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I'll
find a sidewalk where I can listen to some half-drunk old
man romancing a dying dog with his guitarra.
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I've been on the road for 13 days. One van, five buses, one
rickety airplane--each creeping south, mile by tedious mile,
toward the ultimate goal, the hot slow city of Havana, Cuba.
And now, having finally arrived, I want to wander this
city and let my eyes slowly sip her humid and profound beauty;
walk the streets of Habana Vieja, cloudy with smog and car
horns, and watch the slow progress of paint peeling off
of 300-year-old buildings; get drunk off cane wine at 11
in the morning and declare indecent infatuation and lifetime
loyalty to the spandex-clad girls who linger in the doorways;
and sit under a giant fig tree as the afternoon thundershowers
come roaring off the water to wash the city clean.
Fortunately, all of these activities dovetail nicely with
my journalistic duties. While I lounge through the heat
of Havana, I am simultaneously gorging on Cuban musical
culture. Thanks to the embargo, Americans' prevailing sexual
repression and the Buena Vista Social Club, Cuba's music
has become an enticing flavor for Yanqui record-buyers over
the past couple of years.
And the truth is, beneath the cheap liquor and strangeness
of Havana, vague traces of the forbidden exotica that has
so fascinated Western audiences can be detected. But I wonder:
What are the real roots and heart of the scene here? Does
the daily musical bread of Cuba's huge and restless youth
population have anything to do with the gringo fantasies
of exiled elegance an old son calls up?
Perhaps these three little stories will shed some light
on the matter:
Anecdote 1: The night I arrive, I go with a friend--a
young resident of Havana, a habañero--in search of
music. We can't go to the discos, expensive stalking grounds
of prostitutes who will attack you like lionesses if they
discover you're American. We try to go to the weekly public
reggae party, but it's been canceled due to a busted PA
speaker. So instead, we wander to the tourist district and
find, beneath the bright half-moon, a surprise.
On the patio bar of a chic hotel built a mere 200 feet
from the whipsnap waves of the Straits of Florida, a group
of wealthy Cubans and wandering Europeans watch an all-female
merengue band and smoke their fancy cigars. The patio is
guarded by fences and a snotty maitre d', who curtly informs
us that entrance can be gained only with a $5 bill and the
purchase of a cocktail. So now enters the creative will
of poverty: along with about 50 young broke Cubans, my friend
and I spend the whole evening clustered--for free--outside,
hanging on the chainlink, sighing to the music of two beautiful
violinistas, a flautista guapa and two singers with
voices that could make a dead heart dance.
Anecdote 2: I go to a party thrown by Americans
but attended mostly by young Cuban men. The shining centerpiece
of the entire fiesta is a book of CDs and a good stereo
(both rarities in embargoed Cuba). Most of the night is
hip-hop: Black Star, Tupac, Dead Prez and Snoop, all representin'.
The Cubanos are feeling it. Hombres break Spanglish freestyles
over American beats. One tells me of his plans to become
a DJ. But get this: At the end of the night, when the rum
and the ganja wear off, the hostess discovers that seven
of her CDs are missing, stolen by some miscreant guest.
The latest in Brooklyn or Bay Area hip-hop? No. Without
exception, every gaffled disc contains either salsa or flamenco.
When pressed, Cuban brothers return to their roots.
Anecdote 3: By the grace of Venus or one of her
minions, I happen to be staying with a family whose youngest
daughter is a dancer in the famed Tropicana Cabaret. Even
more fortunate, this family has a living room that, though
made of cracked linoleum and crumbling concrete, is big
enough for a group of dancers to practice in. Every Monday,
Wednesday and Friday at 11 am, I'm nursed awake by a Cuban
son, gliding from the old speakers in the next room.
And when I open the door that connects my bedroom and the
living room/studio, my eyes meet the clear light of morning
and six of the world's most elegant and precisely shaped
dancers, pirouetting, jumping and flying a few feet from
my bed. Every move they make is so perfectly tied to the
strum of the guitar strings and the beat of the drum that
their bodies seem as lyrical and melodic as the sounds coming
from the cassette player. On these days, I come close to
drowning, to allowing myself to be overtaken by the crystalline
waters of pure visual, of unadulterated aural pleasure.
Get the picture? Right now, the heat has gotten to be too
much for the air; a thunderstorm is breaking. I'll go out
in the rain, get soaked, listen to the pitter-patter music
of the drops on the palm leaves and maybe find a covered
sidewalk where I can listen to some half-drunk old man romancing
a dying dog with his guitarra. Until my return to winter-chilled
Portland, I'll let questions of musical and cultural authenticity
ride.
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