissidents took refuge in the United States and proCuban sentiments permeated American popular culture. This war between Spanish colonialists and Cuban nationalists piqued the interest of the United States because of American designs to annex Cuba for financial gain. As Leonardo Acosta has noted, from a Cuban perspective, the military intervention between 1898 and 1902 was above all the symbol of national humiliation and frustration, though what was most troubling, even more than the occupation itself, was the famous Platt Amendment, which was inserted into the Constitution of 1901 and was not abolished until 1934. The other crucial and widely known development was the U.S. appropriation of all economic sectors of the Island.32 While the United States only occupied Cuba for four years at the end of the SpanishAmerican War, the American presence on the island was constant over the next sixty years. Visitors from the United States grew to love Cuba as a tropical refuge from stateside life. Its close proximity to American borders encouraged tourism and travel, with a number of Cubans (including musicians) traveling and relocating to America. However, once these musicians arrived in America, they found racial discrimination and isolation.33 In the early twentieth century, the audience for Cuban music, or any other 31 The monuments on San Juan Hill in Santiago de Cuba, Cuba, memorialize those who perished in the “Spanish-American-Cuban conflict.” 32 Leonardo Acosta, “The Year 1898 in the Music of the Caribbean: Cuba and Puerto Rico in the Machinations of the U.S. Music Industry,” Centro Journal 16/1 (Spring 2004), 8. See Chapter 2, n.12. 33 Vernon Boggs postulates that the forced co-habitation of Latino immigrant and African-American populations, brought on by racial discrimination, played a primary role in the birth of Afro-Cuban jazz. See Boggs, “Salsa Music: The Latent Function of Slavery and Racialism,” Popular Music and Society 11/1 16 Latin music, was small, in part because of the relatively insignificant immigrant population, but mostly because of the linguistic divide. Deborah Pacini Hernandez has observed that “language barriers seem to be even more intractable than racial barriers … musics associated with ethnic minorities remained peripheral to a popular music landscape.”34 The meaning and cultural relevance of Cuban music was lost on American audiences, who came to understand the music simply as “Other.” This lack of cultural relevance led to a blurring of stylistic differences and over-generalization of formal specifics. For example, when referring to the Cuban-derived habanera bass pattern, “Jelly Roll” Morton famously called it “the Spanish tinge.” This “tinge” is often regarded as the sine qua non of early jazz whose mention has become a trope central to most scholarship on Latin jazz.35 Some Cuban musicians were more successful than others in America; this success most often correlated to skin color.36 In both Cuba and America, Afro-Cubans (mulattos) were viewed as inferior. Lighter skinned Cuban musicians exercised extreme caution not to speak Spanish in hopes of passing as white and maintaining employment with white bands. By contrast, Afro-Cubans often could not find work except in the AfricanAmerican bands.37 In Cuba, Afro-Cuban culture and its music were viewed as savage and (1987), 8. 34 Hernandez, “Amalgamating Musics,” 14-5. Salazar makes the point that early Spanish language music went virtually unplayed by radio disc jockeys; see Max Salazar, Mambo Kingdom: Latin Music in New York (New York: Schirmer Trade Books, 2002), 4. 35 In his article, Stan Woolley equates the moniker “Spanish” with the modern use of “Latino” or “Hispanic”; however, the cultural generalization still remains. See Stan Woolley, “The Spanish Tinge,” Jazz Journal 38 (July 1985), 8. 36 Boggs, “Salsa Music,” 9. 37 Moreno, “Bauzá/Gillespie,” 84, 86. 17 undesirable until the advent of son music in the Oriente region of Cuba around 1920.38 Before that, Cubans preferred those musical forms such as the contradanza that favored the Western tradition of harmonically driven music with light, danceable rhythms. These preferences prevailed in America, where bands like the one led by Xavier Cugat found great commercial success by playing repertoire that de-emphasized the African component of Cuban music. As Marshall Stearns noted in 1958: On the surface, genteel orchestras at expensive nightclubs were playing simplified tangos, rhumbas, [sic] congas, and sambas for society. Xavier Cugat, for example, who rates as the Guy Lombardo of Latin music, found that American dancers could not follow the real Cuban version. So he chopped them up, putting the deep conga-drum accent on the fourth beat and making it sound almost like a march anyone could follow. Like Paul Whiteman many years before him, Cugat helped popularize Latin music by making it simpler and more palatable: he created one of the first and easiest of the new blends.39 During the mid 1920s and early 1930s, Cuban musicologist Fernando Ortiz was instrumental in the cultural shift toward celebrating afrocubanismo, the Afro-Cuban cultural identity. His works instilled in Cubans an appreciation for their African heritage by helping them understand the double identity of the island’s history. This shift was also seen in America, where, in another realization of Lowe’s “resistance culture,” Cuban bandleaders began focusing on Afro-Cuban music as a reaction against the contemporary bands like Cugat’s, whom they thought to be performing overly deculturated music. Trumpeter Mario Bauzá and his brother-in-law, percussionist Machito (Mario Grillo), were central in bringing the Afro-Cuban voice to America. However, as Vernon Boggs suggests 38 See Branker, “Cubana Bop,” 29; also, Porter, “Music in the Americas,” 203. The Oriente region of Cuba, on the eastern side of the island, is regarded as an area with particularly strong African retentions. 39 Stearns, The Story of Jazz, 175. According to Max Salazar, Cugat’s was the only band welcomed to perform at the downtown New York City venues; all other bands were restricted to the venues in the Spanish-speaking neighborhoods; see Salazar, Mambo Kingdom, 8. 18 this new musical form was not immediately welcomed by the public at large for several reasons: (1) the rhythms were based on drum-playing which for Hispanics was seen as “black music” and therefore lower class, (2) music and dances such as the Tango, Rumba, and Conga were more appealing to the wider public, and (3) generally non-white musicians were not taken as seriously as were white musicians. However, Afro-Cuban musicians like Mario Bauza [sic] persisted and by the late 1940s [Afro-Cuban Jazz] pushed aside most of the obstacles and by the late 1940s [Afro-Cuban Jazz] had become popular.40 Once popularized, this voice spawned an inspired movement among African American musicians during the 1950s and 1960s in which they sought out the music of the African continent.41 This movement can be seen in African American jazz recordings, most especially the work of Art Blakey and, later, Randy Weston. 42 This movement is also apparent in the Afrocentric albums recorded by the major jazz labels which, eschewing any pretense for fusion, celebrated the “authentic” African music. These recordings definitely fall outside the realm of their more “straight-ahead” tendencies and show how deeply this movement was integrated with the jazz world.43 The liner notes of these albums attest to the concern for authenticity and predilection toward purely African music. As Hsio Wen Shih suggested in 1957 the step from Afro-Cuban music to jazz is a long step, for the European elements of jazz are always in the foreground, while here the Latin elements of “Latin” music are often imperceptible. It is mostly Africa that we hear in this 40 Boggs, “Salsa Music,” 13. 41 Geoffrey Jacques, “CuBop! Afro-Cuban Music and Mid-Twentieth Century American Culture,” in Between Race and Empire: African-Americans and Cubans Before the Cuban Revolution, eds. Lisa Brock and Digna Castaneda Fuertes (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 256. 42 For example, Holiday for Skins, vols. 1 and 2, Blue Note 58290, [1958] 2006, compact disc; Orgy in Rhythm, vols. 1 & 2, Blue Note 56586, [1957] 1997, compact disc; Drum Suite, Sony International 480988, [1957] 2001, compact disc. For more information on Art Blakey’s explorations of African and AfroCaribbean music, see Monson, “Art Blakey.” 43 For example, Solomon Ilori, High African Life, Blue Note 4136, [1963] 2004, compact disc; Patato Valdes, Patato and Totico, Verve 259702, [1967] 2004, compact disc; Sabu Martinez, Palo Congo, Blue Note 22665, [1957] 2000, compact disc; Babatunde Olatunji, Drums of Passion, Columbia 66011, [1959] 2003, compact disc. 19 recording: some rituals dedicated to African Gods, a good deal of singing and chanting in African antiphonal style, and all the instruments, whether obviously African like the quinto, a Cuban version of the slit signal drum, or as apparently European as guitar and bass, played like the African prototypes in African musical tradition.44 Contemporary albums echo these sentiments. Those who listened to the 1967 album Patato and Totico were promised “pure African rhythms … the most authentic album of Cuban street music ever … a true Lucumi whose voice echoes the cries of his ancestors, the Yoruba from Nigeria.”45 Concomitant with these assertions of “authenticity” were romanticized depictions of folk and “primitive” elements. As Akin Akiwowo writes in his liner notes for Babatunde Olatunji’s popular 1957 album Drums of Passion, “Babatunde Olatunji has recaptured some of his early impressions in his drum beats … in order to preserve the remnants of ‘primitive’ folk music before its gradual disappearance from a fast-changing culture and continent, where these things can be so easily lost or forgotten.”46 At the center of this shift to Afro-Cuban and Afrocentric music was the percussionist Chano Pozo, whom African American musicians “regarded as a repository of directly transmitted knowledge and … a living musical archive holding ancestral memories lost to [them].”47 Pozo’s influence on the jazz community cannot be underestimated; his recordings with the Dizzy Gillespie big band of the mid- to late1940s have inspired many and should be regarded as seminal in the history of the 44 Hsio Wen Shih, liner notes to Sabu Martinez, Palo Congo. Notice how this passage reinforces the hegemonic relationship between African and European. 45 Liner notes to Patato and Totico. 46 Akin Akiwowo, liner notes to Babatunde Olatunji, Drums of Passion, Columbia 66011, [1959] 2003, compact disc. 47 Moreno, “Bauzá/Gillespie,” 96. 20 interaction between Cuban and American musicians.48 Pozo’s influence on Dizzy Gillespie—who “continued throughout his career to incorporate the music of Santeria, the rhythms of Abakua rituals (ñañigos), Kongo music”—is immeasurable.49 However, the manner in which the larger jazz community received Pozo is worth further study. Contemporary criticism created an archetypal image of an unadulterated, noncommercialized African for Pozo. In specific, many critics—and American musicians— focused on the exoticism of his persona rather than the music itself. Pozo became a reference point, a gateway through which other musicians could make claims for “authenticity.”50 Indeed, Pozo’s Afro-Cuban identity served as a passage through which African-American musicians gained access to a romanticized, quasi-historical African musical space. Jairo Moreno has observed that his Afro-Cuban identity was “deployed as an all-purpose trope.” According to Moreno, Africa, more than Cuba, was indeed the source for Gillespie’s profound respect for Pozo’s musicianship and expressive power, complete with a fascination with and desire for the deeply buried and authentic kind of knowledge of rhythm he felt Pozo possessed.51 48 This case is perhaps firstly championed by Marshall Stearns who is unique among his contemporaries for assigning canonical importance to the Afro-Cuban jazz idiom; see Stearns, The Story of Jazz, 174. Dodge disagrees calling the collaboration “a mere novelty”; see Dodge, “The Cuban Sexteto,” 262. Although seminal, this collaboration should not be viewed as singular, but rather “as one large step in a process rather than a totally unexpected breakthrough,” which has been the convention; see Raul Fernandez, “Musical Cultures of Latin America: On the Road to Latin Jazz,” Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology 11 (2003), 233. Treating the Gillespie-Pozo collaboration as a singular and unique event reinforces the canonical model that restricts Afro-Cuban jazz to a finite period centered around the work of Pozo and Gillespie. 49 Marta Moreno Vega, “The Yoruba Orisha Tradition Comes to New York City,” African American Review 29/2 (Summer 1995), 202. 50 Jon Bendich attributes some of Pozo’s popularity among jazz musicians in search of authenticity to “the image and metaphor of the primitive as representing something more authentic, or undiluted in the context of romanticism … the possibility of a primal art immune to commercial influences.” See Bendich, “Chano Pozo”; see also, Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 421. 51 Moreno, 95. Washburne concurs that “part of Cuba’s appeal in Gillespie’s search for African roots was access”; see Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 422. 21 Pozo’s untimely demise (he was shot fatally at age thirty-three by a drug dealer), coupled with the widespread influence his music ignited, set him up as a great character in the narrative of the jazz canon.52 Nevertheless, generalized, unspecific characterizations relegated his contributions to the level of subjectivity colored with primitivist qualifiers. Rather than quantifying his work through theoretical analysis or transcription, contemporary observers focused on the bestial, “savage” wildness of the African rhythm to which he was thought to provide access. As Jon Bendich has argued, “marketing skin, and especially black skin as a signifier for sex has long been part of the visual spectacle in the West and has always been an important aspect of popular entertainment.”53 This association was further enhanced by Pozo’s connection to Santeria, the syncretic religion derived from the Lucumi practice of the Nigerian Yoruba tribe. Some saw this link as an antidote to the constant references to novelty from which CubanAmerican music had suffered for so long.54 Some of the chants he performed with the Dizzy Gillespie band were sung in Yoruban, which served to isolate him from normative African American, American, and jazz cultures even further. Pozo was an exotic outsider not only as a Spanish-speaking Afro-Cuban in an American environment, but even more so because of his participation in what was viewed as an African cult. Certain aspects of his identity pushed him into the role of “outsider” even among his fellow musicians. Dizzy Gillespie speaks of Pozo’s uncertainty and unfamiliarity with jazz phrasing and 52 For a recounting of the events surrounding Pozo’s death, see Donald Maggin, “Cubop: Dizzy Gillespie, Chano Pozo, and the Afro-Cuban Jazz Revolution,” Jazz Times 35 (Apr. 2005), 109. For the legend of Pozo, see Jacques, “CuBop!,” 257. 53 Bendich, “Chano Pozo.” To a lesser degree, Art Blakey suffered a similar fate; see Monson, “Art Blakey,” 344. 54 Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 421. 22 formal structure, which was such an obstacle in performances that Pozo often needed aural cues from Gillespie in order to sync up with the band after having departed from the arrangement; for example, Gillespie noted that there were certain things about our music that he didn’t understand … He’d be on another beat from the rest of us … He couldn’t read music … so I’d go over to him and whisper in his ear, because there was one number that we played called “Good Bait” that he understood perfectly. So whenever he got on that wrong beat, I’d go over and whisper in his ear … He’d change immediately.55 Another factor that alienated Pozo from contemporary jazz musicians was the association of rhythmic complexity—theretofore the cultural capital of the AfricanAmerican—with Afro-Cuban identity. Moreno notes that this new level of “acknowledged rhythmic complexity of the Afro-Cuban musical tradition put black North American swing and bebop musicians at a disadvantage,” thus separating Pozo from the same musicians with whom he was playing.56 Moreno continues, saying that this juxtaposition of rhythmic sophistication with culture placed rhythm at the end of a cultural axis in a realm denoted “natural,” “instinctive,” “primitive,” and “primordial,” and placed restrictive cognitive conditions on it such as untranslatability (for example, that rhythm was felt and could not be learned, that rhythm was both prediscursive and extradiscursive). Cognitively and representationally inaccessible … Afro-Cuban rhythmic designs suggested that the original link between Afro-Cuban and black North America had become an undeniable index of difference.57 Instead of emphasizing Pozo’s rhythmic and compositional innovations, attention was shifted by contemporary critics to the marketable novelty of his character.58 As noted, Pozo is generally overlooked in the traditional canon and historical narratives of 55 Dizzy Gillespie and Al Fraser, To Be or Not to Bop (New York, Doubleday, 1979), 319. 56 Moreno, “Bauzá/Gillespie,” 93. 57 Ibid. 58 Bendich, “Chano Pozo.” See also, Washburne, “The Clavé of Jazz,” 65. 23 jazz. Because he has not been given the same careful critical attention as Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, or even his collaborator Dizzy Gillespie, Pozo became an aberrant stitch in the fabric of the jazz canon, and his widespread influence on both the jazz and Latin world has been overshadowed in favor of preserving one historical moment. Like the Brazilian bossa nova musicians shortly to follow him, Pozo’s music— and that of cubop in general—is often viewed as a temporary, commercial fad rather than part of a long-term dialogue between jazz and Latin music. As with all commercial fads, cubop’s shelf-life is viewed as deteriorating quickly after reaching a zenith in public appeal. Stan Woolley suggests that “by the mid-fifties, the bebop era was coming to an end and the Afro-Cuban jazz idiom, so closely allied to it, waned also.”59 But this compartmentalized view of cubop belies its continuance in subsequent decades, as evidenced by the long careers of such musicians as Art Blakey, and Mongo Santamaria, Chico O’Farrill, and Candido Camero.60 Like so many other writers, Wooley subscribes to the model of jazz history that sections off music styles and trends into a simplified evolutionary model that views jazz history as an easy progression between specific “finite” genres. In the same way that the effects of superficially primitivist depictions of cubop should be examined, so must the historiography of the typical, short-sighted historical narrative associated with Afro-Cuban jazz be scrutinized. 59 60 Woolley, “The Spanish Tinge,” 10. See Monson, “Art Blakey,” 345. See the discography of this thesis for a listing of relevant recordings. Wooley’s claim that the Pozo-Gillespie collaboration of 1947 is the “most successful example” of a union between Afro-Cuban percussion and bebop serves to historicize the genre even further by precluding the possibility of subsequent or future improvements. See Woolley, “The Spanish Tinge,” 9; contra Stearns, The Story of Jazz, 182. Though Pozo’s work is rightly defined as seminal, depicting him as the pinnacle of Afro-Cuban percussionists in jazz reinforces the “great performer” model that over-simplifies the jazz canon, encouraging the focus of attention to switch from the ensemble to the soloist, further obfuscating the contributions of lesser known musicians. See Scott DeVeaux, “Constructing the Jazz Tradition: Jazz Historiography,” Black American Literature Forum 25/3 (Fall 1991): 525-60. 24 Canon Formation The formalist tendency to restrict the dialogue about jazz to a black/white binary opposition excludes many important influences and contributions to jazz history. The historiography of jazz has unfolded in such a way that a reexamination of these influences is necessary if one is to understand the true hybridity of this tradition. Criticism and scholarship have routinely recycled a certain set of tropes and historical viewpoints (such as those outlined above) whose constant repetition and reinforcement have obscured the long history of the musical dialogue between Afro-Cuban music and jazz. The lack of scholarship (especially English-language scholarship) about Afro-Cuban jazz, and Latin jazz in general, suggests that this music’s constant relation to American jazz since its inception was either not appreciated or unrealized. Afro-Cuban jazz as an innovating force is noticeably absent in most historical narratives of jazz music.61 The self-reflexive study of canon formation in jazz historiography is a relatively new development in jazz studies. As such, it is only appropriate that these new critical perspectives be applied to Afro-Cuban jazz, which has long suffered from a paucity of proper academic inquiry. Above, the concept of a black/white identity model for jazz was refuted. In attempting to understand Afro-Cuban jazz’s exclusion from mainstream jazz literature, one must be aware that there exists a desire to preserve the black/white binarism. Christopher Washburne suggests that some jazz proponents see Latin jazz as “a threat to the African American jazz legacy.” This sentiment encourages a “protectionist 61 As noted above, Stearns’s The Story of Jazz is an exception. See above, n.48. 25 atmosphere,” preserving the black/white canon as a means of “[playing] into predetermined structures in the United States public funding infrastructure.”62 The acceptance of jazz as an American art form is something long deserved. Even more important is the recognition of this music as a major African-American cultural contribution. However, by tying a restrictive American identity to jazz, influences from other countries and nationalities are automatically marginalized. As Washburne notes, canonization presents a wholesale transference of non-jazz concepts to the study of the music. What it often does not allow space for is the internationalization of the jazz scene and the multiplicities that jazz encompasses. In fact, the “canon” resists or attempts to expel ambivalences in the definitorial field in order to create a unified narrative, which will not allow for heterogeneous trails of origin. In this context, canon building undermines the internationalization of jazz to avoid the disempowerment of the African American jazz legacy, or an American jazz legacy.63 In its attempts to create “a unified narrative,” jazz scholarship has adopted a progressive linear model in which one style follows another, and where certain “great performers” (important and influential personalities) are highlighted within the context of their respective periods. As Scott DeVeaux has demonstrated, this model closely resembles the traditional model adopted by Western European classical art music historians. In attempts for artistic validation and legitimization of the music, it can be postulated that jazz criticism has emulated this model. DeVeaux has aptly observed that only by acquiring the prestige, the “cultural capital” (in Pierre Bourdieu’s phrase) of an artistic tradition can the music [jazz] hope to be heard, and its practitioners receive the support commensurate with their training and accomplishments. The accepted historical narrative for jazz serves this purpose. It is a pedigree, showing contemporary jazz to be not a fad or a mere popular music, subject to the whims of fashion, but an autonomous art of some substance, the culmination of a long 62 Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 422-3. 63 Ibid., 419. 26 process of maturation that has in its own way recapitulated the evolutionary progress of Western art.64 DeVeaux further argues that this narrative model of jazz as art encourages an oversimplification that belies the actual stylistic developments of the jazz tradition, and, most specifically, “after bebop, the evolutionary lineage begins to dissolve into the inconclusive coexistence of many different, and in some cases, mutually hostile, styles.”65 DeVeaux cites ethnicity as “a core, a center of gravity for the narrative of jazz … [an] element that unites the several different kinds of narratives of jazz.”66 However, if ethnicity is a unifying agent in the jazz narrative, why is there a significant lack of mention of Afro-Cuban and Latin jazz musicians in this tradition? This pervasive absence can be witnessed in older texts by authors such as Martin Williams, as well as the more recent scholarship of authors like Paul Berliner, DeVeaux, and even the celebrated documentary of Ken Burns.67 When considering this question, Washburne’s assertion that “for many in the jazz establishment … Latin jazz represents something alien” seems a foregone conclusion.68 The exclusion of Afro-Cuban jazz from jazz historiography results, in part, from a lack of cultural relevance that has always kept Cuban music separate from American culture. While the debate over the identity of American jazz continues, it should be remembered that whether African-American, Euro-American, or a hybrid of both, there are common cultural attributes that exist between these two identities (especially 64 DeVeaux, “Constructing the Jazz Tradition,” 526. 65 Ibid., 526. 66 Ibid., 527. 67 See Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 416-7. 68 Ibid., 420. 27 geographical and linguistic) that are not shared with jazz’s international influences, including the music of Cuba. Because of these commonalities, reconciling the differences between African-American and Euro-American identities in such a way that ethnicity can be thought of as a unifying element in the jazz narrative does not seem unreasonable. Because of the tradition’s more complicated racial and geographic makeup, the inclusion of Afro-Cuban jazz in the American jazz narrative is much more problematic. On a basic level, Spanish-language art has been generally inaccessible to a large portion of the American audience. As stated above, the focus on determining authentic and inauthentic performance practices has also impeded critical acceptance of Afro-Cuban jazz. A clear hegemonic structure was established such that elements considered integral to the authentic performance of Cuban music were subjugated or ignored in American attempts at replication or fusion. The combination of this lack of “musico-cultural markers” and the association of “inauthentic” performance with “low art” served to further marginalize Afro-Cuban music’s place among contemporary jazz music styles. It is the constant repetition of these ideas of “authenticity” and “high/low art” in contemporary and subsequent jazz criticism that relegated Afro-Cuban jazz to the periphery, outside of the jazz canon. Associations of Afro-Cuban culture—especially as personified in Chano Pozo— with the “primitive” and the “uneducated” have further exacerbated the devaluing of Afro-Cuban jazz in the context of the jazz canon. On the aforementioned frustration about communicating with Pozo, Moreno says of Gillespie and Walter Fuller: The exchange between the musically literate black North Americans and the illiterate black Cuban stands as a powerful record of an asymmetric but ultimately 28 dynamic relationship of combination and contradiction. But it is Gillespie’s and Fuller’s intolerance for the aesthetics of Afro-Cuban music that stand in high relief from all other aspects of this exchange. Heard as repetitious to the point of madness and irrationality, the montuno aesthetics are perceived to be without form or structure. Incompatible with the vanguardist aesthetic of bebop, which prized, in addition to harmonic complexity, formal contrast and thematic variation and development, Pozo’s aesthetics are judiciously disciplined.69 Pozo’s inability to speak English further subjugated his aesthetic to that of his collaborators. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of the bebop aesthetic with the idea of (compositional, harmonic, and virtuosic) complexity necessitates an association of the Afro-Cuban with (relative) simplicity. Thus, Pozo’s music, and Afro-Cuban music in general, suffers from a dual identity as both complex (for its revered polyrhythm) and simple (for its lack of Western formalism). Nonetheless, the union of these two musical styles is universally regarded as a success; there is little debate as to the significance of the collaboration between Gillespie and Pozo.70 However, the manner in which this work is discussed in its critical reception reinforces the “otherness” of Afro-Cuban jazz in the context of the canon. Discussion of Afro-Cuban jazz—including from Mario Bauzá himself—often employs the language of “marriage.” Using Bauzá’s metaphor, Jairo Moreno describes the influential composer as the “matchmaker” of both Afro-Cuban music and jazz (within the Machito Orchestra) and the Gillespie-Pozo partnership.71 Reiterating the language of marriage, Geoffrey Jacques reinforces the dominant critical discourse while preserving 69 Moreno, “Bauzá/Gillespie,” 97. 70 See n.48 above. 71 Moreno, “Bauzá/Gillespie.” 94. 29 the popular hegemonic relationship between American jazz and Afro-Cuban music in this passage: [T]wo collaborative compositions by Gillespie and George Russell, “Cubano Be” and “Cubano Bop.” Here is where the marriage between CubanAmerican dance music and African-American jazz was consummated. It was one thing for a Cuban band, even one led by a veteran jazz musicians, to play a jazz-influenced Cuban music. But that music was not yet truly a jazz form. In Machito’s music, for example, the drums dominate in a way that they rarely do in jazz. Even the advanced harmonies in the introduction to Machito’s “Tanga” often led to a set of horn improvisations that felt constricted by the heavy rhythmic overlay provided by the drums. In jazz, each section of a band or orchestra balances and supports the other, creating a truly collective musical expression. In this context, drumming, though essential, rarely dominates a jazz performance. In the Gillespie performances, for example, the drums, though certainly present, do not dominate but provide a backdrop for the melodic and harmonic explorations of the leading voices, the horns.72 In Jacques’s view, it is the Afro-Cuban contribution that needs to conform to the standards of the jazz idiom. Under this reading, if an Afro-Cuban element obfuscates any portion of the jazz to be played, the piece is rendered “not yet truly a jazz form.” It is unclear why a performance in which the percussion dominates the horns is not a “truly collective musical expression,” while one in which the horns are more prominent is. The only explanation is that Jacques creates a hierarchy—as so many others have done—in which the Afro-Cuban is supplanted by the American. Over thirty years earlier, in his 1956 book, The Story of Jazz, Marshall Stearns is at least more diplomatic, acknowledging the inherent difficulties in both forms: “the jazzman has some difficulties learning to improvise to the clavé beat … In turn, the Cuban musician finds the basic jazz rhythm limiting while jazz harmonies seem far too complicated.”73 Stearns calls this union a “blending,” which is preferable, because it emphasizes the creation of a new 72 Jacques,”CuBop!,” 255. Emphasis added. 73 Stearns, The Story of Jazz, 177. 30 entity. The language of “marriage,” while implying union, reifies the notion that there are two separate identities engaging in a socially constructed partnership that allows for mutual exchange and communication. Continuing the metaphor, one could say that in marriage, there is always the possibility for divorce—the dissolution of this partnership after which the two parties resume their individual identities—whereas there is no such possibility when discussing the couple’s child. Thus the constant use of the “marriage” metaphor when discussing Afro-Cuban jazz allows for the separation of American jazz music—and, by extension, the jazz canon—from any Afro-Cuban influence. By allowing for this separation, jazz criticism minimizes the potential importance of any such AfroCuban contributions to the jazz canon. In this way, it is both possible to acknowledge an important occurrence, such as the Gillespie-Pozo collaboration, within the context of the historical jazz narrative while simultaneously establishing its separateness from the venerated canon. To deny Afro-Cuban jazz a place in the jazz canon is to belie the subsequent music inspired by the cubop movement. As stated earlier, Chano Pozo ignited a renewed interest in African culture among jazz musicians. However, Cuba’s role soon became minimalized in subsequent jazz literature that came to see this tradition merely as a portal to African music.74 Despite his lifelong reverence for the Cuban culture, Dizzy Gillespie served to marginalize Cuban music’s influence by emphasizing its separateness. As Washburne has noted, Gillespie’s insistence on the “Cubop” [sic] label was the worst thing that could have happened to Latin jazz’s prospects for incorporation into the canon 74 “[S]ome musicians have been reticent to embrace Cuba’s integral role in the articulation of an African consciousness and, by extension, an added racial dimension in jazz.” Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 421. Also, see above, n.50. 31 because it began a move that distanced the music from the mainstream, if only by way of terminology, and relegated it as a sub-style. This new label has proven divisive when certain musicians, for exclusionary purposes, were characterized as “Latin jazzers” as other were labeled “beboppers” or “swing musicians” … This stylistic pigeonholing has little to do with what jazz musicians actually played, but it still persists in the press, in the recording industry, and even among musicians.75 Afro-Cuban and Latin jazz have thus always maintained an identity separate from “straight-ahead” jazz. By focusing on the “cubop” label, jazz criticism isolates the impact of the music to a period immediately following the Pozo-Gillespie collaborations, much like a commercial fad and in accordance with the linear model of the jazz canon. This isolation was not necessarily reflected in subsequent music, but merely in subsequent critical reception of cubop. As Raul Fernandez notes, clearly, the post-Chano Pozo decades constitute an important period during which the Latin jazz genre acquired further elements from Cuban popular music and its Afro-Cuban traditions, as well as other elements from the Caribbean and surrounding area … With talent, guaperia, and sabor, these and other Cuban musicians were an important part of these processes throughout the development of Latin jazz.76 Despite the continuation of Latin jazz and its omnipresence in the recorded output of both Latin musicians and American jazz musicians wishing to “cross-over,” jazz criticism has yet to adopt a revisionist view of these contributions. Conclusion In that it acknowledges the cross-cultural exchange of ideas between African Americans and European Americans, the jazz canon adopted a transcultural view of its history. Over time, a hybrid model emerged—a model in which African American and Euro-American 75 76 Washburne, “Latin Jazz,” 419. Fernandez, “Musical Cultures,” 237. 32 musico-cultures cross-influenced one another and produced the musical form known as jazz. 77 However, this model is still incomplete, excluding international influences, most especially Afro-Cuban music. One wonders why a narrative that allows for the inclusion of both the Original Dixieland Jazz Band and Albert Ayler does not also include Mario Bauzá and Chano Pozo—to say nothing of the equally important Latin jazz musicians so far unnamed here, such as Sabu Martinez, Rene Hernandez, and Arsenio Rodriguez. To rectify this situation, it is necessary to apply the same hybrid model of musico-cultural interaction to these international influences. Afro-Cuban jazz presents a unique case for this hybrid conceptual model because of its concomitant development alongside jazz and the constant mutual influence both musical cultures have had on one another. While jazz criticism and scholarship seldom ignore this relationship, it is the manner in which the relationship is represented, rather than its mere inclusion, that is paramount. Exclusionist protectionism notwithstanding, after having fought for the equalization of African American art forms to their EuroAmerican counterparts, the importance of the Afro-Cuban impact on jazz should be evident, such that its further exclusion from the jazz narrative constitutes not only a perpetuation of a canonical oversight but also a gross misrepresentation of documented historical events. By applying the same set of critical evaluative models utilized in acknowledging the significance of both African American and Euro-American contributions to jazz, scholars can reverse the effects that exoticism and primitivism have exerted on the 77 Some scholars have even suggested that, in attempts to promote the hybrid African American/EuroAmerican model of jazz, the jazz narrative has become too racialized. See DeVeaux, “What Did We Do to Be So Black and Blue?,” The Musical Quarterly 80/2 (Summer 1996): 392-430; and Richard Sudhalter, Lost Chords : White Musicians and Their Contribution to Jazz, 1915-1945. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. 33 critical legacy of Afro-Cuban jazz. While continuing to preserve the actual musical legacy of Chano Pozo, Mario Bauzá, and Dizzy Gillespie, scholarship can finally acknowledge the importance of all Latin musicians throughout the history of jazz. Indeed, there exists a Latin jazz canon—a hybrid entity that documents the intersections over time of the American jazz canon and the Afro-Caribbean canon. But rather than encourage the further separation of Afro-Cuban/Latin jazz from the larger jazz community, jazz studies should promote the same hybridity model first proposed in the seminal works of Fernando Ortiz. 34 Ignacio Cervantes and the Influence of Cuban Danza on Ragtime Music Many jazz narratives begin with a reference to Ferdinand “Jelly Roll” Morton’s comment about the integral role Afro-Caribbean music played in the formation of early jazz. The famous idea of the “Spanish tinge” in jazz has become a canonical trope central to the mythology of jazz creationism. The effects of the “Spanish tinge” have been relegated to the early jazz period as evidenced by the near complete lack of research conducted on Afro-Caribbean influence on subsequent periods in jazz history. Furthermore, Morton’s comment lacks scholarly explication; it has been assumed into the jazz canon without explanation or corroboration. The purpose of this chapter is to contextualize the “Spanish tinge”—to answer the question: what were the conditions in the musico-cultural environment that made such a statement possible? For Morton to make such a statement, an unprecedented communication between the Caribbean and New Orleans musicians would have had to exist—a level of collaboration that has only appeared several times in the history of jazz. Answering this question has immense impact on jazz scholarship. If Afro-Caribbean elements were integral to the “formation” of jazz, is it ever possible to remove them? As stated, Morton’s comment highlights a period in history when Afro-Caribbean influence is now critically accepted; this is the exception however. Only during the cubop period was Afro-Caribbean influence on jazz as canonically sanctioned as during Morton’s time. By investigating the musico-cultural environment prior to Morton’s time it may be possible to construct a timeline beginning in the nineteenth century in which a constant interplay between Afro-Caribbean and American musicians produced a series of inter- 35 related musical styles. This information could further define the musical relationship between American jazz and Afro-Caribbean influence, stating the case for constant, rather than intermittent, collusion between styles. Accessing the pre-Morton musical era in New Orleans entails defining the area’s spheres of influence. With its history as a French-governed territory managed by the doctrines of Roman Catholic colonialism—rather than English Protestant colonialism— the inhabitants of New Orleans had a lot more in common with their Caribbean neighbors than did their neighbors in contiguous states. In addition, trade routes united New Orleans with Caribbean locales and allowed for the free exchange of people and ideas as well as goods. As such, when investigating possible musico-cultural influences on New Orleans, it is beneficial to examine the islands of the Caribbean. Because of its proximity to the American mainland and the contemporary political climate, there is a high likelihood of Cuban influence on New Orleans musicians. Acknowledging in 1992 that the music of Latin America and the Caribbean is “the single most important outside influence on American music for more than a hundred years,” Anthony Branker states further that, of all Latin American musics, “the most significant latin [sic] influence has been Cuban.”78 The work of Ernesto Lecuona (1895-1963), the renowned Cuban composer and pianist, shows an affinity for the same types of syncopation and structures of ragtime; however, as a contemporary of “Jelly Roll” Morton, his work is too late for influence on the musical world that predates Morton. Lecuona’s musical “father” was Ignacio Cervantes (1847-1905), a contemporary of Scott Joplin. Cervantes’s work—which the composer and many others performed all over the United States and Europe—serves as a 78 Anthony D.J. Branker, “Cubana Bop, Cubana Pop: The Music of Cuba and It’s [sic] Influence on the United States,” Jazz Research Papers (1992): 27. 36 much better source for comparison than Lecuona. Cervantes is known primarily for his danzas, descendent of the contredanse or contradanza, and precedent to the danzon and son. There is rough correlation between Cuban and American African-influenced music during the nineteenth and twentieth century: in Cuba, the progression of contradanza, danza, and danzon roughly mirrors the development of blues, ragtime, and jazz in the United States.79 In an effort to examine the case for Afro-Cuban influence on the jazz world of “Jelly Roll” Morton, this chapter will focus on possible influence of Cuban music on jazz’s immediate “predecessor,” ragtime. Not only was the influence of Cuban music felt in New Orleans, but also all along the Mississippi River on which riverboats featuring bands from Cuba and Mexico performed for audiences in cities along their route, including St. Louis, an epicenter of ragtime music. The repertoire of these bands included music from Cuba and derivations thereof. Among others, John Storm Roberts supports this hypothesis: “some of what the Mexican groups played was almost certainly of Cuban origin.”80 The importance of Cuban music to the character of ragtime can be measured in part by the instructional manuals published by some of its practitioners. In 1897 a composer/pianist named Ben Harney published such a manual with this information about ragtime’s origins: “Rag time [sic] (or Negro Dance time) originally takes its initiative steps from Spanish music, or rather from Mexico, where it is known under the head and names of Habanara [sic], Danza, Seguidilla, etc.”81 It should be noted that, like the moniker “Spanish,” “Mexican” 79 Jack Stewart, “Cuban Influences on New Orleans Music,” Jazz Archivist 13 (1998-99): 14. 80 John Storm Roberts, Latin Jazz: The First of the Fusions, 1880s to Today, (New York: Schirmer Books, 1999), 4. 81 Ben Harney, Ben Harney’s Rag Time Instructor. Chicago: S. Bloom, 1897. 37 was at once a specific term describing associations to Mexico and descriptor applied to the larger Afro-Caribbean realm.82 Harney’s “generalization” here further supports the thesis that Mexican music was in part influenced by Cuban repertoire. Originally published in 1908, Scott Joplin’s School of Ragtime includes many exercises that reference rhythmic figures commonly known to be of Cuban origin.83 Despite this evidence, ragtime became known as a purely African-American music, such that the Afro-Caribbean influences became secondary or omitted all together: The danza rhythm…in published piano rags is infrequent except for an occasional one or two measures…The more extensive appearance of the rhythms in the JoplinChauvin Heliotrope Bouquet (1907) and Artie Matthews’ Pastimes Rags Numbers 3 and 5 (1916 and 1918) are clearly exceptions not representative of ragtime publications in general.…Thus ragtime and Latin American dance music do touch upon one another and have brief moments of convergence and blending, but the two seem to be distinct strains with essentially separate developments.84 Scholarship associated with African retentions in music has challenged this argument against cross-cultural influence. In her dissertation, An Investigation of West African and Haitian Rhythms on the Development of Syncopation in Cuban Habanera, Brazilian Tango/Choro, and American Ragtime, Tania Cançado makes a convincing argument for the commutation of West African rhythmic cells to Haiti and subsequent Caribbean islands, South America and the United States.85 On this issue, John Storm Roberts concurs: 82 Jack Stewart, “Cuban Influences on New Orleans Music,” 17. 83 Scott Joplin, School of Ragtime, (New York: Scott Joplin, 1908), 1. See below for musical examples from this book. 84 Ed Berlin, Ragtime: A Musical and Cultural History, (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1980), 116-7. Emphasis added. 85 Tania Mara Lopes Cançado, “An Investigation of West African and Haitian Rhythms on the Development of Syncopation in Cuba Habanera, Brazilian Tango/Choro and American Ragtime (1791- 38 Over time, the relationship between ragtime and Cuban music was mutual. But it can’t be argued that the first influence was from the U.S. south to Cuba, for the simple reason that the habanera reached the U.S. 20 years before the first rag was published, and New Orleans at least was awash with habanera-derived Mexican danzas in sheet music form in the decade leading up to ragtime’s efflorescence. Absent analysis of sheet music published elsewhere, particularly in St. Louis—the first ragtime center and a major music-publishing center besides—we can only speculate on the degree of influence the habanera might have had. I believe there is at least preliminary reason to assume it was major.86 The degree to which the Afro-Caribbean influence permeated ragtime is unclear, but has been acknowledged by both late nineteenth and early twentieth century practitioners, as well as by subsequent scholarship. Later in this chapter a more in-depth examination of this influence will be undertaken. However, further support can still be garnered from examination of the cultural and political environment in which this musical exchange would have occurred. In 1823 then-Secretary-of-State John Quincy Adams foresaw an inevitable annexation of Cuba.87 This statement was an expression of “Manifest Destiny,” a policy that informed the majority of American foreign relations decisions of the nineteenth century, and presaged America’s involvement in the conflict between Cuba and Spain toward the latter part of the century— the conflict now known as the Spanish-American War. America sided with the Cubans in this conflict and monuments at the site of the decisive Battle of San Juan Hill attest to the collaboration of American and Cuban forces over the Spanish in 1898.88 In 1901, the Platt Amendment, which allowed the United 1900),” Doctoral Dissertation, Shenandoah University, 1999. See below, n.30. 86 87 John Storm Roberts, Latin Jazz, 12. Jack Stewart, “Cuban Influences on New Orleans Music,” 15. A survey of contemporary articles from the New York Times yields announcements of fundraisers for the Cuban cause and pro-Cuban editorials. For example, see “Money for Cuban Freedom,” New York Times (Feb. 28, 1895), 5; and “Able to Govern Herself,” New York Times (Aug. 20, 1895), 12. 88 39 States “the right to intervene for the preservation of the Cuban independence,” was ratified, cementing a political relationship between the two countries.89 Over a hundred years later, Leonardo Acosta suggests that, in retrospect, “from a Cuban perspective, the military intervention between 1898 and 1902 was above all the symbol of national humiliation and frustration, though what was most troubling, even more than the occupation itself, was the famous Platt Amendment…The other crucial and widely known development was the U.S. appropriation of all economic sectors of the Island.”90 Social ramifications aside, Acosta acknowledges that this relationship began a period of musical prosperity for Cuba: The year 1898 constitutes a turning point in this process [of musical exchange] in the sense that, following the development of North American musical firms, this interchange only accelerated, although only in certain directions. And it was Cuba that assumed the role of the privileged exporter, becoming almost colonialist, though the major beneficiaries were of course the corporations.91 By 1898, the United States had already been hosting ensembles from Latin America for some time. One of the more influential visits was the performance series by the musicians of the Eighth Regiment of the Mexican cavalry, guests at the 1884-85 World’s Industrial and Cotton Centennial Exposition in New Orleans. The success of the band and others like it spawned a local surge in Cuban- and Mexican-influenced sheet music publications, including the Junius Hart Music Company’s “Mexican Series.”92 Further supporting the idea of the “generalized” Mexican modifier, Jack Stewart says of the series: “New 89 From http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/1901platt.html (accessed March 29, 2007). 90 Leonardo Acosta, “The Year 1898 in the Music of the Caribbean: Cuba and Puerto Rico in the Machinations of the U.S. Music Industry.” Centro Journal 16, 1 (Spring 2004): 8. 91 92 Leonardo Acosta, “The Year 1898,” 9. See Jack Stewart, “The Mexican Band Legend,” Jazz Archivist 6/2 (Dec. 1991): 1-14. 40 Orleans publishers used the designation ‘Mexican’ to market a variety of pieces in the Latin style. Yet the popular Mexican music of the period was strongly influenced by Cuban styles, particularly the ubiquitous habanera.”93 The cultural exchange of music was far from one-way. New Orleans’s Onward Brass Band traveled to Cuba as early as 1884, with part of the group returning in 1898 as part of the Ninth Volunteer Infantry Immune Band near the end of the Spanish-American War.94 Even before that another Louisianan, composer/pianist Louis Moreau Gottschalk single-handedly facilitated early cross-cultural music communication between Cuba and the United States. Throughout the 1850s and 1860s, Gottschalk traveled to Cuba many times, bringing back repertoire and compositional ideas that were featured during his extensive touring. Solomon Mikowsky calls Gottschalk “one of the most dashing figures in the Western Hemisphere…the first foreign composer of stature to see real value in native Cuban music, finding in it a source of inspiration for some of his own works.”95 Through extensive concertizing Gottschalk “may have spawned a vogue for Cuban danzas in the United States in the mid nineteenth century.”96 Indeed, a unique combination of compositional and pianistic skill (in the Western European classical tradition), passion for “exotic” music and showmanship produced a star whose influence was far reaching: In the era of Liszt and P.T. Barnum, Gottschalk was a born entertainer. A showman who delighted audiences with his high-velocity percussive playing and his sonic 93 Jack Stewart, “Cuban Influences on New Orleans Music,” 17. 94 Jack Stewart, “Cuban Influences on New Orleans Music,” 18. See also, John McCusker, “The Onward Brass Band and the Spanish-American War,” Jazz Archivist 13 (1998-99): 24-35. 95 Solomon Gadles Mikowsky, "Cervantes’ Danza: Cuban Rhythm in Compact Form," Americas (Journal of the Organization of American States) (July 1974): 14. 96 Jack Stewart, “Cuban Influences on New Orleans Music,” 16. 41 gigantism, his music had the extroverted character of the showbiz world of his hometown [New Orleans]…He was the first great American pianist, and the first massively popular American concert artist.97 And so, we see that American interest in Cuban music predates the Spanish-American War by several decades at least. Not only did Gottschalk promote Cuban music, he also facilitated the career of a young composer and pianist who was to become Cuba’s first musical national hero, Ignacio Cervantes.98 When Louis Gottschalk met Ignacio Cervantes, the young Cuban was only six years old but already talented enough to earn the interest of the highly regarded Gottschalk and his best friend, Cuban composer/pianist Nicolas Espadero, who took Cervantes on as a student.99 As a teen Cervantes traveled to Paris to study, soon earning many accolades. After a successful tour of Spain, Cervantes chose to return to Cuba for “bettering the musical and political welfare of his country.”100 A tireless supporter of Cuban independence from the Spanish Empire, Cervantes was banished from his homeland by its occupiers several times. However, “when the Republic of Cuba was finally inaugurated, he was its representative for the fine arts at the 1902 Exposition in Charleston, South Carolina.”101 At this exposition, the 1902 South Carolina Interstate and West Indian Exposition, it is purported that Cervantes met Scott Joplin.102 Whether or not 97 Ned Sublette, Cuba and Its Music: From the First Drums to the Mambo (Chicago, Ill.: Chicago Review Press, 2004), 148. 98 Cervantes was born in Havana on July 31, 1847. 99 Sublette, Cuba and Its Music, 155. 100 Mikowsky, “Cervantes’ Danza,” 14. 101 Ibid., 15. 102 Jakob Klaase. Essay in accompanying booklet, Danzas and Contradanzas from 19th 42 this meeting actually occurred, there is ample musical evidence to suggest that Joplin was familiar with Cervantes’s music. To the Cuban people, Ignacio Cervantes is a hero, a gifted artist who brought the essence of the island—cubanía—to the Western art music world: “no one ranks higher in solidity of craft, innate good taste, distinctive ideas, elegance of style, a full sound, manifested in even his minor works.”103 Scholars tend to look at the danzas for piano as Cervantes’s masterpieces, mostly for the “intense, profound national personality that emerges from them.”104 Alejo Carpentier considers the danzas as important to Cuban music as “Grieg’s Norwegian Dances or Dvorak’s Slavic Dances [are] in the music of their respective countries.”105 And so, whether discussing the specific influence of Cervantes or the general influence of contemporary Cuban music on ragtime, the danzas of Cervantes would have been well known enough to be suitable for such an investigation. There are certain rhythmic cells that are characteristic of this cubanía—rhythms, derived from African and Afro-Haitian rhythms, whose presence elsewhere could easily indicate cross-cultural influence. The first, oldest and most common is the habanera (example 1): Century Cuba performed by Sandra Mirabal and Jakob Klaase. (no label provided), 2004. According to Klaase, this information is in the forward of the 1949 edition of Cervantes’s danzas, which was reprinted ten years later (personal communication with the author). At the time of writing, this information could not be confirmed. See Gisela Hernandez and Olga de Blanck (eds.), Ignacio Cervantes: Cuarenta danzas, Havana: Ediciones de Blanck, 1959. 103 Alejo Carpentier, Music in Cuba., trans. Alan West-Durán, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001), 204. 104 Mikowsky, “Cervantes’ Danza,” 13. 105 Carpentier, Music in Cuba, 212. 43 This rhythm is the “Spanish tinge” of which “Jelly Roll” Morton spoke. Morton employed this in both his improvisations and compositions, such as in the trio section of “Jelly Roll Blues.”106 According to Mikowsky, the tresillo (above, example 2) is derived from the popular habanera rhythm, which comes from the contradanza tradition: “the tresillo was derived as a syncopation of the habanera, resulting from a Negro influence in performance rather than as an African rhythm imported from Cuba, Brazil and Puerto Rico by Negro slaves.”107 This rhythmic cell is very common in Cervantes, as in this excerpt from Danza #23, Los tres golpes (example 3): The anticipation of the second beat obscures the pulse of the music while creating harmonic ambiguity: the changing dyads in the right-hand 106 See David Jasen, ed., Beale Street and Other Classic Blues: 38 Works, 1901-1921, (New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1998), 53. 107 Mikowsky, “The Nineteenth-Century Cuban Danza and its Composers, with Particular Attention to Ignacio Cervantes (1847-1905),” Doctoral Dissertation (Columbia University: 1973), 90. Cançado disagrees, defining the tresillo as “an African rhythmic element characterized by values in the proportion 3:2.” See Cançado, “An Investigation,” 196. 44 over the sustained second pitch in the left-hand cause the listener to wonder which is the dominant harmony and which is the passing harmony. The rhythmic cell of the right-hand melody is discussed below. What Cançado describes as a variant habanera rhythm is example 4; this rhythmic cell is of primary importance in the Brazilian maxixe as well: This cell is common in right-hand melodic statements, as in example 3 and the next example, taken from the same piece (example 5): According to Mikowsky, this characteristic rhythm always appears in the melody in combination with either the habanera…or the tresillo in the bass. Each of the rhythms discussed above [habanera and tresillo], on the other hand, is essentially a bass rhythm, although it may appear in the melody on rare occasions. Cervantes used this rhythm in almost all of his danzas. It is related to the older [habanera pattern; see example 6], which Borbolla calls the trido, and which is present in many of Saumell’s contradanzas.108 Pictured below (example 6) is the trido on which example 5 is based: 108 Mikowsky, “The Nineteenth Century Cuban Danza,” 90-1. 45 The last elemental rhythm in Cervantes discussed here is the cinquillo, about which Mikowsky says that, “One thing is certain: up to the early part of the nineteenth century, this rhythm was more popular in Haiti than in Cuba and it was the Haitian-French immigration to the Oriente province that was responsible for its widespread use there in nineteenth century music.”109 The cinquillo is illustrated below (example 7): While immensely important to Cuban music, the cinquillo does not appear as much in Cervantes’s music as the other rhythms mentioned above. Example 8 shows an overt use of cinquillo in Cervantes’s Danza #6, El Velorio: Notice that when the third note of the cinquillo pattern is heard in conjunction with the left-hand pattern, a resultant habanera pattern emerges. These rhythms do not define Cervantes’s work, but rather are common cells that appear often in thematic treatment and are derivative of Afro-Cuban musical elements. Their presence in Cervantes’s work is a stylistic marker of Afro-Cuban influence, and so 109 Mikowsky, “The Nineteenth Century Cuban Danza,” 84. Cançado also maintains that the cinquillo is from Haiti, but insists it is of African origin; see Cançado, “An Investigation,” 50. 46 it is logical that their presence in other works could indicate the same influence. As stated above, whether or not Scott Joplin and Ignacio Cervantes met, the concertizing of both Louis Gottschalk and Cervantes, sale of sheet music, and pro-Cuban sentiments around the turn of the 20th century are all suggestive of a strong Afro-Cuban presence in American music. Even those that espouse limited possibility of Afro-Cuban influence on ragtime usually acknowledge the obvious presence of such influence in Joplin’s Solace: A Mexican Serenade and Heliotrope Bouquet, co-written by Louis Chauvin.110 Example 9 shows Solace: And example 10 shows Heliotrope Bouquet: The habanera pattern in Solace is evident, as is the tresillo in both hands of Heliotrope Bouquet. However, the tresillo in the right-hand of the Solace excerpt may not be as easily perceptible: when the tied sixteenth note is heard in conjunction with the first and 110 See above, n.7. It should be noted that Chauvin, who wrote the excerpted example, was from New Orleans. For more, see James Bennighof, "‘Heliotrope Bouquet’ and the Critical Analysis of American Music." American Music 10:4 (Winter 1992): 391-410. 47 last left-hand notes, a tresillo pattern can be discerned, much in the same way that a habanera resulted from both lines coming together in example 8. As mentioned above, Joplin’s 1908 instructional manual, School of Ragtime, gave clues of Afro-Cuban influence. Example 11 is exercise two from this manual: The importance of the tresillo in this exercise is evident; obviously Joplin thought that this rhythm was essential and would require practice. The following two examples (examples 12 and 13) show occurrences of the tresillo and trido-derived habanera/maxixe: The above example, from “Maple Leaf Rag,” shows a melodic treatment of the tresillo over the common even-8th bass pattern of ragtime. Example 13 from Joplin’s “Strenuous 48 Life” shows the trido-derived habanera in the right-hand of the first measure, followed by an implied cinquillo in the left-hand. The cinquillo figured prominently in one of Joplin’s most famous pieces, “The Entertainer.” The first of two examples (example 14), from the B strain, shows an implied cinquillo like the one from example 13: The second example (example 15) from the D strain, shows an exact cinquillo rhythm, once again on top of an even-eighth note left-hand accompaniment. 49 In addition to these common Afro-Cuban rhythms there is a rhythmic cell which is unique to Cervantes among Cuban danza composers, illustrated below (example 16), along with an excerpt from Danza 17, Decisión, (example 17)111: This rhythm appears in Joplin’s work, but only those published after 1902. Below is an example from “Euphonic Sounds” (example 18): It is impossible to say whether this confluence is serendipitous or evidence of the purported meeting in South Carolina. However, it is clear from the above examples, that, even if Joplin and Cervantes did not meet, there is considerable evidence to suggest that Joplin was aware of the kind of music Cervantes was writing. Moreover, in addition to 111 Mikowsky, “The Nineteenth Century Cuban Danza,” 195-6. 50 Harney’s publication, other examples of these rhythms appear in published ragtime pieces. Tom Turpin published the “first” rag—“Harlem Rag”—in 1897; below is an excerpt from this piece (example 19): As in examples 13 and 14, there is an implied cinquillo rhythm in the first and third measures of the example. Example 20 shows a similar motive from Percy Wenrich’s 1903 composition, “Ashy Africa: An African Rag”: Again, because this rhythm is treated thematically (even further emphasized by its presence in both hands), one can understand that the composer intended this passage to be noticed. Furthermore, in this composition, the excerpted example is the only occurrence of syncopation in the entire piece. While the title could easily be a novelty 51 title, it is possible that the composer knew of the rhythmic origins from an Afro-Cuban or Afro-Haitian locale. The case for direct influence of Cervantes on any one composer is difficult. It is known that a cultural exchange between Cuba and America was taking place from at least the mid-nineteenth century onward. By means of of Louis Moreau Gottschalk’s concertizing, the touring of brass and military bands, and the renewed interest brought on by America’s “Manifest Destiny” and pro-Cuban policy decision, a musico-cultural communion between these two countries existed. This communion was acknowledged in print as early as 1897 by Ben Harney and Tom Turpin. It should not be understood that the examples here represent all the possible support: Joplin’s compositions alone could provide many more, and the contradanzas of Manuel Saumell, an immediate predecessor to Cervantes, could be utilized to show an even deeper connection to African retentions in Afro-Cuban music. Furthermore, because these rhythmic cells are being treated thematically, it should be understood that the AfroCuban influence is much wider than had been previously espoused. In addition to its strong presence in the New Orleans area, it can be postulated that Afro-Cuban influence was ubiquitous in early 20th century America because of touring musicians and sheet music printing and sales in large cities (especially New York). In this environment, musicians such as W.C. Handy, Eubie Blake, William Tyers, James Reese Europe and “Jelly Roll” Morton would come to prominence and maintain the communion with AfroCuban music. 52 Exploring Cubop: A Transcultural Approach Traditionally viewed as a genre in which two cultures collaborated at a unique time to produce music sympathetic to both aesthetics, cubop suffers from misrepresentation, misclassification and misunderstanding. Symbolically characterized by the partnership of Chano Pozo and Dizzy Gillespie, cubop has often been depicted as a “marriage” between Afro-Cuban music and jazz. This music has been traditionally framed within the context of the bebop movement—an exotic iteration of a larger musical epoch. By confining cubop to a particular point in the timeline of the jazz canon, criticism and scholarship have historicized cubop, pigeon-holing it into a particular historical moment. By concentrating on its extra-musical associations and foregoing the critical attention usually afforded other stylistic innovations in jazz history, jazz scholarship has deemphasized the importance of cubop and its continuing influence on modern jazz. By highlighting these critical oversights and by employing musical analysis, this paper will more accurately depict the significance of cubop within the context of the jazz canon while illustrating that cubop is representative of a long history of collaborations between Cuban and American musicians. The task of defining cubop entails resolving several issues, the first of which involves the problem of this music’s name. Because of language barriers and stylistic conflations, discussing proper nomenclature in Latin jazz is a ubiquitously problematic task. Jazz historians and critics have been continually confounded by attempts to reconcile scholarly demands for cultural specificity with the canonically accepted (although ethnically generic) terminology. Dizzy Gillespie, one of the forefathers of the Latin jazz movement, insisted on using the term “cubop” as the name for this blending of 53 musics. Following that suggestion, in the context of this paper, “cubop” will describe the music that Gillespie helped to innovate and its immediate descendants. Cubop is a subgenre of “Afro-Cuban jazz,” a family of musical traditions that fuse Afro-Cuban music with American jazz. From a broader historical perspective, this tradition includes the work of Will Tyers, W.C. Handy, “Jelly Roll” Morton and others both before and after the cubop movement. Afro-Cuban jazz and cubop are subgenres of “Latin jazz,” a term that includes all interactions between Latin American and Caribbean musics with jazz. The music genres that were united to produce cubop are themselves hybridized forms, as Afro-Cuban and African American cultures involve an admixture of at least African, European and indigenous native musical traditions. As such, it would be especially difficult to define the cultural parameters of cubop. While there are certain “musico-cultural markers” in cubop, tracing them back to their origin and the path through which they came to the music is nearly impossible because of the constant crosspollination of the two parent genres. In regards to culture, one would be remiss not to underline the importance of the Puerto Rican culture and people to the preservation and continued development of AfroCuban music.112 The music incorporated into cubop experiments, while Cuban in origin, was an amalgamation of Cuban- and Puerto Rican-American traditions. While the name “cubop” highlights the music’s original ties to Cuban culture, the music quickly changed such that this name should not be construed as an accurate indication of its cultural 112 For a discussion of the Puerto Rican contributions to the early twentieth century American music scene, see Ruth Glasser, My Music Is My Flag: Puerto Rican Musicians and Their New York Communities, 19171940 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). 54 content. Indeed, “cubop” eventually became an ethnically unspecific title for a music that incorporated the musical language of several Latin American cultures.113 Cubop is often defined by the two key elements that distinguish it from “straightahead” bebop: Afro-Cuban percussion and their accompanying rhythms. This said, the use of such instruments as conga and bongo became a mark of “authenticity,” more so than the specific rhythms that they played. The juxtaposition of this instrumentation with the harmonic and improvisational conventions of bebop is what has generally defined the musical nature of cubop. To avoid reinforcing hegemonic models, one must also allow for the reciprocal perspective, i.e. Cuban music that incorporates the bebop aesthetic. Instead of conceiving of cubop as American bebop with added elements from the AfroCuban aesthetic, a more inclusive definition of cubop would equally consider the inverse relation of Cuban music adapting elements from bebop. In keeping with the “great performer” model of jazz historiography, this paper will focus on two musicians who typify their respective genres in the eyes of the jazz canon.114 However, in order to more accurately describe the nature of cubop, this paper will examine these performers in a fresh manner. There is no lack of scholarship on Charlie Parker, and much has been written on Chano Pozo, but, when discussing their roles in cubop, the jazz canon has maintained one narrative that thus far has yet to be 113 A traditional focus on Cuba as the dominant musico-cultural identity in the Caribbean has influenced scholarship in jazz and other genres as well. See Marisol Berríos-Miranda, “‘Con Sabor a Puerto Rico’: The Reception and Influence of Puerto Rican Salsa in Venezuela,” in Musical Migrations, vol. 1: Transnationalism and Cultural Hybridity in Latin/o America, eds., Frances R. Aparicio and Cándida F. Jáquez (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2003), 47-68. 114 Scott DeVeaux has cautioned against using this model. In the paper, it is not my purpose to espouse this model as a methodology for accurately defining cubop, but to reexamine the contributions of two canonically championed figures who are representative of a body of musicians whose collective contribution would more accurately constitute this genre. See Scott DeVeaux, “Constructing the Jazz Tradition: Jazz Historiography,” Black American Literature Forum 25 (1991): 525-560. 55 challenged.115 The canonical focus of Chano Pozo’s work, while viewed as innovative and inspiring, has been limited almost entirely to discussion of his identity as an exotic “outsider.” Though his contribution to cubop is seen as integral, analyses of his compositions or improvisations are largely absent from the scholarly criticism on this musician. Instead, accounts of his life and explorations of his cultural “otherness” abound. In sum, in most jazz literature, his exoticism constitutes his entire canonical persona.116 It is generally accepted that Pozo’s performances with the American jazz community infused it with virtuosic percussion work, but, aside from references to (rather than examples of) the polyrhythmic nature of Pozo’s playing, his role as performative innovator has gone unexamined. By contrast, Charlie Parker’s role in the development of cubop is minimal at best. However, as a progenitor of the bebop style that so closely informs cubop, any contributions he may have made have earned him critical attention, in both scholarly analyses and transcriptions. In a clear example of how African American bebop plays a dominant role in the critical valuation of cubop, Parker’s performances are often judged separately from the context of the group. Much discussion is focused on how Parker “played over” the Afro-Cuban accompaniment.117 These two musicians are integral to the jazz canon, partly because of the way in which their lives unfolded. Both died relatively young after making a sudden and drastic impact on the jazz community, and inspiring the development of younger musicians and new genres. For these reasons, they are easily compartmentalized in their respective eras 115 116 117 For more about the scholarship on Chano Pozo, see Chapter 1. See Jon Bendich, “Chano Pozo and the Eroticization of the Primitive,” unpublished paper. For example, Ira Gitler, “Charlie Parker and the Alto Saxophonists,” in The Charlie Parker Companion: Six Decades of Commentary, ed. Carl Woideck (New York: Schirmer Books, 1998), 49. 56 within the traditional jazz narrative. This narrative stresses a strict timeline of successive genres in the same manner that the canon of Western European art music unfolded. While cubop has traditionally been depicted as a union of Afro-Cuban music and bebop, the manner in which this relationship has been represented has been one in which the separate identities of the two genres have been preserved. This representation suggests a juxtaposition of styles, not a fusion. Parker’s performances with the Machito Orchestra are a suitable example of this.118 With the exception of Marshall Stearns and Ernest Borneman, most scholarship has reinforced the idea that, while cubop constituted a successful conglomeration, its existence was fleeting, expiring contemporaneously with the bebop “age.”119 As noted earlier, the work of Cuban ethnomusicologist Fernando Ortiz led to the development of a useful model of hybrid identity theory. This model of constant intercultural communication has been accepted in the larger academic community.120 Using this new model, cubop can be seen as only one instance in which Cuban and American musicians collaborated and influenced one another’s music. Reinforcing the idea of juxtaposition, rather than fusion, of these two sources, critics’ and musicians’ uses of the “marriage” metaphor to describe the cubop movement have relegated this idiom to a place of relative insignificance in the jazz canon.121 By emphasizing the presence of two entities, the separation of Afro-Cuban from American 118 When discussing the 1948 recording of Parker with the Machito Orchestra, John Storm Roberts maintains that, in his improvisations, Parker remains true to his personal style, despite the change in background style. See John Storm Roberts, The Latin Tinge (New York: Shirmer Books, 1999), 79. 119 Marshall Stearns, The Story of Jazz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1970). Ernest Borneman, “Jazz and The Creole Tradition,” Jazzforschung 1 (1969): 99-112. 120 For more on hybrid identity theory, see Alberto Moreiras, “Hybridity and Double Consciousness,” Cultural Studies 13/3 (1999): 373-407. 121 Even Mario Bauzá used this metaphor. See Jairo Moreno, “Bauzá, Gillespie, Latin/Jazz: Difference, Modernity, and the Black Caribbean,” The South Atlantic Quarterly 103/1 (2004), 91. 57 jazz (and cubop from the jazz canon) is reified. The non-American elements of cubop were depicted as additions to the music that could be subtracted at any time, i.e. superficial rather than integral. This perception was further reinforced by the notion that American jazz musicians could insert themselves in an Afro-Cuban musical setting, and, playing “on top” of the clavé, could render a successful performance.122 The contemporaneous existence of the popular Latin dance movement of the 1950s also served to diminish the stature of cubop. Mambo, as marketed to the American consumer, was one of a long line of Latin-inspired dance fads. Long popular with the Latino community, mambo achieved mainstream success among Caucasian Americans when cubop was first emerging in the late 1940s. This association with commercial success—intensified by the fact that many musicians who played cubop were also involved in the mambo scene—served to further marginalize cubop in the view of subsequent jazz criticism. A music that, for some, was akin to popular dance music was bound to be denigrated by those musicians and contemporary critics who sought to establish their music as above (not contingent on) popular opinion and worthy of appreciation as “high art.”123 In a very premeditated manner, these same historians and critics discouraged associations of jazz with popular, consumerist dance entertainment that had prevailed throughout earlier jazz history. Scott DeVeaux acknowledges a process by which certain events and people are excluded from jazz’s historical narrative.124 The process of reinforcing canon formation 122 In addition to Parker, Flip Phillips, Cannonball Adderley, Joe Newman, and others recorded as guest soloists with the Machito Orchestra. 123 For an anti-commercialist viewpoint, see Chapter 1, n.26. The critic Roger Pryor Dodge saw little value in most American attempts at integrating Afro-Cuban music with American jazz during the cubop era. 124 See note 4. 58 perpetuates the exclusion of events and people that are effectively “written out” of the canon. Chano Pozo, especially for his work with Dizzy Gillespie, has been firmly established within the canon. However, while seminal, Pozo was not unique. Other developments and musicians involved in the cubop movement have been forgotten in the canon of jazz history. For the reasons enumerated above, these American and Cuban musicians and their recordings have gone unnoticed except by aficionados and scholars sensitive to this genre. The purpose of this paper is two-fold: (1) to explicate and expand the canonical definition of cubop and (2) to suggest a model for reversing the methodology that has incorrectly historicized the music of the cubop movement. This movement is a unique example of the cross-cultural interactions between Cuban and American musicians that predates jazz and continues to the present day. By using transcription and theoretical analysis, this paper will reposition cubop’s place in the jazz canon. With these tools, cubop, which has been overly generalized and colored by primitivist associations of exoticism, can then assume its rightful place among other influential jazz genres.125 Chano Pozo Chano Pozo was active on the American jazz scene for only about fifteen months, yet his music continues to influence the development of Latin jazz and Latin American music. His formative years were spent in an Afro-Cuban family and his association with the secretive Abakuá santeros (practioners of this African-derived religion) provided a rich cultural context for his playing. Thus his music was grounded in both sacred and secular 125 See Paul Austerlitz, Jazz Consciousness: Music, Race, and Humanity (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2005), 74. 59 styles. Pozo began his career in the 1930s, when the renowned Cuban ethnomusicologist, Fernando Ortiz, was promoting his ideas on afrocubanismo, which celebrated the African influences in Cuban society. Pozo was already famous in Cuba as an entertainer and recording artist. He was highly regarded among musicians as a composer even before he came to America in 1947.126 Pozo’s introduction to American audiences was highly publicized, Dizzy Gillespie commissioned George Russell to compose “Cubano Be, Cubano Bop” for the September 29, 1947, concert at Carnegie Hall.127 This concert was to be Gillespie’s first foray into Afro-Cuban jazz, and, for that reason, he solicited help for his percussion section from Mario Bauzá. Bauzá, a trumpet player and musical director for the Machito Orchestra, was the person who first ignited Gillespie’s interest in Afro-Cuban Jazz. Bauzá introduced Gillespie and Chano Pozo, and they began working on the beginnings of what would become the cubop movement. There are three known recordings of the Gillespie big band performing “Cubano Be, Cubano Bop” (also known as The Afro-Cuban Drum Suite). These include: (1) the transcript recording from the 1947 Carnegie concert; (2) an RCA studio recording from December 22, 1947; and (3) another live recording from Salle Pleyel, Paris, on February 28, 1948, from during the Gillespie band’s European tour.128 This piece affords ample 126 Leonardo Acosta mentions Rita Montaner and Miguelito Valdés as two of the many who regarded as a talented “composer, tamborero, singer, and rumba dancer” in Havana. See Acosta, Cubano Be, Cubano Bop: One Hundred Years of Jazz in Cuba, trans. Daniel S. Whitesell (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Books, 2005),111. See also Isabelle Leymarie, Cuban Fire: The Story of Salsa and Latin Jazz (New York: Continuum, 2002), 190-91. 127 According to Leonardo Acosta, “Cubano Be, Cubano Bop” contains “the finest example of Chano’s artistic mastery.” See 111. 128 All three recordings are available together on Chano Pozo: El Tambor de Cuba, Tumbao 305, 2001, compact disc. 60 improvisational opportunities for both Gillespie and his percussionists. Because of the complex balance between composition and improvisation in this work, various post-1960 critics have called “Cubano Be, Cubano Bop” one of the first “Third Stream” jazz composition. In an effort to demystify the storied career and playing of Pozo, some key moments in these recordings will be analyzed. Selections from the September 1947 recording will not be included because of a personnel issue.129 Below is an excerpt from the February 1948 recording, a duet with Pozo and Dizzy Gillespie. This excerpt arrives at the end of “Cubano Be” and the transition into “Cubano Bop.”130 Unlike Pozo’s accompaniment under Salán’s bongo work on the September 1947 recording, Pozo chooses here to play a more interactive and varied part. This specific performance is more akin to collective improvisation than the accompaniment of a solo. In this selection, Pozo shows his ability to mimic and replicate a soloist’s improvisation, a practice that is commonplace in both secular and sacred AfroCuban music. Of note here is Gillespie’s use of a rhythmically complex, yet harmonically basic, phrase 129 Joining Pozo in the percussion section of Gillespie’s band for that date was Lorenzo Salán, a bongo player, whose presence on stage changed Pozo’s role in the performance. On this recording, Pozo can be heard playing in a much more regimented manner, providing support and a rhythmic framework over which Salán improvised, when such opportunities arose. Pozo’s relinquishing the soloist’s role does not afford the listener— or the analyst—much of a glimpse into his rhythmic inventiveness and virtuosity. 130 The excerpt can be found at 3:02 of track 16 on compact disc three of the El Tambor de Cuba compact disc set. 61 in a solo otherwise filled with bebop-style passages. This declarative style of rhythmic articulation is more akin to the Afro-Cuban aesthetic. One may infer that it is a response to the previous measure in which Gillespie rested and Pozo demarcated the beginning of a new phrase with the six triplets at the end of the bar. Notice how Pozo not only replicates the rhythmic content of Gillespie’s statement, but also the “tonal” relationship, by maintaining the ratio of low to high “pitches.” In an effort to further understand Pozo’s rhythmic complexity, it could be instructive to postulate a theoretical normalization of his performance, i.e. a simplified, rhythmically consonant model on which Pozo elaborated. Identifying this “normalized” structure would provide a framework against which the actual performance could be better judged. The next example shows a measure from one of Pozo’s solos during the December 1947 recording, first in normalized form and then in actual form. The normalized form shows the accent of the conga coinciding with the standard 4/4 beat demarcations; however, in the actual performance, Pozo groups the sixteenth notes into groups of five, placing the accent on the third—rather than the first—of the quintuplet. Furthermore, he displaces the group one sixteenth note ahead, creating even more dissonance against the pulse.131 A displacement dissonance in the February 1948 excerpt above is normalized next. The group of notes (totaling ten sixteenth notes) is pushed forward by one sixteenth 131 For an indepth explanation of the rhythmic theory used in this analysis, see Ted Buehrer and Robert Hodson, “Metric Dissonance in Jazz: The Stride Piano Performances of Thelonious Monk and James P. Johnson,” International Association of Jazz Educators Research Proceedings Yearbook 24 (2004): 106-23. 62 note, which obscures the clearly marked pulse seen in the first part of the example. The next two examples illustrate a grouping dissonance at a later point in the February 1948 duet. The first example shows Pozo’s actual performance; the second example is a rhythmically consonant interpretation, which is admittedly benign, but not atypical of Pozo’s accompaniment style. The first example shows that a grouping dissonance (implied 6/8 time) has been displaced backwards by one eighth-note-triplet. Add to that the metric accents of the original meter on beats one and three and contour accents (i.e. accents on the highest “pitches” in the line) on the last note of each group of six eighth-note-triplets, and one begins to perceive the complexity inherent in Pozo’s playing. One further point about this passage: by accenting the second and sixth note of each group, and by reinforcing the second note of each group with metric accent and the support of the overall pulse, Pozo is creating the suggestion of a 5/8 subgroup within the context of the inferred 6/8 meter. These analyses demonstrate that all the canonical tropes about Chano Pozo’s “invigorating” rhythms supported by his truly remarkable musicianship and complex performance techniques. Through comparison to theoretical normalizations, the 63 complexity of Pozo’s music becomes newly accessible and is no longer relegated to the confines of untenable mythology. Traditional jazz literature has regularly employed similar analytical tools to the study of bebop, but little, if any, of this sort of criticial attention has been directed at cubop.132 This dearth of attention is one of the primary reasons why cubop remains peripherally situated in the jazz canon. Charlie Parker As one figure in jazz history whose work has received much critical and scholarly attention, Charlie Parker typifies the “great performer” of the dominant model of jazz historiography. And yet, not all of his work has received the same degree of focused study. The first recording that Charlie Parker made with Norman Granz’s Verve label was as a featured soloist with the Machito Orchestra. This 1948 session was Parker’s first recorded interaction with Afro-Cuban music, and the impetus behind it is a contentious point. Nonetheless, once arranged by Granz, the recording session and the subsequent release were both well received. Later, in 1952, Parker recorded an album of cubop for Granz’s Clef Records. These sessions were released as Charlie Parker Plays South of the Border.133 The band for this session included both American and Latin musicians. The repertoire was bi-cultural as well, including both Cuban popular songs and American jazz pieces reinterpreted with a Latin “feel.” These recordings were departures for Parker, and their place in his oeuvre and in the jazz and cubop canons is not clarified. A crosscultural analysis of repertoire will help provide the needed context. The Cuban example 132 One notable example involving cubop is Wolfgang Tozzi, “Rhythm Concepts in Afro-Cuban Music,” Jazzforschung 28 (1996): 121-38. 133 Charlie Parker, South of the Border: The Verve Latin-Jazz Sides, Verve 314 527 779, [1948-1952] 1995, Compact disc 64 will be the percussionist Walfredo de los Reyes, Jr. (a.k.a. Walfredito), who, in 1959, recorded a similar album for Gema Records, entitled Cuban Jazz, in which the Reyes band recorded a mix of Cuban music and jazz standards.134 By comparing the melodic phrasing and rhythmic structure of the shared repertoire between these two groups, a better understanding of each musician’s ability to adapt to this hybrid form can be gleaned. A comparison of the melodic statements of “La Paloma,” the popular Latin standard, as recorded by Parker and Reyes yields an immediate difference: the Reyes setting has a 26 measure form, whereas Parker’s is 24 bars. On the recording, Reyes repeats each of the three sections of the melody, making the exposition more than twice as long as Parker’s statement of the melody. The Parker rendition places more emphasis on the subsequent improvisation and the melody is truncated into a more standard American song form of 24 bars. The improvisation on the Reyes track is brief and takes place after the 52-measure statement of the melody. Both renditions contain much syncopation, but it is more organized and complex in the Reyes recording. Parker consistently accents the second half of the fourth beat in anticipation of the following measure’s downbeat, no doubt in concordance with the percussionists on the track.135 However, the Reyes melody (as played by alto saxophonist Jesús Caunedo and flautist Julio Guerrero) is nearly in complete synchronization with a 2-3 rumba clavé (seen below). The two exceptions to this synchronization with the clavé occur because it is in 134 Walfredo de los Reyes, Jr., Cuban Jazz, Gema 1150, 1959, vinyl recording. The album is currently available on a re-issue CD; see Walfredo Reyes, Sin Timbal no se Pué Bailar, Caney 524, [1958, 1959] 2005, compact disc. 135 Afro-Cuban percussionists often abandoned their own clavé-based performance so as not to conflict with the rhythmic structure of the jazz percussion style. See Acosta, Cubano Be, 112. 65 fact common practice in Cuban music to shift the clavé momentarily to suit the rhythmic structure of the melody. Also of note in comparing the melodic statements of these two recordings is Parker’s simple statement of the melody, which lacks almost any embellishment, save those of the rhythmic variety. While seemingly innocuous, this point should not be overlooked. Parker’s penchant for melodic embellishment—a hallmark of bebop—is left behind here for a more declarative, rhythmically embellished line. This could very well indicate an attempt to adopt a more Latinized aesthetic. The excerpt below shows the second eightbar phrase of the melody. Parker favors the quarter-note triplet over the more syncopated eighth-quarter-eighth and quarter-eighth-quarter passages in the Reyes setting. With the pick-up measure, the Reyes example is one measure longer—nine bars (the last of which is not shown)–than the Parker performance. The second excerpted example is from two renditions of the American jazz standard, “Almost Like Being in Love,” the first eight bars of which are shown. Along 66 with the transcriptions of Parker and Reyes is the copyrighted version written by Frederick Loewe.136 The two interpretations of the melody contain obvious embellishments on the original; however, where Parker’s ornamentations tended to be pitch-related (e.g., scoops, glissandi, and grace and passing notes), the Reyes interpretation contains more rhythmic ornamentation. Once again, the melodic statement of the Reyes recording correlates to the 2-3 rumba clavé.137 In this performance, there are no interruptions of the clavé but rather times at which the melody and clavé do not coincide, most notably, m. 6. In this 136 This Charlie Parker transcription was made by Andrew White. See Andrew White, transcriber, The Charlie Parker Collection: 308 Transcribed Saxophone Solos (Washington: Andrew’s Musical Enterprises, n.d.). This recording of Parker performing “Almost Like Being in Love” was originally released on a 78rpm single (Mercury 11102, 1952, vinyl recording). 137 This can be inferred from the example where the second and fourth measures exhibit a melodic accent on the third beat, while the third and fifth show a strong accent of the second half of the fourth beat. From this (and especially from listening to the recording), a 2-3 rumba clavé can be extrapolated. 67 measure, melodic adherence to the clavé was subjugated to maintaining the displacement dissonance of mm. 5-7.138 It should be noted that the ensembles in this comparison are completely different: Reyes is recording with the same small group that recorded “La Paloma,” while Parker recorded “Almost Like Being in Love” with a big band. Parker’s treatment of “La Paloma” contained obvious changes in his solo style; this could be attributed to the Latin aesthetic to which he was attempting to conform. In a big band setting, there would be no such pretense to make a stylistic change because the big band setting was very familiar to Parker. This familiarity allowed his more natural tendencies to flourish. Parker’s melodic treatment includes some characteristic bebop embellishments (e.g., mm. 6 and 9), as well as some rhythmic syncopation. In regards to the latter trait, notice in the previous examples that Parker again favors the quarter-note triplet and the anticipation of the downbeat. Both musicians succeed in adapting to the other’s musical aesthetic; the difference between the two is the approach each musician brought to their cross-idiom performance. Parker never studied Afro-Cuban music; he was able to adapt because of his aural skills. Not only was Parker able to replicate performances that he heard, but he could also absorb music such that he could reinterpret it in his own style. Like Gillespie and his studies in Afro-Cuban music, Reyes studied the jazz idiom and jazz percussion, most notably with Cozy Cole and Louis Bellson, with whom he later recorded.139 Parker 138 That is, the accenture pattern of the clavé evident in mm. 1-5 is no longer present in the melody of mm. 6-7 (with anticipations in m.5). In its place is the three note rhythmically dissonant motive. 139 Tommy Meini, liner notes to Walfredo de los Reyes, Jr., Sin Timbal No Se Pue’ Bailar, trans. by James Pearse, Caney CCD 524, 2005, compact disc. The recorded collaboration of Reyes and Louis Bellson is found on Ecué Ritmos Cubanos (Pablo OJCCD-632-2, [1978] 1991, compact disc). 68 was not trying to adopt an Afro-Cuban aesthetic, but merely to operate within it. On Cuban Jazz, Reyes was actively attempting a fusion of styles—trying to unite the bebop aesthetic with his native Cuban. Reyes and Gillespie are examples of musicians who, through applied study, effectively reproduced a musico-cultural aesthetic outside of their native environment. This analysis has a similar goal—through focused study, to refute stereotypical, inaccurate or generalized representations of a musical genre and to explicate its elements using established methodology. This is not a preservationist entreaty for “authenticity,” but rather a call for cultural understanding and refined musical study. Like music that inaccurately replicates musico-cultural markers, misrepresentation in criticism and scholarship can also dilute and obscure the true nature of Cuban/American collaborations. Critics and Cubop Both Parker and Pozo have earned distinction among both scholars and critics, and their personae have been aggrandized to monumental status. They represent jazz archetypes— models of the “great performer.” However, in the interests of creating a coherent, engaging historical narrative, these personae have been simplified and compartmentalized to fit a particular purpose in jazz history. In order to reposition jazz to the esteemed status of Western European art music, jazz musicians, critics and historians have routinely recycled a simplified historical narrative that misrepresents many important developments in the tradition. New Musicology studies of the 1980s have accomplished a lot in rewriting jazz history and breaking away from canonical tropes, but much work is 69 still to be done, even with musicians like Parker and Pozo, whose careers and biographies have already been studied in great detail. As noted, the manner in which Pozo’s life is depicted in the jazz canon does not center on his musical contributions. It was apparent that Pozo’s music was more polyrhythmic than bebop or any other American music, but rather than focusing on the content of the music, contemporary (and subsequent) criticism focused on his associations with Africa, the Abakuá secret society in Cuba, and his lifestyle. The primitivist depiction of Pozo marginalizes the importance of his musical contributions. The in-depth analysis and transcriptions afforded bebop were totally absent, in favor of colorful modifiers and generalized statements. However, as seen here, when examined closely, Pozo’s abilities are revealed, allowing for the existence of quantifiable data from which to draw informed conclusions. Without close critical consideration, cubop was soon relegated to the level of popular fad, despite its innovative synthesis of Afro-Cuban rhythm in a jazz aesthetic. Aside from Gillespie, Stan Kenton, and a few others, American jazz musicians never made the same type of adjustment to the Latin aesthetic that their Cuban and Puerto Rican counterparts did in their adjustment to bebop when entering American jazz. Innumerable critics and musicians have extolled Charlie Parker’s musical adaptability, which allowed him to perform with any ensemble variation while always demonstrating his innate musical talent. On the two Verve recordings with Latin ensembles, Parker shows this ability to transcend the difficulty of performing with a group whose concept is based more in the Latin aesthetic than in the bebop aesthetic. Opinions on Parker’s performances vary. Some say he sounds uncomfortable in a 70 commercial environment contrived by Norman Granz’s intent on producing a profitable record, while others maintain that Parker adapts remarkably well for someone unfamiliar with the Latin aesthetic. There are two issues to consider in these reviews: (1) whether Parker’s ability to maintain his personal style in the Latin aesthetic is a marker of performative success; and (2) whether or not Parker was truly able to adjust to this unfamiliar setting. As the “La Paloma” example above shows, Parker was conscious of the polyrhythmic setting in which he was playing and he made attempts to adjust. As remarkable as Parker’s aural skills were, he could not have intuited how to improvise en clavé on a first listening. For that reason, it is not instructive to compare his work to a musician like Gillespie, whose focused study of Afro-Cuban music is welldocumented.140 With regard to Parker’s individual style, when he recorded these performances with the Machito Orchestra and the South of the Border album, he was promoted as a single musician. For the majority of his time with Granz and Verve Records, Parker was touring and performing as a featured soloist—his unique performative personality was what was expected of him. Also, because of a lack of practicing regimen, Parker very much relied upon a set a musical vocabulary, despite his expressed desires to the contrary.141 Taking all of these factors into consideration, one must conclude that the question of whether the Parker aesthetic fuses seamlessly into a cubop aesthetic is a moot point. If Parker was to perform or record with a Latin group (or any type of group), there was only one model for Parker to follow—his own. That is not to say that he was inflexible (see the above “Paloma” example), but rather that critics and 140 For comparison to Parker, see Carl Woideck, Charlie Parker: His Life and Music (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1998), 211. 141 Ibid., 190. Parker spoke of wanting to take composition lessons and to write music similar to Hindemith’s Kleine Kammermusik. 71 scholars cannot expect anything else from him. Indeed, these are the standards that must be applied to any evaluation of his performance. Re-placing Cubop in the Jazz Canon As noted, when discussing cubop, critics have tended to separate the African American and Afro-Cuban musico-cultural identities. This perspective is further reinforced in Parker’s performances with the Machito and South of the Border recordings. Even within the context of the same recording there isn’t a unified performative group, but rather Parker (as featured soloist) and everyone else. His contribution to the performance is judged separately from the context of the rest of the group. So long as this double identity persists in jazz scholarship, cubop will maintain its “outsider” status. Examining the collaboration between Chano Pozo and Dizzy Gillespie, Jairo Moreno discusses how this “outsider” status is juxtaposed on Chano Pozo. Moreno posits that Pozo’s inability to speak English and difficulty adapting to the jazz 4/4 rhythmic foundation reifies the African American practice of subjugating the Afro-Cuban aesthetic in cubop.142 That Pozo’s composition “Manteca” was considered incomplete without a 16-bar bridge from Gillespie is another indication that, however revolutionary and inspiring Pozo’s music was, cubop’s identity would always be tied to bebop first and to Afro-Cuban music second.143 By insisting that Afro-Cuban musicians like Pozo adapt to American jazz, a hegemonic superiority that favored American musicians was established. Even though 142 143 See Moreno, “Bauzá/Gillespie.” A correlative study of the contemporary Cuban movement in cubibop would pose a fascinating comparative model for a cross-cultural hybrid of the same elements in which the hegemonic order was reversed. 72 cubop was supposed to involve music from two sources, it was bebop that was viewed as the essential element. This compartmentalization of cubop within the bebop aesthetic inextricably allied it to the development of bebop. When jazz critics discussed the “end of the bebop era,” cubop was automatically contained within that period. But this view is misleading: cubop can also be seen as part of the same tradition that includes son music, salsa and timba, as well as being a part of the jazz canon. As a critical viewpoint, the “marriage” metaphor reinforces the idea that the union of Afro-Cuban and African American identities that created cubop was relational, rather than organic. When this particular union ended, so did the relationship. A more appropriate perspective would allow for the creation of a new entity—one not tied to the existence of its “parents.” Within this latter view, cubop survives as an independent entity. In both the jazz canon and the Latin American music canon, cubop’s stature as an innovative art form has been marginalized by lack of formal study, its associations with commercial “low art,” and prejudiced valuation that saw the Cuban elements of the music as “primitive.” The critical tendency to associate this music with the contemporary Latin dance fads also devalues its historical importance. This is not to say that popular music is unimportant, but rather that contemporary jazz criticism associated popular appeal with music of lesser quality. By emphasizing cubop’s temporary popularity rather than its historical legacy, this idiom has been unfairly marginalized in the historical narratives of the jazz tradition. While it is true that subsequent Latin jazz has maintained a closer connection to its roots in dance music, this association should not be misconstrued as a sign that the music has become overly commercialized or simplified for popular consumption. 73 Moreover, the outdated commercial stigma of popular music must not interfere with the critical evaluation of any genre of music. By acknowledging historical bias and by using established methods of analysis, the music of the cubop era can be more fully understood as a significant movement in American music. Cubop should be viewed not only as a unique historical period during which African American and Afro-Cuban musics achieved an unprecedented fusion, but also, as a continually developing musical form. This idiom continues to inspire musicians and serves as the foundation for new developments in the canons of both Latin American music and jazz.144 144 One excellent example of this continuance is Bobby Sanabria’s recording, Afro-Cuban Dream: Live and in Clavé! (Arabesque 149, 2000, compact disc). 74 Interview with trumpeter Manny Duran Author’s Note: This interview was conducted on May 3, 2006, at La Caridad Restaurant, in Manhattan. Born on June 11, 1926, in New Mexico, Manny Duran grew up in a large Mexican American family. His love for mariachi music was soon replaced by trumpeter Louis Armstrong and the jazz world. After an inauspicious first day in New York City, Duran went on to have a successful career as a sideman. Approaching eighty years ago, Duran founded the first group under his own name, AfroBop. What appears in print is an excerpt of the whole transcript. Because of Mr. Duran’s untimely passing on October 30, 2006, information that could not be verified has been omitted. Mark Lomanno: So I wanted to ask you about your family growing up in New Mexico. Manny Duran: Right. One of the things that I’m really sorry about is that I didn’t have anyone in my family that was a musician. My grandfather was a musician but he died very young. ML: Was he in New Mexico also? MD: He might have just been in Juarez. ML: Some of the research I’ve been doing is on the Mexican municipal bands, playing on the river boats on the Mississippi - and their influence on ragtime. Maybe there’s something there; maybe he was a part of that. MD: I went to Lehman College and I had a course with [doesn’t remember]. So, anyway, for my term paper, I decided to write a paper about the impressions of something called “the Latin tinge” or “the Spanish tinge” - you know what I mean? 75 ML: Sure. MD: And I found a lot of similarities between jazz and the municipal bands, including something called “freeplay.” And I said, “Freeplay? What the hell is this?” It was pretty difficult for me to write about it, so I did it on tape. And [on] part of it I had Patato on the tape describing batá. And we did that on a limousine trip down to Philadelphia. That was a very old limousine. [laughs] But those guys [the municipal bands] really impressed me a lot. Of course now their influence can be heard on pop music in Mexico. [Sings a passage] ML: So you were listening to that stuff growing up? MD: Right. ML: Your family wasn’t musical. But, just to get a little background information – I know your parents’ names [Manuel and Angela]— but what were their occupations? MD: My mother was a housewife, and my father was a cook. ML: A cook. MD: Right. ML: Did you have siblings? MD: A whole bunch of them. I have two sisters. One died very young. And the oldest one in the family is a girl. She’s still alive - 81 or 82. Then there’s me. I have another brother named Robert who lives in California. I have another brother, Luis, who lives in El Paso, Texas. I have another brother, Pepe, who lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico - very close to the border. And I have another brother who lives in Las Cruces. So there’s 5 boys and 2 girls. ML: A big family. 76 MD: A big family, as was the custom, you know. And we don’t keep much in touch with each other. We love each other and all that, we just don’t keep in touch too much. It’s one of our traits I guess. So that’s the family. ML : And, so, if you didn’t have any musicians in your family, what was music like in your house? Did music play a part in your life growing up? MD: I got my first trumpet at the age of ten. The thing that interested me was listening to the bands - the mariachis and the municipal bands. I always liked the trumpets. I heard Raphael Mendez, who impressed me a lot. And then I heard Louis Armstrong; he turned me around. I told my mom, “That’s who I want o be.” And since that day, I’ve been following that path. Louis Armstrong - there were a lot of trumpet players I forgot. The next thing then was Roy Eldridge. And after that, the next thing was Dizzy Gillespie, who I still like. ML: So you were about 20 when the Parker-Gillespie stuff started coming out? MD: Yeah even younger. I first became aware of them in the Army; I was stationed in Chicago and I got some records. One of them was “52nd Street Theme” - a 78. That impressed me. ML: I wanted to ask you. You said that, when you heard Louis, it really changed your whole perception. It sounds like it turned you from the mariachis and the municipal bands toward jazz. Do you remember any particular record sticking out? MD: [Shakes his head] ML: It was just the sound of jazz. MD: No, I was hearing them on the radio. ML: OK. Right, so that was actually my next question. I was reading in the Salazar 77 article. You were talking about listening to bands like Erskine Hawkins on the radio. You know, the broadcasts from New York. Were you listening to Beny Moré or Perez Prado or any of the mambo groups like that? MD: I didn’t become aware of them until I got to New York. When I first heard Beny Moré, I said, “Wow! What a band!” There was one trumpet player - what was his name? - Chappotin. ML: Yes, Chappotin MD: I loved his approach to playing. He was a guy that played very típico, yet individual and emotional. And, in fact I got something from him that I impart to my students. Now when I have students, I say “You want to solo? If you want to play a solo improvising, then you’re playing jazz. If you’re playing in a Cuban motif, then it’s not jazz. It’s something else. You always start your solos on the first beat of the tune. 1-2-3-4 [sings].” Then I said, “You gotta go ahead and get with the rhythm section, because the rhythm section is a group of individuals all playing one number.” And I said, “The best way that I found is if I start a solo on the 4th beat of the bar - 1-2-3 [sings].” Then I said, “If you’re playing on [sings 4th beat], then you’re playing on the same beat as [sings accented 4th beat of the bass tumbao]” I said, “It sort of straightens out the rhythm - don’t try to make it so choppy, like jazz [sings swing eighth notes]. Don’t worry about it, it’s just sound. Let the rhythm section be the motion and you just provide the sound [sings quote from “Caravan”]. And then if you want to go into the acrobatic, then they have accepted you, because you have to be accepted by them, otherwise it’s at least going to be a mental block. When they say, ‘What is he trying to do? He’s not playing with us.’” So that’s the thing I really became aware of when I heard Chappotin. I love him - I still do. Then of 78 course I became aware of Machito and Perez Prado. And then when I was hanging out at the union, somebody came over to me and said, “I got a job for you. You want to work with Noro Morales?” And I said, “Yeah.” Because I was hip to him. He made a few big band records. And of course his brothers were equally famous - Esi and Umberto. So I played in a small group with him. And I didn’t know what clavé was or anything. In fact he cursed me out all summer. He said, [laughs] “Learn the clavé.” I said, “Oh! that’s what it is!” So that was my entry into Latin music. ML: So it was really once you got to New York, not anything connected with your Mexican heritage or growing up in New Mexico. MD: Nope. ML: It was something you had to learn. MD: I was into jazz. I was plenty into jazz. So he gave me a bass player, told me what the clavé was. ML: Before you moved to New York, you said you spent some time in Chicago while you were in the military. And I was doing some reading - it said you were doing some playing in Los Angeles. You went to Mexico via certain other cities. What was your early professional career - before you moved to New York - like? And what prompted you to make the move? MD: Well, my friends were playing in this - I don’t know what you would call it. The closest thing would be like Tex-Mex. We would play tunes in English and also in Spanish. And then when I went into the army, I didn’t go in as a musician, but I was playing in a band. A jazz band. And we worked around Lantry and down to Champaigne. We worked around there and then on the weekends I went up to Chicago and heard some 79 of the guys there - Henry “Red” Allen was playing there. So I became aware of those guys, and then when I got out, I went to University of New Mexico at Albuquerque... ML: on the GI Bill... MD: Right, on the GI Bill, and then I started to play all the time. I was a terrible student, but I was playing all the time. And I did that until I went to Los Angeles and when I was in Los Angeles, I was playing there at the Lighthouse, you know, and south of there, there were some clubs there. We played up in San Francisco. And then I moved to Juarez and I was working a jazz gig there. I was working at Little No. 2 and playing seven nights a week. And then Charlie Parker died. And I said, “Jesus. I better get to New York before they all die.” Because, you know, Fats Navarro had died. A lot of people were junkies back then and were dying really fast. So that’s how I came to New York. ML: OK MD: And when I came to New York, I started to work in Harlem a lot, which I said, “Thank the Lord” for because we were playing seven days a week, 6 hours a night, seven hours on Sunday. And we played a set an hour - we played forty minutes on, twenty minutes off. And you do that seven nights a week, you’re going to play a lot of tunes you’re going to repeat a lot of tunes. So that’s where i really learned how to play jazz. And it wasn’t so much that I was going for an education, because I was in the middle of it. ML: That was your education. MD: Yeah. I played in those clubs a lot. And, because I was heterosexual, I started to get into some of that essence thing. [laughs] And I said to all of them, “For some reason or another I’m learning to play jazz. And I like it.” And then they had those riots in 1963 80 and then I couldn’t get a job up there. Nobody could work up there. No, man. So that sort of screwed things up. ML: Was it because you weren’t African-American or was it just in general? MD: It was a black-white war there. And if you weren’t black, forget about it. But then I started working in the latin bands and then we worked all the time. The South Bronx was happening, man. I worked with Charlie Palmieri, Ricardo Ray, Joe Pistrano, all the other Joes. I worked with Machito. Oh, yeah, and then I met Patato [Valdez]; he was playing with Machito at the time. They used to do a gig every summer up in the mountains - the Catskills. And this particular time, I worked up at the Mountains for the first and last time. I hated it. But they used to have a jam session at the Paramount Hotel every night. And so I went to the session and all the guys from the Machito band would be hanging. So that’s when I ran into Chocolate.....[lists musicians] So I became the greatest friend of Patato. Patato used to take me to the Santeria things... ML: Ah, OK. MD: and I played some of those Santeria things. That was really interesting. ML: Now what were those groups like? MD: I was the only horn player actually... ML: I was going to say... MD: Yeah, there were a lot of drums - a lot of percussion and singers and ??? And I said, “What I am going to play?” He said, “Whatever you feel like. Whatever you feel like.” And I said, “OK.” So when I’d hear something, I’d play. And the people liked it; they were mostly Cuban - mostly black [Afro-Cuban]. And don’t bug ‘em... ML: Now were these rituals or performances? 81 MD: There had to be some ritualistic thing, because there was always a room that had all the offerings. And I looked in the room [laughs] and I said, “The room is full of fruit!” You know, fruit and candles and incense. You know, it was great. ML: Now one of the things I’m interested in is whether or not any of that Santeria stuff carried over into, for example, any of the arrangements of the Machito band? Or, you know, obviously if Patato is playing at those Santeria functions - Did you perceive any element of that in the work you were doing with Noro or Machito? MD: Not really. ML: It was two separate things. MD: Yeah. Machito was essentially a dance band. And we were playing son montuno that’s for sure. But very little of that other stuff. In fact, you know, when I had my group down at Nuyorican Poets Cafe, I was featuring Patato. And one of the things that he did was - he did a solo on “Song for My Father” And he would sing and play. And after that tune, they [the Afro-Cubans, santeros] would come. [both laugh] They would come, man. Four or five different drummers would come and they would start a rumba. And I was fascinated with the rumba. I said, “I want to do something with this, but what am I going to do?” I can’t understand what he’s talking about in the first place. There’s no form to this thing, but there’s a swing to it. I wanted to play. So I would do it, I would jump in whenever I felt like it and then play something. But it was always something I was interested in. I have a tape where he’s doing that rumba and he sort of invites the band to come in [ sings drum solo with break]. And then [sings 6/8 bass tumbao] then the whole things comes down. I had to play something! So I started to play something and there was a little bit of form in what I was doing that was really 82 coinciding with it nicely. So I started thinking about maybe writing something with that kind of rhythm. I haven’t written it yet, but I still want to. ML: Oh, man, do you still have that tape? MD: Yeah. I’ll play it for you. ML: I’d love to hear that. So we’re talking about it - the whole clavé thing and fitting in with what the percussion is doing. I’ve been doing a lot of listening this year - groups like Machito’s band, where they’re more aligned with the clave, and other groups like - I was listening to a Milt Jackson record the other day with Chano Pozo - where it’s essentially straight ahead bebop with a conga drum. And I’m perceiving almost like a spectrum more in clavé and further aware from it. So I wanted to ask you about what you think the role of clavé is in latin jazz. MD: You know Mario would tell the story about how he brought Chano to Dizzy. and Patato - he was the original Chano Pozo - but he couldn’t get a visa or something from Cuba. So he couldn’t get over here. So he brought Chano instead of him. and then listening to it, essentially, the band would play “Manteca” and Chano would play [ sings “Manteca”] or a bebop tune and Chano would play - without any thought as to “what am I doing here?” So it didn’t start gelling until much later, I think, when people like, I don’t know... They would start incorporating the percussion much more into the jazz side of things and constructing the jazz on more of a clave frame. And even now it’s not all there, you know. If someone wants to go that way, but there isn’t something to make that connection because jazz music chord-wise is moving a lot faster - twice as fast as clave. So how are you going to make that coincide? So I figure that a lot of times it coincides if I play 64-bar tunes, which would be double bars, you know. So tunes like “Just the Way 83 You Look Tonight” have more of a clavé kind of thing because the chords move in sets of twos rather than sets of one. So they fit better. So now when I’m playing in a band and we’re kind of faking it and playing a latin jazz tune, I think of that - tunes like “Caravan.” A tune that is based on 64 bars, so that there won’t be any hassles. Otherwise the chords move too fast for a clavé. And there’s nothing wrong with that, I mean, we’ll eventually meet at the end, but it doesn’t have that connection that when you play an 8 beat bar rather than a 4 beat bar. The clave is two bars. So I think that the problem - and it’s a problem for people who want to write jazz that has a clave to it - so it is a big problem, but it is an interesting problem [unintelligible] ML: Can you think of anybody in particular who is especially good at bringing those two things together? MD: Not really. They’re not thinking along those lines. They think about whether it’s a latin tune or a jazz tune ML: OK MD: And rather having to think about “how am I going to make this fit?” but it works better if it does fit, of course. But many people have tried. You know, Stan Kenton used to try that- had the conga, bongo players - stuff like that. But I don’t know if they ever consciously said, “I’m going to make a tune that fits with the clavé,” as opposed to “I’m going to make a tune that fits with the chords.” ML: Yeah MD: And the chords are essentially two-five kind of chords that are typical to jazz, rather than son montuno. I never had a problem with son - never. as a matter of fact, I used to have a solo on “Son Cubano,” which is an old Machito tune . And I would go in front of 84 the band and I said, “I like that” and it became my number. I would play a flugelhorn solo. So it was alright and I didn’t have to think about everytime - like I said - be conscious of the fact that you’re playing on 4-1-2-3 rather than 1-2-3-4. And I would take that into consideration when I was playing my solos. And Mario liked that. He would say, “Oh I like the connection you’re making. You’re making the connection already.” One time he and Machito - when Machtio was still alive and Mario was playing lead alto for him - they were talking about musicians and they were talking abou tme and they said, “this guy can play our thing.” And I knew what he was talking about. ML: Yeah, yeah that’s great. MD: It’s no problem to me. As a matter of fact, I liked hearing it. It was confirmation that I was on the right track. ML: So I guess those lessons with Noro worked out alright. [MD nods] ML: When you came to New York, you had a pretty inauspicious beginning... MD: A terrible beginning. But then again, fate... ML: Right, that’s what I was going to say. It landed you at... MD: It landed me at the Cafe Bohemia... ML: Which is a great place to land... MD: In fact, it was the Blue Note of that year. [unintelligible] not only that, but to be able to listen to Miles Davis and his group and Cannonball Adderley and his group for eight hours a day! ML: How long were you there before you went up to the Shalimar? MD: What? 85 ML: You left there eventually and went up to work at Shalimar, right? MD: Yes, about a year. On one occasion, Roy Eldridge was booked at the Cafe Bohemia. But he took sick. It was just him and a rhythm section - a quartet. So that night I went up to the...I was living at the Hotel Marie Antoinette, which is now a Tower Records shop at the corner of 66th and Broadway. ML: Oh, ok. MD: One of the people that was living there was Red Garland. Red Garland’s from Texas and I had met him before in California. So we had rapport right just from being from neighboring states. So when I came here, I had my horn stolen and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was talking to Red, because we’re in the same building, and he said, “what are you going to do now?” and I said, “well i gotta get a job doing anything, man, so I can buy another horn.” And he said , “I’m glad you told me that, because usually when musicians get their horn stolen, they turn around and steal somebody else’s horn. And I like your approach and you’re not going to go rip somebody off. You’re going to do something, wash dishes or whatever.”...he said, “come with me.” So he took me down to the cafe bohemia and he said to the manager - he wanted to get me a job as a waiter. I had never waited a table. [laughs] you know how you have a little tray when you’re a waiter, and you have a little napkin underneath the tray? So, my supervisor was this black guy who was the cashier - gay, very gay - wasn’t down with anybody. so he tells me, “you haven’t waited any tables before!” and I said, “yes I have! yes I have!” he said, “you didn’t even know enough to put that napkin under your tray!” [both laugh]. So eventually he found out that I was a trumpet player, and I was a Mexican and he says, “you know, the two kinds of people Jimmy [the owner?] hates the most in the world are 86 Mexicans and trumpet players!” [laughs] I worked there for a little while until I could buy a horn...I bought it at a pawn shop. ML: Now, you had a chance to hang out with all the musicians that were at the Bohemia. MD: Yeah, i hung out with a little. I mean, everyone knew who I was. I was Manuel, the waiter. ML: Oh, ok MD: Now that one day that Roy was sick, I said, “Well, I’m gonna take a chance and Jimmy’s going to hit the ceiling and I told him, “You know, Jimmy, I’m a trumpet player, there’s no business here because Roy’s not playing. Would you mind if I get my horn and play with these guys? (unintelligible) [he said] “You play trumpet, kid?” I said, “yeah.” He said, “Go ahead and get it” So I got my horn and I played with those guys for two or three days, something like that. I got paid for it too! But I got a chance to play with everybody. When a band would come in - say, Art Blakey would come in - and they’d be sitting there at the sound check or something. and Jimmy would come up to them and say, “I don’t know why that fuck thinks he’s so hot; I’ve got a waiter who plays better than him!” [both laugh] So they would say, “bring ‘em on!” so I started playing with everybody. You know, I’d go up to the bandstand and say, “You know, stop payin’ attention to what Jimmy says, man. I play, but I’m not, you know, Dizzy Gillespie, so take it easy on me. Let’s play some blues or something like that” And so that’s how I played with everybody. Rodney Cuba[?] and I were talking about one day and he was telling some of the guys, “yeah, you know where I met this guy?” He says, “yeah, I went down to the Bohemia one day and there was Manny playing with Buddy Rich!” Beautiful. 87 ML: Do you remember who was in that Roy Eldridge band? The rhythm section? It was a long time ago. MD: No, man. [pause] Bob Hammond was the pianist. [pause] no. ML: But still you got a chance to play there with a lot of people...Buddy Rich, Paul Quinichette- is that right? - Art Blakey. MD: Charlie Rouse... ML: One of my favorites... MD: Bobby Scott, Mel Lewis?...lots of people ML: And then you went up to Harlem and stuff started happening. What were the circumstances behind you joining Machito’s band? MD: Tony[??] was playing lead trumpet for Machito. He saw me, liked me, liked my playing, so he said, “I want to get you in that band.” I said, “oh, man” I was really hungry for that gig. One personal experience I had with Machito was I went to the Palladium and Nacho was working there and the band was getting ready to go on. I walk into the club and I saw the bandstand. Mario Bauza was sitting there and he was playing alto then and he was sitting there with his legs crossed waiting and I said to myself, ‘That’s the most comfortable man in the world. [ laughs] He’s sittin there like he owns the world, man. And sure enough the band came on and they hit. and I said, ‘oh lord have mercy. Give me a chance to play in that band.’ so I got that chance through tony. he got me on the band. and I stayed on the band for 10 years - something like that. ML: Now do you remember what year you joined? MD: I remember that - I have a recording of that band, that Max [Salazar] made and he gave me a copy of the CD and it was from 1974. So I joined the band in the early 70s - 88 ‘72 or ‘73 ML: You know, when the whole Afro-Cuban thing hit with Dizzy and Chano, and “Cubano Be”- after a little while it disappeared, I mean at least as far jazz musicians were concerned. Do you have any ideas why that was? I’ve been reading, and seems it was almost like a fad - it came in and came out. There was the Machito band and the other latin bands, but as far... MD: They had an identity, too. They called it cubop. But again Machito’s primarily a dance band. They didn’t get the kind of press that a jazz band would get. and I think that’s the main cause of that because there were certainly a great amount of musicians who played with Machito, even Charlie Parker. but I believe if it had been touted in the jazz media, there’s no reason why it wouldn’t have been written about all over the world. It stinks, man, but that’s what happens. ML: Do you think the language barrier has anything to do with it? MD: Undoubtedly. It’s not so much that it was a barrier, but the media was not about to crossover so that the American people would attend the Palladium but nowhere else. And Machito’s working seven nights a week all over the damn place, playing latin dances. ML: Most of your career you’ve been a sideman. We were talking about this the other day. There are a lot of great sideman that... MD: Yeah, man, I think back on that and say, “If I had had an ounce of brains I would not have been a sideman. I would’ve got my own band.” You know I’m an Indian [laughs], I’m one of the tribe. I love the kind of setting. I was disciplined, nobody knew who I was. But yet I was as important to that band as anybody else. And that’s my gripe 89 through today: the sidemen don’t get any dues. Nobody knows who they are, but yet they’re the people that make the bandleader sound good. The bandleader’s not going to turn around and give them all credit. But they’re the ones that suffer on acccount of it. Unfortunately when you start being a sideman, you’re usually sory kind of young. And you don’t think about those consequences. By the time you think about those consequences, you know, it’s gone. ML: Were there any bands in which you really felt like they appreciated you being there or the opposite... MD: All of them [appreciated me]. ML: So when you say, “no one knows the sidemen,” were you talking about the media? MD: I was always the jazz chair man - always playing in the jazz chair. And they appreciated me being there while I was there, but I never got any kind of credit. In fact one of the things I remember, I was working with Larry Harlow’s band. And I thought about - we’d all been making records, and the records all had to made in a certain time. You had three minutes to make a record. So in order for them to time it to three minutes was almostimpossible, so they would do is play two and half minutes and let the trumpet play a solo and fade out. Sometimes I’d be playing four bars and they’d fade me out. And that was really bad. I was saying, “Come on, man, write a tune for the trumpet player.” That’s nothing new- Duke Ellington would write that all the time. And then of course his people got know because he elevated them - Ray Nance, Clark Terry - all those people would get elevated on that tune that they were featured on. but I had a lot of enjoyment,a lot of fun being a sideman. You were always part of the band and you never had to answer to anybody. Nobody wanted to interview you so I was free to enjoy life, get high, 90 and play - what else is there? ML: Yeah MD: And look for chicks. ML: It’s a little different now though... MD: It’s completely different... ML: You’re leading your own group. MD: Leading [my] own group, writing [my] own material. And to this day I’m saying, “jesus christ, people are all writing their own stuff.” And if you look back to tin pan alley, there’s nobody writes as good as Jerome Kern, or Irving Berlin or Cole Porter. Or you could name a million of them. There’s just nobody, man. As a matter of fact, they don’t play those tunes. They don’t play Billy Strayhorn tunes - JJ Johnson tunes. You know, the people who were writing in the bebop era - great tunes and nobody plays them. And yet they’re just the best kind of tunes. And when it comes to me, those are the kinds of tunes I like to play. Occasionally people tell me, “well, you gotta write some tunes.” then I’ll sit down and write a tune. I’ve been successful - I’m a good song writer. Whatever I’ve written down has been very well received by people, like “Lucretia the Cat” [recorded on Ray Barretto’s The Other Road]. People still talk about that tune and that was 25 years ago. When I play with my band, we play tunes that I write. And I’m always working with the idea that [the people in] my band...deserve to play solos, if they want to play solos. All the people in my band play solos. If there’s six people in the band, then there’s six solos on any tune. The musicians are very happy. sometimes people will say the tune’s too long. It is too long, but we’re there. That’s what we’re there for - we’re there to play. So listen to it! [both laugh] 91 ML: In your group, what’s the concept? Are you putting the band out there as a jazz band that plays in clavé or a jazz band that plays latin jazz? MD: Essentially, every latin jazz band that I’ve heard is a latin band. My way of thinking about what kind of band it is is the rhythm section. If you’re using conga, bongo, timbal, that’s a latin band. If you’re using traps, that’s a jazz band. Now they’re all able to play a tumbao, which is what my band does, but it’s tumbao without the benefit of a conga player who we thought about using, and the biggest reason for that is economic. There’s another reason too: it’s because i like to have a band that plays dynamics. I like the idea of being able to have a bass player play a solo where he doesn’t have to go up in volume. The rest of the rhythm section will come down in volume so you can hear his solo and he’s playing at the same comfort level that he does when he plays jazz. All the latin bass soloists in the world, they’re playing too loud - they have to to keep up with the rest of the rhythm section. The piano player is the same way. Everybody’s too loud, consequently you have a lot of tonalities that are distorted because of the high volume level. And you don’t have the benefit of being able to play soft. I want that for my band because my band is primarily one of improvisation. We have people playing jazz solos to any kind of tunes. I write tunes that are essentially latin kind of tunes and when it comes time for the solos, I’ll have them play solos on regular changes of a tune, like “What Is This Thing Called Love” or “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was” so the soloist can go ahead and expound something else besides the montuno and they like that too. And I think that’s the difference between my band and other bands. Unfortunately a lot of times people that give out the jobs - if you don’t have those other instruments visually, then say, “What kind of a band is this? You don’t have...” And I say, “this is what I got. listen 92 to he music.” ML: You all are planning a recording some time soon, hopefully... MD: Yeah...[pause] Recording is something else, too. all I’ve got is a live recording. Nobody seems to be using the studio these days. It’s a symbol of the times. Because of the time element and the financial element, I’m not able to tell you, “well, do another take” during the performance. Well, if it comes out, that’s it. and I like it. We have the best kind of immediacy and intimacy of a live session and the soloist can’t say, “well I can play anything I like, because if I fuck it up, I’ll have another take.” What you see is what you get. ML: Like the old days with Prestige. MD: Yup. It’s a good concept. ML: I know we’ve talked about some already, but could we talk about some of your favorite recording dates? We mentioned the one with Ray Barretto, and Ricardo Ray. Are there any others that come to mind? MD: Mario Bauzá - I like his records. the Machito - Dizzy Gillespie album was great. I loved working on that one. I liked recording with Richie Ray; I always dug that. The Vladimir album - the conjunto 66 - love that album. It’s not what you’d’ve called a successful band, but, geez, that was such a good band. ML: The vocalist on that album is Ismael Quintana? right? MD: One of ‘em. El Watusi was doing it, [names: pepin, davida?] whoever was available. There were about two or three guys who knew all of the book. ML: When the whole Fania thing hit... MD: I was really disappointed in that. 93 ML: Really? MD: That was sort of a side of the whole thing and I wasn’t into the mix. Richie Ray recorded with them a lot. But they were hung up on...their trumpet players, who were they?...the Fania trumpet players.. [pause] There were two or three trumpet players they used all the time and they were sort of in the mix. I wasn’t in the mix. ML: And how did that happen? Or how did it not happen? I mean, was it political? MD: [laughs] Stop right there. ML: OK. [pause] MD: It was the same thing with Ralph Mercado. I played with Richie Ray at a club in Brooklyn in Flatbush. The name of the club was “On Top of the Carwash.” There was no sign, but there was a car wash and a room on top of it that he and Ralph used torent to put on dances. And Richie Ray was the band that was playing there most of the time. “On Top of the Carwash” - that’s where those guys started. But after they went over there, then they wouldn’t give me the time of day. Now I see Ralph at people’s funerals and he’s very nice to me. But he never did give me any work, which I thought sort of sucked...Because I wasn’t tipico, I was jazz. ML: Oh, OK. Now in contrast, from Max’s article, you talked about a tour of Puerto Rico – I think it was 1978 - with Miguelito Valdes and Charlie Palmieri. MD: Machito’s band... ML: Were any of those performances recorded? MD: I don’t think so. ML: But several of them were televised? 94 MD: Yeah, you’re right. Some of them were televised. Because I have a picture of channel 47 or something like that - but in the picture you see Machito and Graciela. You see Mario was playing lead alto. Mario Vivela[??] was playing baritone. And then the four trumpets were out front blowing. On the one that I’m talking about, I was out front and I had my trumpet go like that [pointing bell up in the air] - with a full head of hair and a beard [both laugh]. But I always liked that picture, because it was like a publicity shot for me. But they had to have been recorded, right? I’ve never heard any of that. ML: I’ll look into it. I’ll see what I can find. Now when you say, “Mario was playing lead alto,” Do you mean Mario Bauzá or Mario Grillo? MD: Bauzá . ML: OK, but you worked with Machito’s son, Mario, in the band, right? You stayed in the band [after Machito died]? MD: Yeah. He played timbal. [pause] Then of course we recorded. That’s why I have this band that Max Salazar recorded. I’ll lend it to you, so you can hear it. ML: Great. MD: I have to find it first. [interview winds down as espresso arrives...] 95 Interview with saxophonist Bobby Porcelli Author’s note: This interview of saxophonist Bobby Porcelli was conducted March 25, 2007 at a coffee shop near Mr. Porcelli’s apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Mr. Porcelli has a storied career as one of the only sidemen to have played with each of the “The Big 3”—the Latin bands of Machito, Tito Puente and Tito Rodriguez. Mr. Porcelli is on some the most seminal Latin jazz albums recorded over the past fifty years. A lifelong New Yorker, Mr. Porcelli was born on December 16, 1937, surrounded by a famly of caring Italian-American musicians. Currently he is a member of the Lincoln Center Afro-Latin Orchestra, under the direction of Arturo O’Farrill, and works frequently with T.S. Monk. Mark Lomanno: A little bit about your family life…you’re Italian-American, right? Bobby Porcelli: Yeah, my father came over from Italy when he was about 18 or so and got married over here [the United States]. My mother was born here, but her parents were born in Italy. They were all from the same town. I think the families knew each other. My older brother was a child prodigy [on piano]—sort of—in music… ML: Really? BP:…but he chose not to be a musician. He’s now a very successful engineer. My younger brother followed in his footsteps—my older brother’s footsteps—and he’s also a very successful engineer, they’re both extremely intelligent and successful. And then there’s me. I started out following in his footsteps and I went to Columbia [University] as he did—and as my younger brother did. I started in engineering—what they call pre- 96 engineering. And after two years, when it got to the point when I had to really start at the Engineering School, I just chickened out and said, “No, I want to play,” and I switched to music. So that was the story of that. And we grew up in the North Bronx. ML: Do you know the name of the town that your dad came from in Italy? BP: In Italy? Yeah, they came from Bari ML: From Bari? OK. And was there a lot of music in your house [when you were] growing up? BP: Oh yeah, because they were both musicians. My mother was an excellent— excellent—pianist. She could have—she was on her way to a career as a concert pianist. And when she got married—in the old-fashioned way, she gave it up, and just stayed in the house and taught piano lessons. My father was a saxophone player, and clarinet, too. So he started us all out on clarinet and sax; my mother started us out on piano. ML: Oh, wow. BP: So we always had music in the house. Not to say that my father approved of me— what I was doing, especially when he saw the kind of music I was trying to play. He was kind of afraid, you know? Some of the things that he said would happen to me actually did happen. Bad things, you know. But, I found out through other people that he was very proud of me later on. He died in 1968. ML: In ’68. BP: My mother just died a couple months ago. She was 94. ML: I remember talking to you about that. BP: That’s right. ML: Your dad was a professional musician? 97 BP: Yeah. ML: And what kind of music did he play? BP: When I knew him, when I was old enough to see what he was doing, he was playing what they called “club dates,” basically weddings and things like that. And he was teaching also. Just recently I’ve been hearing things about him from people—that he was much more than that. And I have photos of him with what was obviously a jazz band. The drummer had this big thing written on his drum—“Original Savannah Five”—like Dixieland-type bands, I think. So apparently he did that also, but I never heard him play it. At the time I was old enough, I guess, aware enough, I don’t remember hearing him ever trying to play jazz or anything. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. I know a lot of this stuff is hereditary. The thing about him was his sound. Recently I was talking to a guy who studied with him and he said, “What a sound he had! What a great sound!” And that’s one of the things people always say about me. And as far as the ear, I’ve always had a very good ear; and that my mother had. It’s something you’re born with, you know—a very, very good relative pitch where you can play anything in any key. You don’t worry about transposing, learning how to transpose and all this. If you can sing it in your head, you can play it in any key. Period. And I could do that when I was five years old. I remember things like writing “The Star Spangled Banner”—just writing it on paper in different keys, you know. Not perfect pitch, but better in a way because I didn’t have to be hindered by, if a piano’s out of tune, it would drive me crazy. I just went with it: if the piano’s a half tone sharp, I’d just play everything in another key. Whereas a person with perfect pitch has a problem with that… 98 ML: I don’t know, man. For you to exclude yourself out of the prodigy realm there…I mean, not many five-year-olds are transposing “The Star Spangled Banner.” BP: Yeah, yeah. ML: Your dad’s name was… BP: Joseph. ML: And your mom’s name… BP: Teresa. ML: Do you remember her maiden name? BP: Berardi. ML: B-A-R…? BP: B-E-R-A-R-D-I. ML: So they came over…well, your mom was here and your dad came over… BP: Yeah, she was born in what is now Spanish Harlem when it was, I guess, an Italian area. But she was born there, but soon after she was born, they moved to Mount Vernon. They lived in Mount Vernon all their lives. When she met my father and she got married, they moved to a place in the North Bronx. And my mother was there until about eight years ago when she finally couldn’t…she had to be moved to a nursing home. She was losing her memory and she had people taking care of her. It was not enough anymore. It was time for her. So that was very painful, you know, to leave that place with all those years and everything. ML: Did she keep playing the piano? BP: Well, not when she moved out of there. Up until the time she was there [the nursing home] she was still playing some, yeah. And we used to play…I used to play flute and 99 piano things with her. We used to play together. But then, as the years went on—to my regret—I would do it with her less frequently. There was a time when I moved back home around 1968 and I stayed until 1971 or 1972. And during that period we were playing every day, all the time. And it was good for me, too. It was great for her to be able to play music—to make music with someone. And for me, my flute playing reached a higher level than I’ve had since, I think. It’s gone way down since then. And we used to do it all the time. But, when I moved back downtown—to where I am now, in fact; I’ve been there for 35 years or so—I would go visit her whenever I could and I should have done it more often. I really regret it now. And she would always want me to play—would want me to prepare this piece. She was so great, such a great player. I mean she could play anything. Like I was saying, she had this great ear. I feel like…I wonder if she wasted her talent. I wonder if she had regrets about her career and everything. It’s impossible to know. ML: She was conservatory-trained? BP: Well, no. She had a teacher she used to go see, and then they sent her to this big-time teacher down at the Carnegie Hall building. And she was doing that. They were going to send her to some professor and then it never happened. And in those days, I guess it was like, maybe [difficult] for a woman, also. I don’t know all the details. But it never did happen. And then she got married and it was all forgotten. So I wonder if she all wondered what would have been. ML: Hers was classical repertoire mainly? BP: Yeah. Oh, she was great, I’m telling you. When I hear those pieces [she used to play], like some of the Chopin—and all different stuff she used to play—I remember how 100 great she was. And it’s a shame, in a way, that she didn’t pursue it. But I just hope she had a happy life. I wonder about it. After my father died—she was only about 56 years old when he died (he was 66)—and she went the rest of her life living alone over there, except for those years with me. And I just hope that—I don’t know—I just wonder if we could have done more to make her life happy: maybe encourage her to go out or meet someone else. I guess that could have never happened in those days. ML: Do you have extended family in town? BP: At the time, you mean? ML: In general BP: There’s not as many left as there were then. There’s my two brothers and…we have a few cousins, but they don’t live in New York anymore. There’s not that much here, really. Not that many. ML: What are your brothers’ names? BP: The oldest brother’s Joseph and the youngest brother’s Richard. ML: OK. That’s the nice Italian-American tradition of naming the first-born son after the dad. BP: Yeah, I guess. (laughs) ML: So, your dad may have played jazz… BP: Yeah, I think he probably…from those photos, he must have played some jazz. Some either Dixieland or swing-type jazz. And he was aware of things; like he would tell me about people to listen to. But he wasn’t too happy when he would see the people I was listening to. He said, “That’s bebop. That’s bebop. That’s drugs,” and this and that. He 101 was aware of it. But he came once a copy of Coleman Hawkins’s “Body and Soul,” the famous solo transcription. ML: Sure, OK. BP: There were some many notes on it—I couldn’t play it. He gave me a book of Charlie Parker solos one time. ML: So, that sounds fairly encouraging. Or was it that he saw you were interested…? BP: Yeah, he saw I was interested. But he always talked about people like Jimmy Dorsey and the guy named Dick Stabile who actually became the bandleader behind Martin and Lewis for years. He was that good. And my father used to talk about him and several others and I found out later they were excellent sax players. ML: What about Rudy Wiedoeft? BP: No, he didn’t mention him. He mentioned Al Galadoro who is a legendary guy; he’s in his 90s and still playing. But I was really like a young know-it-all and listening to, especially someone like Jackie McLean. Now that—I understand how that could really grate on someone who’s not really in that world. ML: Plus McLean had a fairly public drug problem. BP: Yeah, I don’t know if he knew about that. But his [McLean’s] playing was really outof-tune and harsh. If I had at that time been listening to some of the people I listen to now…like I know my father and I could have met on common ground. Like talking about Coleman Hawkins, Benny Carter, Johnny Hodges. I know he’d loved them. I don’t know if he knew them, but, if he did, he loved them. The way they played…that was more in the style that he was accustomed to hearing. And they were better than most of the guys that I liked anyway. 102 ML: So, was there jazz in the house? I mean, obviously, since there’s Coleman Hawkins… BP: Well, the recordings we had. We had Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller and one I really loved, a Jimmy Lunceford record. These were 78s in those days. It was Jimmy Lunceford playing “Blues in the Night” with his band and there was a beautiful, beautiful alto sax solo. Years later I bought the CD just to hear it again, you know. There were a lot of things—there was Harry James and those kind of things, swing records. And they had an album of boogie-woogie pianists, which I loved also. ML: Oh, the Meade Lux Lewis… BP: Yeah, it had all different people on it. Meade Lux Lewis, Jimmy Yancey, James…I don’t know…Mary Lou Williams was on it, I remember that. There was a song called “Yancey Special.” I forget who the other ones were now. But they were all on this big album. You know, what they called an “album” in those days: a big set of 78s. And we had some Dixieland also. ML: So I guess the real question is not how you came to jazz as a young musician, but how came to latin jazz, because your first record was Sabu… BP: Sabu [Sabu Martinez, Jazz Espagnole]. Well, I owe so much to Barry Rogers, a legendary guy. You know about him? You’ve heard of him? Of course, I used to see him in high school—we went to the same high school, even though he left to go to another school. I didn’t know him then, but I used to see him. And then when I met him, we started hanging out and he would take me around. He introduced me to everything. He took me to the jazz jam sessions. He got me into the Hugo Dickens band, this legendary 103 band. And that band used to play latin music, as well as jazz and R&B. So I got to know some of the guys and I got involved in the latin scene, as well as the jazz scene. ML: So it was really through Hugo Dickens, by means of Barry Rogers? Marty Sheller was in that band, wasn’t he? The trumpet player… BP: Later on. ML: And he and you played together on the Sabu record. BP: Right. I met Marty at Columbia University when I was going to school there and we’ve been friends ever since. ML: Were you involved in the music scene at Columbia, while you were at Columbia? I mean, at the school? BP: Well, when I changed from engineering, I took a straight liberal arts course with what they called a “concentration in music.” I took a lot of music courses, but as far as playing jazz, we had to do it ourselves. We formed a group. We had to ask permission to use the lounges in the dorms so we could play a concert. ML: So your training was performance-based? Or music history? BP: The courses I took at Columbia were like music history, harmony, counterpoint. ML: OK. So how did you meet Sabu? You started in the Hugo Dickens band… BP: Marty Sheller had gotten into the Latin scene—heavier than I was, in fact—there were little bands. He met some guys—Louie Ramirez, Frankie Mallaby (???)—some of these other guys that were on the scene. They formed a band and Marty, being my friend and liking my playing, I guess and all, got me in the band. So that was the band, but Sabu wasn’t there yet. And somehow one of them got to know Sabu and he was expressing his 104 interest in having the band. And he took the band and he replaced our conga player. That’s how the band came to be. ML: Just so I have my timeline right here. This happened around the time you were at Columbia? BP: Well, yeah, I guess so. ML: So was that around 1956, ’57? BP: No, later, I think. I’m not sure, but… ML: The Sabu record is listed as [being released in] ’61. BP: So it must have happened in ’60 or ’61 then. I graduated in ’60. ML: You graduated from Columbia in 1960 with a BA in Liberal Arts? BP: Yeah, that’s it. ML: Not many people know about the Sabu record…anymore BP: Well… ML: I mean, it’s kind of like… BP: It’s always been one of these “cult” things, like, Latin music fans, I think most of them. I don’t know how young these people are, but, they’ve always talked about it. ML: Yeah. BP: … to the point where I wonder, “Boy, what’s the big deal?” ML: OK, so you’re … In the Latin jazz world, it’s well known. BP: I guess it is, yeah. And also that Vladimir record we did, with Manny and I, and some other big people. Bobby Rodriguez is on it. ML: And then you did the Tico All-Stars at the Village Gate, too. BP: Yeah. 105 ML: And that was with Cachao, right? BP: Cachao and Bobby Rodriguez. Yeah. ML: That must have been an experience as a young musician, playing with Cachao. BP: Yeah, well, I had played with him prior to that with Tito Rodriguez’s band. He was a base player. ML: Okay. BP: At that time, I was in Puente’s band, and several of us from Puente’s band were part of that group, as well as some other guys, Barry, and a lot of other big names. ML: Uh-huh. So, you played with Tito Rodriguez first, but didn’t record with him, is that right? BP: Yeah, oh yeah. ML: Oh, you did? BP: Two and a half recordings that I’m on. ML: Do you know the names of them? BP: Aaahh. The first one was, when I first joined the band, we did one called Chronicle of the Americas. These are our, we have them on CD also. ML: Really? ‘Cause I couldn’t find any of them. BP: Oh, yeah. Chronicle of the Americas. Then there was one called Tito Number 1. In fact, that title has to do with the big rivalry between Tito Puente and Tito Rodriguez. And then the third has one song that’s famous, they call “This is My Orchestra,” which we really recorded at the session if Tito Number 1, but it was put on this other CD; I don’t know the name of it. That one tune I’m on; the rest is some other stuff. ML: But the name of the album is This Is My Orchestra? 106 BP: No, the name of the song on it that I played on. It’s like a take off, I guess, on what did Kenton with his band, where he introduces each person one by one, and they play a little short feature. ML: OK. BP: And so many people in Latin America know me from that record, because he announces my name, and I play this beautiful melody. It’s the most beautiful melody of all the feature numbers. ML: Written or improvised? BP: Written. And he announces me “All the way from Rome, Italia.” So many people think either I was born in Italy, or my folks came from Rome, because of Tito Rodriguez saying that. Those are good records, though, those first to. ML: Yeah, yeah. That’s kind of why I started looking into your discography. BP: And on the first one, the picture of the band on the cover, and you’ll see me and Mario Rivera, two young cats on the cover. ML: Alright. So, who was number one? BP: Well, you know there people who preferred both men. I think Tito Puente had the greater stature, but Tito Rodriguez was a great singer. He was great, and a lot of people liked his band better. He was more clean and precise. He was more, light, jazzy type arrangements. It’s really a matter of opinion. But I think Tito Puente was a slightly bigger name. ML: Yeah. 107 BP: When I moved from Rodriguez to Puente, my first impression was that I was really disappointed, because it seemed less organized, less precise, less… Then I realized it’s got something else; it’s not that, but it has other things. It had a lot of fire, looseness. ML: So who was doing the arrangements for these cats? BP: Well, Tito Puente did a lot of his own arrangements. I’d say, at that time, probably ninety percent of the arrangements were his. Tito Rodriguez had a couple of people: Greg Santos, a couple were written by Hernandez, and by a guy named Harold Wainwright, a trumpet player. He wrote a lot of stuff. And Artie Azenzer wrote a lot of this stuff. ML: And Rene Hernandez and you worked together on the Machito band, because he did a lot of writing for the Machito band. BP: Also, I left Rodriguez to go with Machito, then I went back to left Machito to go back with Rodriguez, and when I went back, they had made a trade of piano players, and Rene Hernandez was playing with Tito Rodriguez for a while. And then he wrote these beautiful things that are on that Tito Number 1 album. I think that that was good. But there was a while when he was playing with Tito Rodriguez. ML: Alright. And this is all around… BP: Mid 60s. When I went and sat in with Machito’s band, that was the big mindblowing experience. The first time I sat in with that band and heard those sounds around me. That was like another world all together. It was so unbelievable. I remember thinking, “This must be what it’s like to go sit in with Duke Ellington’s band or Basie’s band or something.” Because all the original guys were still there—it was 1965. Most of the original guys were still there and they had created the sound and a way of playing. It was so phenomenal. 108 ML: Who do you remember in the band that first time you sat in? BP: Well, Mario Bauza and Leslie Jonnikens. All the famous guys, original guys. Pin Madera, Paquito Davila (the trumpet player), Chocolate, Rene. I remember almost everybody. Some of them are not really recognizable names, like this guy Julian played conga, ?? Colon played timbales, he also wrote arrangements. Things changed, sometimes we had two on trumpet, this guy Giapato, different bass players also. It was great; it was just great. ML: So you sat in, but you played a couple years… BP: Yeah, I played in the band. ML: I found [you played for] two years BP: I didn’t play that long with the band in ’65, maybe for about five months or so, but then I went back and did gigs here and there and did a recording, that “Fireworks” recording. That was later in the 70s. but I was there at the right time. Like I said, the original guys were still there. It’s never sounded like that since. And I did a great recording with them called Mucho Mucho Machito. Oh, I gave you that. ML: Yeah, it is a great album. You spent some time with Mongo, too. BP: Played with him in ’67. And then I went back again around ‘88 or ‘89, but at that time I stayed around for several years. ML: So, Tito Puente, Tito Rodriguez, Machito, Mongo, Eddie Palmieri, Chico O’Farrill… BP: Buddy Rich… ML: And then all the people from the straight-ahead world. BP: Mm-hmm. I mean in the 60s, between Tito Puente and Mongo was Buddy Rich. 109 ML: OK BP: That’s the chronology. ML: You were able to move between latin jazz and straight-ahead pretty easily? BP: Yeah because I never lost sight of my main goal, which was to play jazz. And all through those years, there was a really…music-less period in the 1970s and part of 80s where I played a lot of club dates. I just got involved in it. It was a way of making money. I was playing these weddings and bar mitzvahs every weekend. But all during that period and all the time—all during my whole life—no matter what music I was playing, I was always practicing jazz and thinking it, you know. That was always still there—never left. ML: When I talked to Manny [Duran], because he had the experience of being a Mexican-American and growing up with mostly Mariachi music…He told me when he heard Louis Armstrong, he was all done [with mariachi]. He was jazz all the way. And so, when he joined the Noro Morales band, he said that he actually had to take lessons in playing in clavé and improvising in clavé, which is a sort of unique experience. Usually we figure that, as a Latin American, you kinda have the inside track. BP: Yeah, although Mexican is different. And you can talk to all the percussionists (conga players and so on) who live in New York. They always have this thing about looking down on Mexicans—musically. Mexicans and people from parts of South America. That’s a different thing all together. They don’t think they know what they consider the “real stuff.” ML: Which would be the Caribbean stuff? BP: Yeah. Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Dominican [Republic]. 110 ML: Did you have any kind of experience like that—where you—I mean, to succeed in these bands, there’s a stylistic difference. Manny always talked about playing all the jazz solos—being the jazz soloist in the Noro Morales band. But, as an alto player, you’re out on the forefront… BP: I could say that I didn’t have any problem with that. But there’s always the possibility that guys were laughing at what I was doing and didn’t tell me. That’s always possible. But also I think the trumpet player has to worry about that more than a sax player. They’ve [trumpet players] got a certain tradition in the way they play Latin music. My friends who I know are really good, pure jazz players—when I hear them play solos in Latin bands, they really make an effort to play a Latin-type solo, whereas a sax player—that’s not expected of him. You could use as your reference Bird with Machito. They expect you [the saxophonist] play bebop or whatever. So I think you don’t have to worry about it. But I think I absorbed enough of it through these years that I don’t think I ever played out of clavé. I think I’m kinda aware of it. ML: Do you think about it consciously? BP: Every once and a while I do, yeah. I try to always be aware. I don’t want to be out of clavé. I don’t want anybody turning around [on the bandstand] looking at me. Because that’s a big thing in Latin music—turning around and looking at somebody. Tito Rodriguez made that famous [laughs]. Puente, too. ML: So would you say that the Bird and Machito stuff, would you call that a benchmark? What is something that people worked with and worked off of? BP: I dont’ know. I’m not sure how many people did. But I would think that it would have had to have been. They’re always talking about Mario Bauzá and Dizzy Gillespie 111 got together and all this. But as far as a sax player soloing over it, they also have Flip Phillips who plays pre-bebop style and other people—Brew Moore, I think, played on some of the Machito things. He’s like a Prez-type player. I think the Bird thing [recordings with Machito] had to be [a benchmark recording]. I’m not sure, though. ML: Your personal opinion. What it sounds like is that the American straight-ahead sax players were coming in and sitting in with these Latin bands and almost setting a precedent for style. As opposed to some of the trumpet players or some of the pianist who were playing a very Latinized style. BP: But I’m not sure how much of that had to do with the way that Bird played or just simply playing the saxophone. To play those typical licks that sound good on the trumpet—they sound corny on the saxophone. Even when I hear Latin saxophone players (Chombo is a famous one), they don’t try to do it either. They try to play jazz. ML: Who’s that again? BP: Chombo Silva. He was the first famous Latin saxophonist who was thought of as a jazz player. He used to play with Latin bands; he never played with a jazz band. ML: Aside from… BP: I mean, I just started playing. I can remember back through the mid 50s, there were American white and black jazz saxophone players playing in the Latin bands. Tito Rodriguez’s band—Bob Berg was there, Joe Farrell was there. In the mid 50s Joe Farrell was there. A lot of guys: Sal Nestico with Puente…All these jazz saxophone players and they just played jazz. That’s all they were expected to do. I mean it’s possible to play jazz and really be out of clavé. I guess that it possible. But most jazz musicians are hip and 112 they become aware of it, being around the guys and maybe they do try to listen for it, like I tried to listen. ML: It’s been my experience that when you’re in a really solid groove—in the percussion and rhythm section that is really solid—that it’s easier to gravitate to it, if it’s not your natural state of being. BP: Mm-hmm. ML: Maybe that’s it. BP: I would always be more worried about that writing for a Latin jazz band, than playing. And then there are certain guys that we used to call the “clavé police.” Sonny Bravo, for instance. When you play with him, he beats clavé with his foot while he’s playing. And [he’ll say,] “I can’t play this. I just can’t play this. It’s out of clavé; I can’t play it. You gotta change it.” You know? He would make you much more paranoid about it. ML: So do you think that’s a natural condition, or do you think that’s learned? BP: What? Being the way he is? ML: Yeah. For example, you were talking about the people with perfect pitch earlier and how they hear an out-of-tune piano and just can’t operate it. It’s against their natural state… BP: Well, I don’t’ know—that’s a good question. I don’t know the answer to that. Because there are some guys that I respect just as much as Sonny that would not be worried about that. They’d make an adjustment: it’s not Latin music, it’s Latin jazz. Maybe if it was just a Latin band—a purely Latin band— maybe then they would think about it more. I don’t know. I think it’s partly his personality and the way he was brought 113 up. He has tremendous respective for everything Cuban. He’s a very proud CubanAmerican. ML: So let’s talk about… BP: Yeah, I’m not sure about that. I remember Marty [Sheller] for instance. He wrote this one tune for Mongo. It’s been recorded; he called it “Mother Jones.” At the rehearsal he didn’t have a title and there was a Mother Jones magazine sitting there. And they asked, “What are we going to call this?” And he said, “Uh…’Mother Jones.’” And the tune is like 13 bars, I think. Every time you get through a chorus, the clavé has to turn around. And I remember people talking about it, saying “Marty, what about that?” Mongo didn’t mind doing it. Marty just said [jokingly], “Fuck the clavé.” Fuck the clavé, that’s it. [laughs] ML: Let’s talk about the difference between a Latin band and a Latin jazz band for a minute. You alluded to it a second ago, saying Latin bands may have stricter ideas as far as clavé is concerned. Are there certain characteristics that stick out in your mind that distinguish the two, Latin music from Latin jazz? BP: Well, Latin music, as you know, has all different types of things in there. You know, I’m not really the right person to answer that question. You know who would have been a great interview is a Ray Vega. He would have been great for this kind of thing. ML: Well there’s more time for that… BP: Yeah, try to get him. ML: There’s more time…there’s always more time. How about Latin jazz and straightahead jazz? 114 BP: Well, you do it kind of instinctively—the way you play the eighth notes is a little different. And it’s not like you have to think so much about it. If you’re playing jazz-type eighth notes, it just doesn’t make it over a Latin rhythm section. Just like it wouldn’t make it over any kind of even-eighth note kind of rhythm section, rather than syncopated. That’s the big difference—the way you’re phrasing. And you do think of the clavé; yeah, I think you do. Not to a point of distraction, you know. That’s the thing that comes to my mind immediately—is the way you phrase your eighth notes. ML: So what makes…theoretically, a straight-ahead jazz musicians goes into a Latin jazz band context. This is not your experience—because you’ve worked so extensively in both—guest soloist, for example. Straight-ahead jazz artist goes into a Latin jazz setting. What are the sorts of things that are going to make his performance successful? What are the adjustments he needs to make, aside from the eighth note phrasing? BP: I can’t think of anything really. ML: Who would he be trying to fit within the group or is it just that he would be out in front of the group—for example, Charlie Parker on the Machito… BP: I think he’d be exactly the same [as he normally plays]. He should be. And then to contradict myself, going along with what I said before about playing jazz saxophone with a Latin band, he didn’t change the way he played his eighth notes when he played with Machito. ML: Right. BP: But I think now guys are more aware of that than they were then. It was new then; there was a different attitude. Now the guys are more into respect for the music and doing things properly. I think there’s more of that kind of attitude now. 115 ML: Just more time and awareness of what distinguishes the Latin music from straightahead. BP: And more pride in the Latin music itself. Before, maybe they were in awe of the jazz musicians, I don’t know. I’m just guessing. They’re not realizing how great their own music is. I’m just guessing about all of this. ML: My feeling listening to the Parker recordings with the Machito band and also the small group sessions that he did [Charlie Parker Plays South of the Border], is that it was later in Parker’s career…They were projects that Norman Granz put together. No matter whether you put Parker with the Machito Orchestra or a polka band, Parker was going to sound like Parker. BP: Right, right. Even though I sometimes hear comments from Latin guys—comments like, “Oh Bird. Everything he played was in clavé. He did it right.” Maybe there’s a lot of people that say other things. ML: Well, Parker was known for his big ears, you know. So I think there are some things that he could have picked up. BP: One of things I do know—that I read—that those guys used to love Latin music. They must have had a lot of respect for it and not thought of it as inferior in any way. You know the original Birdland was one block away from the Palladium. They used to go back and forth. I used to go back and forth… ML: Did you spend much time as an audience member at the Palladium? BP: Yeah. I wouldn’t say much time. I spent a lot of time at Birdland and some other jazz clubs, but I would go up there. That’s the first time I heard Tito Rodriguez and Tito Puente, Machito. 116 ML: You were in high school or college? BP: I was probably in just my first few years of college. Probably around 1956, something like that. ML: To jump ahead a little bit, you’ve recorded several CDs with T.S. Monk… BP: Yeah, I’m still in his band. ML: A lot of people recently—well, Jerry Gonzalez did an album… BP: I was going to talk about him ML:…Danilo Perez did an album, too. Both them.. BP: Monk’s music. ML: Yeah, Latin treatment of Monk’s music. What are your thoughts on…I guess my opinion is that his music lends itself really well to a Latin-type setting… BP: Yeah a lot of it does. ML: Do you have any ideas on why that is? What do you hear in Monk’s music that makes it suitable to a setting like that? BP: Wow. [pauses] I don’t know [laughs]. But I was going to talk about Jerry Gonzalez and Fort Apache because of how brilliant they are. And talking about Latin jazz, that’s one band I would talk about as the height [that Latin jazz] can reach. But to answer that question…what makes Monk’s music…I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. I don’t think all of Monk’s music [lends itself to Latin settings]. But these guys, they’re so brilliant—like Danilo—they’ve changed it [the original characteristics of the music] so much. Maybe they can do it with other composers, too. But Monk’s music is so worthy of this, because it’s such great music. It’s not just like a melody with chord changes underneath it. There’s all kinds of inner voices and movement. And that’s another thing 117 when you talk about soloing on a Monk tune in a jazz setting. If you really want to play those tunes, you really got to know the ins and outs of them. And use that as inspiration for your improvisation. What’s the word? As a foundation. And maybe that’s the same thing. I’m not sure why that is about his compositions because they’re not all the same. His compositions are so different. I don’t know the answer. ML: OK, so let’s talk about Fort Apache. BP: It’s just a great band. A great combination of jazz and Latin. Great. And they’re all brilliant: Jerry Gonzalez and all the guys that play and have played in the band. It’s just about the highest level that there is for that kind of music. ML: The writing? BP: Yeah and the concept and the way it’s played. The way it’s finely performed. They really know about the stuff I have no idea about—like the rhythmic stuff. ML: So they’re studied? BP: Yeah, they’re very knowledgeable. That’s another thing about the young guys now— they’re all so knowledgeable about the music. It’s awesome to me. It’s always something that I’ve felt I needed to get into more and learn—to the point of maybe taking some classes or something because I’m so ignorant. Like I was saying in the beginning, it’s amazing—all these years—some of the things I have not absorbed and learned. And that’s one of them. I should know more about the music I’ve been playing for so many years. And I don’t. ML: Well there’s a difference between experiential knowledge and book knowledge. And I doubt that anybody would scoff at your credentials. 118 BP: My own feeling is that I wish I knew. I guess not to the point where I put in the effort to learn it. But I often think about. There are a lot of things I think doing and I never have time. Probably never will. ML: That’s the mark of a good musician, though. To constantly want to grow… BP: Yeah, well I’ve been wanting to grow for many years and never did. Like studying big band arranging, for instance. That’s one of the things I’ve always wanted to do. I’m afraid to write for a group with more than four or five hours. I wouldn’t try because I don’t know how to do it. ML: Here’s an interesting question that I was thinking about this morning: dancing is a much bigger part of Latin jazz than it is [in] straight-ahead… BP: Now it is. ML: OK, let’s talk about that. BP: That’s another thing about me—I can’t dance. I feel afraid to try it—that I’d look so bad. And I’d expose myself to people. Sometimes I think, “That’s what’s wrong with my playing. It’s that I can’t dance.” That’s one of the things wrong with me. But that’s another thing. Something for me and the psychiatrist. [laughs] What I was just saying about jazz years ago. The story about how people used to dance to it, even into the bebop era. One of my favorite records is Bird at St. Nick’s, when they were playing a dance. And the famous Rockland Palace record that came out a few years ago was at a dance. People were such good dancers that they used to dance to his music. But you’re right of course… ML: People still do dance to Latin jazz but they don’t dance to straight-ahead. Do you think that has any bearing on how popular the music is? There’s no question that today 119 Latin bands—the music of the bands that you played in thirty and forty years ago—is still relatively popular, in the sense that Tito Puente or Machito record… BP: Yeah, but you know, I’m not positive about this. I just go by the people I know and my wife—she’s Puerto Rican. As far as strictly dancing, they weren’t big Puente fans. Going back to the 50s maybe. They were better dancers than they are now, that’s one thing. I do know that, from people I’ve talked to. They were really great dancers and they could dance to anything. Later on, the producers started creating this watered-down type of salsa, calling it “salsa.” Maybe it was the equivalent of disco, in that it was so easy to dance to—What was I starting to say?—well, anyway, my wife would say, “Oh we don’t like dancing to Puente. It’s too fast.” Then she’d rather dance to some of these other popular Latin bands that musically are nowhere comparable. And also the same thing would be true about dancing to Latin jazz. I’m sure they would prefer dancing to a real Latin dance band of today. I’m going back now for the last twenty or thirty years. So, I forget what the question was, and what I started to say. ML: Well, no, I mean, I was just thinking… BP: But dancing to Latin jazz, it’s still got a beat to it that’s a dance beat, in a way, except I don’t know about dancing to Fort Apache and some of that stuff. You’d have to be really good. Like you’ve seen the videos of people dancing in Cuba with just the drums playing. ML: Uh-huh. BP: You’d have to be somebody really good for that. ML: Well, Lincoln Center, for example. The Afro-Latin Orchestra. I’m sure you all play engagements where there’s dancing. 120 BP: No, we only did it once or twice… ML: OK BP: …that there was a dance floor and we played music that was geered for dancing. Only once or twice. Once that I can remember for sure. It was Lincoln Center Outdoors a couple years ago in the summertime. ML: So the answer to this is probably “no,” based on what you’ve said, but do you think that the fact that in general Latin dance bands or Latin bands are still being danced to, does that have any effect on the popularity of the music? Because people aren’t dancing to straight-ahead or swing or anything like that? BP: Does it have any effect on the popularity of Latin jazz? I don’t know. Is it really very popular now? See, I’m not out there very much now. So I don’t know what’s happening, but I never realized that it was that popular. ML: I’m really just looking for your opinion. I mean, if you’ve seen… BP: Because I don’t get out very much to know what’s going on. I just don’t think that dancers that like to dance to Latin bands, that too many of them would enjoy dancing to a Latin jazz band at all. You could do it. If you could get in touch with Ray Vega…what about Peter [Brainin]? You never talked to Peter? ML: I haven’t talked to Peter yet. I’ve got a long list, man. BP: Try to get Ray Vega. I can give you his phone number. Get him. I just spoke to him yesterday, too. ML: And you’ve played on several of his records roo, right? 121 BP: Yeah, well, we go back to Mongo Santamaria, starting in the late 80s. Then Puente and then with his own band. I played with his own band for a couple years. I’m on two recordings. ML: Last question—we were talking earlier about Mario Bauzá , Dizzy Gillespie, and Chano Pozo. It seems to me that that was time when the straight-ahead jazz world was really paying attention to what was going on in the Latin jazz world—where the two were kinda together. BP: I don’t know how many were…They probably were, because I remember Shorty Rogers did some things with Latin people and trying to write in that style. I have this record of the Oscar Pettiford Big Band which I love. It’s always been one of my favorites. And there’s one Gigi Gryce arrangement on there that he even mentioned is inspired by a trip to the Palladium to hear Puente and Machito. If that’s what you mean…I don’t know how widespread it was among all the jazz players. But I think so— Kenny Dorham did a record called Afro-Cuban and I think the respect was always there. They were sensitive people; they had to realize. ML: What I mean is, when those records came out—from the Gillespie band—it sort of spawned all of the Kenny Dorham, the Shorty Rogers—all of that stuff… BP: Probably, yeah. Machito and Chico O’Farrill and Dizzy… ML: But it seems to me that there’s sort of a separation between the Latin jazz world and the straight-ahead jazz world… BP: In what way? 122 ML: In the way that, for example, you know, Latin jazz not getting as much coverage in the [popular jazz trade] magazines or Latin jazz not getting as much attention or as much publicity. That sort of thing. BP: Maybe. Maybe it’s still down upon by a lot of people. Not musicians, but people who read Down Beat. Maybe it’s thought of as something at a lower level. I don’t know if it is. Maybe it is. ML: So, from the musician’s perspective… BP: Not from the musician’s perspective, though. I don’t think so. If there are, they’re ignorant guys that don’t know anything about it, if that they feel that way. But you see more and more guys—several jazz musicians who are more interested in playing Latin jazz that jazz now—who were originally jazz musicians: Conrad Herwig, Brian Lynch, and a lot of others I could think of if I tried to think of them. I don’t know if I’m talking about exactly what you’re asking. ML: It’s OK. I want to talk about what you want to talk about. So, I mean, this is important because you’re in the musician’s scene. I guess what I’m saying is there’s a lot on my end—on the outside looking in—I see a separation between Latin jazz and straight-ahead jazz from a consumer/audience member’s point-of-view, but what you’re saying is that most straight ahead jazz musicians have a respect for Latin jazz. BP: I would say so. I’m not positive. Like I said, I don’t get around that much, hang out much. I don’t talk to a lot of people and see what’s going on. But I would expect from what I have seen and heard that there’s a lot of respect—equal respect. I would think so. It’s no...years ago, I didn’t realize that they were equally great because I always thought, “This is a great source [of income].” Like playing with Tito Rodriguez or Puente, like we 123 were saying about all the jazz musicians who went through those bands. This was a great way for a jazz musician to make some money because there were no jazz gigs. And you’re still playing good music—it swings and you get a chance to blow. Maybe there was a kind of—I don’t know if condescension is the right word. A kind of feeling that, “This is not the real thing, but it’s sure better than playing some commercial music,” you know? It’s swinging and all that. So maybe there was a feeling in that way, but I don’t think it’s like that now. First of all that opportunity is not there anymore—for jazz saxophone players, anyway. Sax has been out of Latin music for a long time, as far as regular working bands go. But I don’t know, I think now, when you think of now—I’m trying to think of the record reviews in Down Beat and Jazz Times. I think it’s looked on pretty equally. I really can’t tell for sure how other musicians feel about it. And any jazz musician who goes and sits in a Latin band, he’ll immediately become respectful because he’ll screw up terribly. Just trying to phrase it properly. He’s gotta absorb and learn it— the way of phrasing. You’re looking at the same phrase on the paper, if you’re reading music, it’s not being played the same way [in a Latin band as in a jazz band]. You’ll be way behind the beat and everything else. He’ll acquire some respect for it right away. But as far as thinking of musical value, I guess everybody’s different. I think of them as equal as I think of certain types of classical music as equal and some other people don’t. Maybe they think of classical as better or not as good. I run into such ignorant statements sometimes about how any jazz musician can play classical music and how classical musicians can’t play jazz. And it’s all just ignorance. And classical music, first of all, you just think about the composers and the genius and everything. And so, just as I don’t 124 know about Latin jazz or jazz [being more popular or respected], when it reaches a higher level, it’s just all great. ML: You’re a great interview, man. BP: Yeah, but a lot of is probably inaccurate and vague and not up-to-date. That’s why you need more people to talk to. ML: There’s always more people to talk to… BP: I hope you get Ray… ML: It’s a pleasure to get your story. Nobody else can tell your side. That’s why it’s important 125 Selected Discography Author’s note: This discography is not intended to be complete, but rather to provide an overview of the musico-cultural interaction of Cuba and the United States. Special focus is given to the time period between 1945 and 1965. Two resources in particular were indispensable in compiling this list: the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University in Newark, NJ; and Scott Yanow’s book, Afro-Cuban Jazz (San Francisco: Miller Freeman, 2000). Afrocuba, Acontecer. Discmedi 75, 1995. Compact disc. Aguabella, Francisco. Agua de Cuba. Cubop 018, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Dance the Latin Way. Fantasy 8060, 1962. Vinyl recording. Ammons, Gene. Boss Tenor. Prestige/OJC OJCCD-297-2, [1960] 1991. Compact disc. _____. The Happy Blues. Prestige/OJC OJCCD-013-2, [1956] 1991. Compact disc. Amram, David. Havana/New York. Flying Fish 057, [1977] 1992. Compact disc. Arnaz, Desi. Cuban Originals. RCA 69936, 1999. Compact disc. Azpiazu, Don. Don Azpiazu and His Havana Casino Orchestra. Harlequin 10, 1991. Compact disc. Barrero, Louis. Swinging Latin Nights. Blue Moon 1620, [1958] 2005. Compact disc. Barretto, Ray. Carnaval (Latino/Pachanga con Barretto). Fantasy FCD24713-2, 1993. Compact disc. _____. Charanga Moderna. Tico SLP-1087, 1962. Vinyl recording. _____. The Other Road. Fania 448, [1973] 1996. Compact disc. _____. Pachanga. Saludos Amigos 62068, [1962] 1998. Compact disc. _____. Portraits in Jazz and Clave. Blue Note 68452, 1999. Compact disc. Bataan, Joe. Riot! Fania/Emusica 130001, [1972] 2006. Compact disc. Bauzá, Mario. 944 Columbus. Messidor 15828, 1994. Compact disc. _____. Afro-Cuban Jazz: With Paquito D'Rivera and Jorge Dalto. Yemayá Records 9426, [1986] 2003. Compact disc. 126 _____. Tanga. Messidor 15819, 1992. Compact disc. Berrios, Steve. And Then Some! Milestone 9234, 1995. Compact disc. _____. First World. Milestone 9235, 1996. Compact disc. Berroa, Ignacio. Codes. Blue Note 56328, 2006. Compact disc. Blakey, Art. The African Beat. Blue Note 9117, [1962] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Cu-Bop, Jubilee JP-1049, 1957. Vinyl recording. _____. Drum Suite. Sony International 480988, [1957] 2001. Compact disc. _____. Holiday for Skins, vols. 1 and 2. Blue Note 58290, [1958] 2006. Compact disc. _____. Orgy In Rhythm, vols. 1 and 2. Blue Note 56586 [1957] 1997. Compact disc. Bobo, Willie. Bobo’s Beat. Roulette Jazz 84191, [1964] 2003. Compact disc. _____. Spanish Grease/Uno Dos Tres. Verve 521664, [1965, 1966] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Talkin’ Verve. Verve 537575, 1997. Compact disc. Bosch, Jimmy. Soneando Trombon. Rykodisc 1004, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Salsa Dusa. Rykodisc 1007, 1999. Compact disc. Brubeck, Dave. Bravo! Brubeck! Columbia 9527, [1967] 1999. Compact disc. Buena Vista Social Club. Buena Vista Social Club. Nonesuch 79478-2, 1997. Compact disc. Bunnett, Jane. Chamalongo. Blue Note 23684, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Cuban Odyssey. Blue Note 41992, 2003. Compact disc. _____. Jane Bunnett and the Cuban Piano Masters. Blue Note 32695, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Radio Guantánamo: Guantánamo Blues Project, vol. 1. Blue Note 52340, 2006. Compact disc. _____. Ritmo + Soul. Blue Note 24456, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Spirits of Havana. Pimienta 160526, [1991] 2002. Compact disc. 127 Burke, Sonny. The Mambo Jambo Man. Jasmine 422, 2005. Compact disc. Byrd, Charlie. Latin Byrd. Milestone 47005, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Tambu. Fantasy FCD-9453-2, 1992. Compact disc. Cain, Joe. Latin Explosion. Time S-2123, [n.d.]. Vinyl recording. Camero, Candido. Candido featuring Al Cohn. Verve ABC-125, [1956] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Candido’s Comparsa. ABC Paramount ABCS-453, 1963. Vinyl recording. _____. Latin Fire. ABC Paramount 286, 1959. Vinyl recording. _____. Thousand Finger Man. Blue Note 22664, 1999. Compact disc. Camilo, Michel. On Fire. Columbia 45295, 1989. Compact disc. _____. Rendezvous. Columbia 53754, 1993. Compact disc. _____. Thru My Eyes. RMM 82067, 1997. Compact disc. _____. Triangulo. Telarc 83549, 2002. Compact disc. Campo, Pupi. Cuban Rhumba and Mambos. Seeco 2, 1950. Vinyl recording. _____. Mambo Americana. Coral CRL-56107. Vinyl recording. Cano, Eddie. Deep in a Drum. RCA International 15701, [1958] 1993. Compact disc. Caribbean Jazz Project. Caribbean Jazz Project. Heads Up 3033, 1995. Compact disc. _____. Island Stories. Heads Up 3039, 1996. Compact disc. Carter, Ron. When Skies Are Grey. Blue Note 30754, 2000. Compact disc. Cepeda, William. My Roots and Beyond. Blue Jackel 5028, 1998. Compact disc. Cole, Nat “King.” The Complete Capitol Trio Recordings. Mosaic 138, 1993. Compact disc. Coleman, Donna. From Havana to Harlem: Rags to Riches, vol. 2. ABC Classics 476 7743, 2005. Compact disc. Colón, Willie. El Malo. Fania 130029, [1968] 2006. Compact disc. 128 _____. Siembra. Fania 130030, [1978] 2006. Compact disc. Corea, Chick. My Spanish Heart. Verve 314 543 303, [1976] 2000. Compact disc. Costanzo, Jack. Afro-Cubano. Verve 8157, 1954. Vinyl recording. _____. Back from Havana. Cubop 28, 2001. Compact disc. _____. Latin Fever. Blue Note 84193, [1957] 2003. Compact disc. _____. Mr. Bongo: Jack Costanzo and His Afro Cuban Band. GNP Crescendo 2255, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Plays Jazz, Afro, and Latin. Fresh Sounds 379, [1956] 2005. Compact disc. _____. Scorching the Skins. Cubop 37, 2002. Compact disc. Costanzo Plus Tubbs. Equation in Rhythm. Universal/Fontana 5909552, 2003. Compact disc. Cubanismo, Jesus Alemany’s Cubanismo. Hannibal 1390, 1995. Compact disc. Cugat, Xavier. Cuban Mambo. Saludos Amigos 62003, [n.d.]. Compact disc. _____. Rumba Rumbero. Tumbao 23, 1992. Compact disc. _____. Xavier Cugat & His Orchestra 1940-42. Tumbao 02, 1991. Compact disc. Los Cumbancheros. Boleros y Sones. Sarmala SARCD01, 2001. Compact disc. _____. La Cuna del Son. R & Y Music, 2002. Compact disc. Cunningham, Don. Something For Everyone. Luv N' Haight 038, [1965] 2003. Compact disc. Dalto, Jorge. Urban Oasis. Concord Jazz CCD-4275, [1985] 1992. Compact disc. Davis, Eddie “Lockjaw.” Afro-Jaws. OJC 403, [1961] 1989. Compact disc. _____. Bacalao: Eddie "Lockjaw Davis & Shirley Scott. Prestige 1090, [1959] 2003. Compact disc. de la Fe, Alfredo. Alfredo. LP Music LPV107CD, [1979] 2000. Compact disc. Dorham, Kenny. Afro-Cuban. Blue Note 46815, [1955] 1987. Compact disc. 129 D’Rivera, Paquito. 40 Years of Cuban Jam Sessions. Messidor 15826, 1993. Compact disc. _____. Blowin’. Columbia 37374, 1981. Vinyl recording. _____. Portraits of Cuba. Chesky 145, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Reunion. Messidor 15805, 1992. Compact disc. _____. Tropicana Nights. Chesky 186, 1999. Compact disc. Drum Solos, vol. 2. LP Music LPV450CD, [1978] 2000. Compact disc. Drum Solos, vol. 3. LP Music LPV451CD, [1978] 2000. Compact disc. Duran, Hilario. Habana Nocturna. Justin Time 125, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Killer Tumbao. Justin Time 101, 1997. Compact disc. Duran, Manny. Play So Pretty. (independent demo recording), 1990. Compact disc. Ellington, Duke. Afro-Bossa. Collectables 6730, [1963] 2005. Compact disc. _____. Centennial Edition: Complete RCA Victor Recordings, 1927-1973. RCA 63386, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Latin American Suite. OJC 204692, [1968] 1998. Compact disc. Faddis, Jon. The Dizzy Gillespie Alumni All-Stars: Dizzy’s World. Shanachie 5060, 1999. Compact disc. Feldman, Victor. Latinsville. Contemporary 9005, 2003. Compact disc. Ferrer, Ibrahim. Buena Vista Social Club Presents Ibrahim Ferrer. Nonesuch 79532-2, 1999. Compact disc. Fischer, Clare. Manteca! Pacific Jazz ST-20096, 1966. Vinyl recording. Flynn, Frank Emilio. Ancestral Reflections. Blue Note 98918, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Drume Negrita. Caney 517, [1959] 2002. Compact disc. _____. Interpreta a Ignacio Cervantes. Egrem 0228, 1997. Compact disc. _____. Musica Original de Cuba. Universal/Empire 450800, 2006. Compact disc. 130 Garcia Brothers. Jazz con Sabor Latino. Discos Dos Coronas 9406, 1994. Compact disc. Garland, Red. Manteca . OJC 4282, [1958] 1997. Compact disc. _____. Rojo. Prestige/OJC OJCCD-772-2, [1958] 1993. Compact disc. Garner, Erroll. Mambo Moves Garner. Mercury 834909-2, [1954] 1991. Compact disc. Gibbs, Terry. The Latin Connection. Contemporary 140222, [1986] 1996. Compact disc. Gillespie, Dizzy. Afro. Verve MG N-1003, 2002. Compact disc. _____. The Complete RCA Victor Recordings: 1937-1949. RCA 66528, 1995. Compact disc. _____. Good Bait. Past Perfect 204376, [1948] 2002. Compact disc. _____. Have Trumpet, Will Excite. Verve MGVS-6047, 1960. Vinyl recording. _____. Jambo Caribe. Verve 557492, [1964] 1998. Compact disc. _____. Live at the Royal Festival Hall 1989. Enja 79658, 1991. Compact disc. _____. To Bird With Love. Telarc CD-83316, 1992. Compact disc. _____. To a Finland Station. Fantasy/OJC 733, [1982] 1992. Compact disc. _____. Verve Jazz Masters 10. Verve D105737, 1994. Compact disc. Gillespie, Dizzy, and Frank “Machito” Grillo. Afro-Cuban Jazz Moods. Pablo OJCCD447-2, [1975] 1990. Compact disc. Gonzalez, Jerry. Earthdance. Sunnyside 1050, 1995. Compact disc. _____. Fire Dance. Milestone 9258, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Obatalá. Enja 5095, [1990] 2002. Compact disc. Gonzalez, Jerry. Rumba para Monk. Sunnyside 1036, 1995. Compact disc. González, Rubén. Chanchullo. Nonesuch 79503, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Indestructible. Egrem 0275, 1997. Compact disc. _____. Introducing... Rubén González. Nonesuch 79477, 1997. Compact disc. 131 _____. Sentimiento: Rubén González con el Noneto Cubano de Jazz de Pucho Escalante. Egrem 318, 1999. Compact disc. Green, Grant. The Latin Bit. Blue Note 37645, [1962] 1996. Compact disc. Grillo, Frank “Machito.” Afro-Cubop. Spotlite 138, 1949. Vinyl recording. _____. At The Crescendo. GNP 58, [1960] 1989. Compact disc. _____. Carambola. Tumbao 024, [1951] 1993. Compact disc. _____. Fireworks. Artistry/MPS 30, [1977] 2001. Compact disc. _____. Kenya: Afro-Cuban Jazz. Roulette 22668, [1958] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Latin Soul Plus Jazz. Fania 74, [1958] 1993. Compact disc. _____. Machito Plays Mambos & Cha Cha Cha. Palladium PCD 5109, 1989. Compact disc. _____. Machito with Flute to Boot. Roulette R-52026, [1959] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Mambo Caravan: Machito, Tito Puente, Joe Loco. Tico 1007, [1959] 1999. Compact disc. _____. Mucho Macho. Pablo 2625-712, [1948, 1949] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Ritmo Pa' Gozar. Caney 511, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Soul Of Machito: Machito & His Orchestra. Fania/Emusica 130140, [1971], 2006. Compact disc. _____. This Is Machito And His Afro-Cubans. Seeco 9075, [1954], 1999. Compact disc. _____. Tremendo Cumban 1949-52. Tumbao 04, 1991. Compact disc. _____. Vacation at the Concord. Verve 57258, [1958] 2004. Compact disc. Guaraldi, Vince. The Latin Side of Vince Guaraldi. Fantasy/OJC 878, [1964] 1998. Compact disc. Gutierrez, Julio. Progressive Latin. Gema 3015, [n.d.]. Vinyl recording. Hambro, Lennie. Mambo Hambro. Savoy MG-15031, 1954. Vinyl recording. 132 Hancock, Herbie. Inventions and Dimensions. Blue Note 84147, [1963] 2000. Compact disc. Harlow, Larry. El Judio Maravilloso. Fania /Emusica 130115, [1975] 2006. Compact disc. _____. Larry Harlow's Latin Jazz Encounter: Live At Birdland. Latin Cool 1001, 2002. Compact disc. _____. Tribute to Arsenio Rodriguez. Fania 404, 1992. Compact disc. Hargrove, Roy. Habana. Verve 314 537 563, 1997. Compact disc. Haynes, Roy. The Roy Haynes Trio Featuring Danilo Perez & John Patitucci. Verve 314 543 534-2, 2000. Compact disc. Henderson, Joe. Canyon Lady. Milestone/OJC 949, [1973] 1997. Compact disc. Herman, Woody. Herman’s Heat and Puente’s Beat. Evidence 22008, [1958] 1992. Compact disc. Herwig, Conrad. Another Kind of Blue: The Latin Side of Miles Davis. Half Note 4517, 2004. Compact disc. _____. The Latin Side of John Coltrane. Astor Place TCD 4003, 1996. Compact disc. Herwig, Cornad. Sketches of Spain y Mas: The Latin Side of Miles Davis. Half Note 4530, 2006. Compact disc. Herwig, Conrad, and Brian Lynch. Que Viva Coltrane! CrissCross 1254, 2004. Compact disc. Hidalgo, Giovanni. Time Shifter. RMM 81585, 1996. Compact disc. Holiday, Joe. Mambo Jazz. Prestige 1786, [1951] 1991. Compact disc. Hutcherson, Bobby. Montara. Blue Note 84190, [1975] 2003. Compact disc. Ilori, Solomon. High African Life. Blue Note 4136, [1963] 2004. Compact disc. Irakere, Afrocubanismo! Bembe 2012, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Bailando Asi. Fonomusic 3043, 1994. Compact disc. _____. The Best of Irakere. Columbia CK 57719, 1994. Compact disc. 133 _____. El Coco. Milestone 9111, 1980. Vinyl recording. _____. Live at Ronnie Scott’s. World Pacific 80598, 1991. Compact disc. _____. Yemaya. Blue Note 98239, 1999. Compact disc. Irizarry, Ralph. Best-Kept Secret. Shanachie 66026, 2000. Compact disc. Jackson, Milt. In the Beginning. OJC 1771, [1948] 1991. Compact disc. Jazz Crusaders. Chile con Soul. Pacific Jazz ST-20092, 1965. Vinyl recording. Kenton, Stan. The Complete Capitol Studio Recordings of Stan Kenton 1943-1947. Blue Note 21389, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Cuban Fire. Capitol 96260, [1956] 1991. Compact disc. Latin Jazz Orchestra. Havana Blues. Palmetto 2034, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Juarez. Tortilla Flat 001, 1993. Compact disc. Latin Jazz Quintet and Eric Dolphy. Caribé. Prestige OJCCD-819-2, [1960] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Hot Sauce. Prestige PRCD-24128-2, [1960] 1993. Compact disc. Latin Percussion Jazz Ensemble. Just Like Magic. LP Music LPV102CD, [1979] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Live at the Montreaux Jazz Festival 1980. LP Music LPV100CD, [1980] 2000. Compact disc. Levine, Mark. Hey, It’s Me. Left Coast Clavé 001, 2000. Compact disc. Lighthouse All-Stars. Mexican Passport. Contemporary 14077, [1956] 1996. Compact disc. Loco, Joe. Loco Motion. Fantasy 24733, [1961] 1994. Compact disc. Lopez, Israel “Cachao.” Cuban Jam Session, vol. 2. Fania 411 [1960] 1999. Compact disc. _____. Descarga Guajira. Caney 516, [1959] 2002. Compact disc. _____. Descargas: Cuban Jam Sessions. Egrem 0169, [1957] 1997. Compact disc. 134 _____. Dos. Salsoul 7005, [1976] 1995. Compact disc. _____. From Havana to New York. Caney CCD 501, [1957, 1961] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Latin Jazz Descarga, Part 1. Tania 0002, [1985] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Latin Jazz Descarga, Part 2. Tania 0010, [1981] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Master Sessions, vol. 1. Epic 64320, 1994. Compact disc. _____. Master Sessions, vol. 2. Epic 67319, 1995. Compact disc. _____. More Legendary Descarga Sessions. Caney 510, 2004. Compact disc. Los Hombres Calientes. Los Hombres Calientes. Basin Street 0201, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Volume 2. Basin Street 202, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Volume 3: New Congo Square. Basin Street 203, 2001. Compact disc. _____. Volume 4: Vodou Dance. Basin Street 204, 2003. Compact disc. _____. Volume 5: Carnival. Basin Street 205, 2005. Compact disc. Machito. (See “Grillo, Frank”) Mangual, Jose, Jr. Tributo a Chano Pozo. Yoyo, 2004. Compact disc. Mann, Herbie. 65th Birthday Celebration: Live at the Blue Note in New York City. Lightyear 54185, 1997. Compact disc. _____. Afro-Jazziac Bop. Prestige Elite 397, [1958, 1959] 2002. Compact disc. _____. Flautista! Polygram 557448, [1960] 1998. Compact disc. _____. Standing Ovation At Newport. Wounded Bird Records 1445, [1965] 2000. Compact disc. Manne, Shelly. Hot Skins. V.S.O.P. 29, 1952. Vinyl recording. Mantilla, Ray. Synergy. Red 123198, [1986] 1995. Compact disc. Martinez, Sabu. Afro Temple, EFG 7341, 1973. Vinyl recording. _____. Jazz Espagnole. Vampi Soul 031, [1961] 2004. Compact disc. 135 _____. Palo Congo. Blue Note 22665, [1957] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Sorcery, Columbia WL-101, 1958. Vinyl recording. Martinez, Tony. La Habana Vive. Blue Jackel 5026, 1998. Compact disc. Matos, Bobby. Collage—Afro Cuban Jazz. Night Life 3011, 1993. Compact disc. _____. Mambo Jazz: Bobby Matos and John Santos. Cubop 35, 2001. Compact disc. McKibbon, Al. Tumbao para los Congueros de Mi Vida. Chartmaker 1080, 1999. Compact disc. McCann, Les. Spanish Onions. Pacific Jazz PJ-10097, 1964. Vinyl recording. Mingus, Charles. Cumbia and Jazz Fusion. Rhino 71785, [1978] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Tijuana Moods. RCA 2533, [1962] 2000. Compact disc. Mingus Big Band. Que Viva Mingus. Dreyfus 36593, 1998. Compact disc. Montez, Bobby. Jungle Fantastique. Cubop 36, [1958] 2001. Compact disc. Moody, James. And His Modernists. Blue Note 5006, 1948. Vinyl recording. Morales, Noro. Rhumbas and Mambos 1948-51. Tumbao 27, 1993. Compact disc. Moré, Benny, and Perez Prado and His Orchestra. Mambos by Benny Moré. Tumbao TCD-010, 2000. Compact disc. Morton, Ferdinand “Jelly Roll.” Jelly Roll Morton 1923-1924. Milestone 47018, [19231926] 1991. Compact disc. Mossman, Michael Philip. The Orisha Suite. Connector 15858, 2001. Compact disc. O’Farrill, Arturo. Blood Lines. Milestone 9294, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Cumana. Pony Canyon 30160, 2004. Compact disc. _____. Live in Brooklyn. Zoho 200507, 2005. Compact disc. _____. A Night in Tunisia. 32 Jazz 32202, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Noche Inolvidable (An Unforgettable Night) - Jazz At Lincoln Center's Afro-Latin Jazz Orchestra With Arturo O'Farrill. Palmetto Records 2111, 2005. Compact disc. 136 O’Farrill, Chico. Carambola. Milestone 938, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Cuban Blues. Verve 533256, [1950-1954] 1996. Compact disc. _____. Heart of a Legend. Milestone 9299, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Nine Flags. Impulse 9135, 1966. Vinyl recording. _____. Pure Emotion. Milestone 9239, 1995. Compact disc. _____. The Rhythmic Spell of Chico O’Farrill and El Arabe. Fresh Sounds FSR-CD 356, [1958] 2004. Compact disc. Olantunji, Babatunde. Drums of Passion. Columbia 66011, [1959] 2003. Compact disc. Ortiz, Luis “Perico.” My Own Image. LP Music LPV108CD, [1978] 2000. Compact disc. Palladium Orchestra. The Big 3: Live at the Blue Note. Rumba Jams 18, 2004. Compact disc. Palmieri, Charlie. Cuban Rhythms By Peruchin & Charlie Palmieri. Caney 504, [1948, 1954] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Easy Does It. Blue Moon BMCD 1619, [1958] 2004. Compact disc. _____. El Fantastico. Seeco 9179, 2001. Compact disc. _____. El Gigante Del Teclado. Fania/Emusica 130005, [1972] 2006. Compact disc. _____. Latin Bugalú. Collectables 6171, [1968] 2001. Compact disc. _____. Let’s Dance the Charanga. United Artists UAS-3082, 1960. Vinyl recording. Palmieri, Eddie. Arete. RMM 81657, 1995. Compact disc. _____. Echando Pa’lante. Tico 1113, [1964] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Eddie Palmieri and Friends in Concert at the University of Puerto Rico. Musical Productions, Inc. MP-3107 CD, 1992. Compact disc. _____. La Perfecta. Fania 8170, [1966] 2003. Compact disc. _____. Live. RMM 82252, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Mozambique. Fania 1126, [1965] 1994. Compact disc. 137 _____. The Sun of Latin Music. Bomba 24112, [1973] 2007. Compact disc. Palmieri, Eddie, and Cal Tjader. Bamboleate. Fania 130217, [1967] 2007. Compact disc. _____. El Sonido Nuevo. Polygram 519812, [1966] 1994. Compact disc. Paunetto, Bobby. Commit to Memory/Paunetto’s Point. Tonga 8305, [1977] 1998. Compact disc. Parker, Charlie. South of the Border: The Verve Latin-Jazz Sides. Verve 314 527 779, [1948-1952] 1995. Compact disc. Pepper, Art. Mucho Calor. V.S.O.P. 47, [1958] 1987. Compact disc. Perez, Danilo. Central Avenue. Impulse IMPD-279, 1998. Compact disc. _____. The Journey. Novus 63166, 1993. Compact disc. _____. Panamonk. Impulse IMPD-190, 1996. Compact disc. Pike, Dave. Carnavals. Prestige 24248, [1962] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Manhattan Latin. Universal 3055, [1964] 2006. Compact disc. _____. Peligroso. Cubop 32, 2000. Compact disc. Portuondo, Omara. Buena Vista Social Club Presents Omara Portuondo. Nonesuch 79603-2, 2000. Compact disc. Prado, Perez. Cuban Mambo. Orfeon 826, 2001. Compact disc. _____. Exotic Suite of the Americas. BMG International 98414, [1962] 2003. Compact disc. _____. Mambo Mania / Havana 3 A.M. Bear Family BCD 15462, [1955, 1056] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Voodoo Suite Plus Six All-Time Greats. BMG International 98417, [1955] 2003. Compact disc. Pucho and the Latin Soul Bothers. Rip a Dip. Milestone 9247, 1995. Compact disc. Puente, Tito. Cuban Carnival. BMG/Tropical Series 53106, [1955] 1990. Compact disc. _____. Mambo Birdland. Universal 1578372, 2000. Compact disc. 138 _____. Pachanga In New York: Rolando La'Serie & Tito Puente. Disco Hit 1823, [1961] 1997. Compact disc. _____. Puente Goes Jazz. RCA Victor 74749, [1956] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Puente In Percussion. Fania 1011, [1956] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Salsa Meets Jazz. Concord 4354, 1990. Compact disc. _____. Top Percussion / Dance Mania. Bear Family 15687, [1958] 1993. Compact disc. _____. Yambeque: The Progressive Side of Tito Puente. RCA International 31951, 1995. Compact disc. Rae, Johnny and Herbie Mann. Afro-Jazz Septet. United Artists 4042, 1961. Vinyl recording. de los Reyes, Walfredo, Jr. Sin Timbal no se Pué Bailar. Caney 524, [1958, 1959] 2005. Compact disc. _____. Ecué Ritmos Cubanos. Pablo OJCCD-632-2, [1977] 1991. Compact disc. Richards, Emil. Yazz Per Favore. VampiSoul 008, [1960] 2003. Compact disc. Rifkin, Joshua. Scott Joplin Piano Rags. Elektra Nonesuch 79159-2, [1974] 1994. Compact disc. Rizo, Marco. Ernesto Lecuona: A Musical Legacy. Sampi 101, 1993. Compact disc. _____. Habaneras: Cuban Classical Piano Music. Sampi 006571542, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Piano and Percussion. Tico 1076, [1960] 2002. Compact disc. _____. That Latin Touch. Tico 1046, [1959] 1999. Compact disc. Rodriguez, Alfredo. Cuba Linda. Rykodisc 1399, 1997. Compact disc. _____. Sonido Solido. Universal/Pimienta 360768, 1995. Compact disc. Rodriguez, Arsenio. Afro Cuban Classic. Ansonia 1337, [n.d.]. Compact disc. _____. Con su Conjunto y Chano Pozo, Machito & Orchestra. Musica Latina 55019, [1947-1949] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Montuneando 1946-1950. Tumbao 31, [1946-1950] 2004. Compact disc. 139 Rodriguez, Johnny, Jr. Dandy’s Dandy…a Latin Affair. LP Music LPV106CD, [1979] 2000. Compact disc. Rodriguez, Tito. Big Band Latino. Palladium 117, [1968] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Carnival of the Americas. Palladium 143, [1968] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Mambo Madness, Fania 133, [1959] 2006. Compact disc. _____. Tito Tito Tito. Palladium 139, [1964] 2004. Compact disc. Rodriguez, Willie. The Drums of Rodriguez. Cook 1086, 1953. Vinyl recording. _____. Flatjacks. Milestone 9331, [1963] 2003. Compact disc. Rogers, Shorty. Afro-Cuban Influence. BMG International 914252, [1958] 2001. Compact disc. Rotterdam Conservatory Orquestra Tipica, conducted by Daniel Guzman. Cuba Contradanzas & Danzones. Nimbus Records NI 5502, 1996. Compact disc. Rubalcaba, Gonzalo. The Blessing. Blue Note 97197, 1991. Compact disc. _____. Mi Gran Pasión. Messidor 15999, 1992. Compact disc. Ruiz, Hilton. El Camino. Novus 3024, 1990. Compact disc. _____. Cross Currents. Vogue 655911, [1984] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Hands on Percussion. RMM 81483, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Manhattan Mambo. Telarc 83322, 1992. Compact disc. _____. A Moment’s Notice. Novus 3123, 1991. Compact disc. _____. Something Grand. Novus 3011, 1990. Compact disc. _____. Strut. Novus 3053, 1990. Compact disc. Sacred Rhythms of Cuban Santeria. Ritmos Sagrados de la Santeria Cubana. Smithsonian Folkways SFCD 40419, 1995. Compact disc. Samuels, Dave. Tjader-ized. Polygram 557086, 1998. Compact disc. Sanabria, Bobby. Afro-Cuban Dream: Live and In-Clave. Arabesque 149, 2000. Compact disc. 140 _____. New York City Aché. Flying Fish 70630, 1993. Compact disc. Sanchez, David. Coral. Columbia 90313, 2004. Compact disc. _____. Obsesión. Columbia 69116, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Street Scenes. Columbia 67627, 1996. Compact disc. Sanchez, Poncho. Afro-Cuban Fantasy. Concord Picante 4847, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Papa Gato. Concord Picante 4310, 1990. Compact disc. _____. Para Todos. Concord Picante 4600, 1993. Compact disc. Sandoval, Arturo. Danzon (Dance On). GRP Records GRD-9761, 1994. Compact disc. _____. I Remember Clifford. GRP GRD-9668, 1992. Compact disc. _____. The Latin Train. GRP 9818, 1995. Compact disc. Santamaria, Mongo. Afro American Latin. Legacy 62220 [1968-1969] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Afro Roots. Prestige 24018, [1970] 1989. Compact disc. _____. Our Man in Havana. Fantasy 24729 [1960] 1993. Compact disc. _____. Sabroso. OJC 2812, [1959] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Skins. Milestone 47038, [1962-64] 2001. Compact disc. _____. Watermelon Man. Milestone 47075, [1963] 1998. Compact disc. Santos, John. Tribute to the Masters. Cubop 025, 2000. Compact disc. Schifrin, Lalo. Gillespiana. Aleph 002, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Latin Jazz Suite. Aleph 013, 1999. Compact disc. Scott, Shirley. Latin Shadows. Impulse 19149, [1966] 1998. Compact disc. _____. Mucho Mucho. Prestige 7182, 1960. Vinyl recording. Sepúlveda, Charlie. Algo Nuestro. Antilles 512768, 1993. Compact disc. Shearing, George. Latin Affair. Capitol 1275, 1958. Vinyl recording. 141 _____. Latin Escapade. Capitol 1454, 1956. Vinyl recording. _____. Latin Lace. Columbia 1082, 1958. Vinyl recording. _____. Latin Rendezvous. Capitol 2272, 1963. Vinyl recording. _____. Mood Latino. Capitol 1567, 1961. Vinyl recording. _____. On the Sunny Side of the Strip. GNP 9055, 1960. Vinyl recording. Shew, Bobby. Salsa Caliente. Mama 1023, [1998] 2006. Compact disc. Simon, Marlon. Rumba à la Patato. Cubop 27, 1999. Compact disc. Taylor, Billy. Billy Taylor with Four Flutes. Riverside/Fantasy 1830, [1959] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Cross Section. Prestige 17302, 1954. Vinyl recording. _____. The Billy Taylor Trio with Candido. Prestige 6015, [1954] 1991. Compact disc. Terrace, Pete. A Night in Mambo Jazzland. Tico 1023, 1956. Vinyl recording. Terry, Clark. Spanish Rice. Impulse 9127, [1966] 2004. Compact disc. Tjader, Cal. Black Orchid. Fantasy 24730, [1956-59] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Black Hawk Nights. Fantasy 24755, [1959] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Cal Tjader’s Latin Concert. OJC 6432, [1958] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Good Vibes. Concord Picante 4247, [1984] 1992. Compact disc. _____. Latin Kick. OJC 6422, [1956] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Latino! Fantasy 24732, [1960] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Monterey Concerts. Prestige 24026, [1959] 1995. Compact disc. _____. Plays Afro-Cuban, Fantasy 3-17, 1954. Vinyl recording. _____. Soul Sauce. Polygram 521668, [1964] 1994. Compact disc. _____. Tjader Plays Mambo. OJC 2742, [1954-1956] 2003. Compact disc. _____. Los Ritmos Calientes. Fantasy 24712, [1954-1957] 1995. Compact disc. 142 Torres, J.P. Cuba Swings. Universal Latino 160501, 2001. Compact disc. _____. Trombone Man. RMM 81601, 1996. Compact disc. Turre, Steve. In the Spur of the Moment. Telarc 83434, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Steve Turre. Verve 537133, 1997. Compact disc. Tyner, McCoy. McCoy Tyner and the Latin All-Stars. Telarc 83462, 1999. Valdes, Bebo. Afro Cuban Jazz Suite No. 1: Eladio Reinón Latin Big Band Con Bebo Valdés. Fresh Sound FSJW004, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Bebo. Calle 54/BMG Spain 89552, 2005. Compact disc. _____. Bebo de Cuba. Calle 54 Records 64203, 2004. Compact disc. _____. Bebo Rides Again. Universal/Pimienta 360615, 2004. Compact disc. _____. Bebo Valdes & His Havana All Stars: Descarga Caliente. Caney 512, [1957] 1996. Compact disc. _____. Bebo Valdes Trio; El Arte del Sabor. Blue Note 5351932, 2001. Compact disc. _____. Con Poco Coco. Mercury 515, 1952. Vinyl recording. _____. Cuban Dance Party. Universal 450814, [1959] 2006. Compact disc. _____. Cubano. Clef MGC-515, 1954. Vinyl recording. _____. Descargas del Bebo. Orfeon 16232, 2001. Compact disc. _____. Guapachá Con Bebo Valdés Y Sus Amigos. Caney 520, 2004. Compact disc. _____. El Manisero - Bebo Valdes Y La Orquesta Sabor De Cuba. Universal/Pimienta 360607, [1957] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Mayajigua: Bebo Valdes Y Su Orquesta Sabor De Cuba. Caney 509, 1996. Compact disc. _____. Ritmando Cha Cha Cha: Cuban Classics IX. WS Latino 4211, 2000. Compact disc. Valdes, Carlos “Patato.” Authority. LP Music LPV103CD, [1976] 2000. Compact disc. 143 _____. The Legend of Cuban Percussion. Six Degrees 1027, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Patato and Totico. Verve 259702, [1967] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Ready for Freddy. LP Music LPV104CD, [1976] 2000. Compact disc. Valdes, Chuchito, Jr. Encantado. Town Crier TCD 524, 2001. Compact disc. Valdes, Jesus “Chucho.” Bele Bele en la Habana. Blue Note 23082, 1998. Compact disc. _____. Briyumba Palo Congo (Religion of the Congo). Blue Note 98917, 1999. Compact disc. _____. Cuban Jazz Revolution. Cayuco 2002, [1963] 2005. Compact disc. _____. Grandes de la Musica Cubana, vol. 1. Egren CD 0039, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Jazz Batá: Jazz Batá and Tema De Chaka. Malanga Music 802, [1972, 1982] 2007. Compact disc. _____. Live at the Village Vanguard. Blue Note 20730, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Lucumi. Pimienta 360638, [1992] 2004. Compact disc. _____. Pianissimo. Musique 3006040, [1997] 2000. Compact disc. _____. Solo Piano. Blue Note 80597, 1991. Compact disc. Valdes, Miguelito. Reunion: Miguelito Valdes with Machito and His Orchestra. Tico 1098, [1963] 1999. Compact disc. Valentin, Dave. Live at the Blue Note. GRP 9568, [1988] 1998. Compact disc. _____. Tropic Heat. GRP 9769, 1993. Compact disc. Various Artists. Cuba: I Am Time. Blue Jackal 5014, 1997. Compact disc. Various Artists. Chano Pozo: El tambor de Cuba. Tumbao TCD305, 2001. Compact disc. Various Artists. Mambo Jazz. Prestige 135, 1951. Vinyl recording. Various Artists. Son Cubano NYC; Cuban Roots New York Spices 1972-82. Astralwerks 66734, [1972-1982] 2005. Compact disc. 144 Vazquez, Papo., At the Point, vol. 2. Cubop 016, 2000. Compact disc. _____. Breakout. Timeless 311, [1993] 2000. Compact disc. Vega, Ray. Boperation. 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