Ariwo: where Afro-Cuba meets electronica

No wonder April was the cruellest month for T. S. Eliot. Just the temperature see-saw is enough to drive one bonkers. Perhaps the great poet, had he been alive, would have had a different view on the fourth month of the year, if only he had popped down to the Village Underground in Shoreditch to watch Ariwo on Monday 23^rd April as part of the La Línea Festival. The quartet-turned-quintet on the night (saxophonist Binker Golding was a special guest) produced one of the most exhilarating and rousing sets I have seen for a long time.

More than mere fusion, Ariwo specialises in a hitherto little-explored musical phenomenon: that of the crossover of electronica and Afro-Cuban beats. Except for the Cuban maverick Edesio Alejandro in mid-to-late 80s Havana, this territory still remains semi-virgin. The band’s emphasis on sound (hence the name Ariwo, which translates as “noise” from Yoruba) is evident all the way throughout their set, rendering the concert a deep sonic experience.

With personal biographies boasting both musical virtuosity and critical acclaim, Monday night was always going to feel special. What nobody could foresee was how special it became with each song being lapped up by an ever-hungry and knowledgeable audience. Gahambar’s trumpet-driven, looped groove transported me back to Havana’s carnival, floats parading up and down the Malecón, feet and hips moving endlessly and beer flowing freely. Caldera presented us with the sight of Yelfris, stalking the stage like a panther, trumpet in hand and ready to launch into a mano a mano with Hammadi Valdes on drums. To Earth showcased Binker Golding’s mastery on saxophone; his drifting riffs a cross between Ornette Coleman and Steve Coleman and yet distinctive in their own complexity. The track Alafin brought a rousing solo on congas by Orestes Noda, not just one of the finest Cuban musicians in his own right, but also an outstanding promoter of Cuban culture in the UK and Europe. And holding it all together, whilst at the same time providing some of the more spiritually enriching melodies on the decks I’ve heard for some time, was Iranian-born Pouya Ehsaei. No mean feat when you have some of the better jazz cats in the UK today challenging each other and upping the ante to the nth degree. Not all tracks were dance-friendly, though. There were a few eyes-shut, fists-clenched, much-welcome meditative moments, too.

Yes, Tom, maybe, April is the cruellest month. But it needn’t be. Especially when you have Ariwo to warm up the most inclement of spring nights.

© 2018

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

For the last few months I have been writing for the online, multicultural, London-based, weekly magazine, The Prisma. The subjects on which I've focused are similar to the ones I've written about here on my blog, but the style is less personal and more journalistic. Except for the feature below. This was an interview I conducted with one of the better and more versatile percussionists I've ever come across. I've also been lucky to work with David Pattman, the man who makes the big iyá "talk". With this article I wanted to give readers a snippet of a lesser-known aspect of London, one which doesn't normally make it into tourist guides, but of which I'm equally proud.

The original feature was written in Spanish (one of the conditions of The Prisma, as it caters mainly to the Latin community in the UK) and the English translation (not by me, by the way) appears straight after. I hope you enjoy it.

Londres baila al ritmo de los tambores yorubas

De cómo la capital británica le ha dado la bienvenida a una cultura centenaria. De cómo se abre una puerta para llegar al corazón de este lenguaje secreto y sagrado.
Las voces de los músicos dejan escapar la melodía por la rendija de la puerta entreabierta. Sin acompañamiento de la percusión, esta parte de la ceremonia (oru cantado) toma precedencia sobre las otras.

Es privada y sacramental. Le sigue el oru del igbodu, un conjunto de mudas oraciones que solamente pueden expresarse a través del poder de los tres tambores batá. Esta sección también es exclusiva tanto para los consagrados en el rito como para los neófitos.

Inmediatamente después llega el oru del eya aranla donde voz, percusión y baile se unen para abrir el corro a todos los presentes, creyentes o no. El orden de los cantos es el mismo que en los dos orus anteriores. Por último arriba el sabroso güemilere, la fiesta en la que no importa orden ni desorden, solamente la celebración al orisha que se le toca.

La escena anterior, sin embargo, no toma lugar en los Pocitos, Cayo Hueso o los Sitios, barrios populares de la Ciudad de la Habana, sino en Brixton, área en el sur de Londres, capital del Reino Unido. ¿Cómo es posible esto?

La respuesta la provee David Pattman, músico y omo añá (maestro tamborero), distinción que es la más alta entre los percusionistas del tipo de música afrocubana que se conoce como santería, y que tiene sus orígenes en una de las culturas más influyentes en la Cuba colonial y post-colonial: la lucumí o yoruba.

Pattman cuenta que empezó su carrera como artista en el mundo de la salsa hace más de veinte años, pero que siempre quiso ir más allá de la mera presentación escénica. Fue su intención desde el principio conocer los secretos del tambor, ese diccionario rítmico que no sólo se percute, sino que también revela la esencia de tantas culturas africanas.

David, que nació y se crió en Londres, empezó como baterista a la precoz edad de once años, en 1972 y desde entonces ha tenido una carrera exitosa en agrupaciones como las de Roberto Plá y Snowboy.

Para el novicio que no esté familiarizado con la cultura yoruba, quizás le sorprenda ver a David (apodado “El Rubio del Sabor” en el ámbito afrocubano), sentado con el itótele sobre sus piernas, o sacándole chispas al iyá (el mas importante de los tres tambores bata).

Sin embargo, según él, no hay nada de extraño en un fenómeno que justifica la posición de Londres como uno de las ciudades más cosmopolitas del mundo. Además, añade Pattman, la esencia del yoruba es incluir, no excluir; se acepta a todo el mundo independientemente de raza, nacionalidad o sexo.

Este ultimo comentario es una de las razones por las que la santería, como se le llama en Cuba ha sido tan popular como, o más popular que el catolicismo, la religión “oficial” (Cuba es un estado laico) en la isla caribeña. Desde sus orígenes a fines del siglo dieciocho, cuando empezó como la manifestación del sincretismo entre santos cristianos y yorubas, el culto a deidades como Elegguá, Ochún y Changó ha mantenido siempre un carácter descentralizado y espontáneo.

Este es el mismo rasgo que se divisa en Londres. Es una escena, que como bien dice David, es pequeña, pero donde existe mucho respeto hacia el baile, el canto y el toque de tambor. Al antes mencionado Brixton hay que sumarle barriadas en los cuatro rincones de la capital. Y no solamente en esta urbe se le toca a los orishas, también se les hace fiestas en Brighton, Leeds y Norfolk.

David menciona otro aspecto que hace que se distinga la presencia de esta cultura africana en el Reino Unido: el aprendizaje. De la misma forma que Pattman se juró como omo añá en el 2004, existen unos ocho o nueve percusionistas con el mismo título en Gran Bretaña que, según él cuenta, han ido a Cuba a estudiar los ritos, cantos y formas tradicionales de hacer “conversar” a los antiguos tambores batá, muchos de ellos construidos en la isla por esclavos que se empeñaban en mantener su legado cultural y creencias a pesar del látigo y el bocabajo.

A juicio de Pattman, aprender este lenguaje secreto y sagrado es el objetivo último del tumbador. Como asevera él, no es la distinción de ser un maestro tamborero lo que vale sino las puertas que se abren hacia otro mundo.

En este caso, es un mundo que cuenta con tres símbolos principales: los tambores batá, divididos en el diminuto okónkolo, el mediano itótele y el gigante iyá. Símbolos que, gracias a David y otros músicos de igual calibre, juntos a la cornamusa escocesa, el berimbau brasileño y la cítara hindú tienen ya su lugar asegurado en el patrimonio cultural británico.

Para Pattman esta situación no tiene nada de particular. Como el bien dice, Londres siempre ha sido una ciudad diversa y cultural. En sus propias palabras, la cultura de la capital británica es su misma diversidad.

Y sin embargo, todavía resulta increíble que un fenómeno como la Regla de Ocha, que es la unificación en un solo cuerpo litúrgico de los diferentes cultos yorubas o la Regla de Ifa, sagrada orden de los babalawos (sacerdotes), tengan seguidores en una sociedad que se vuelve cada vez más lega.

Quizás sea porque, reflexiona David, aquellos que están metidos de lleno en la cultura lucumí, independientemente de tener afiliaciones religiosas con la misma o no, la respetan como un conjunto de tradiciones ancestrales que se han mantenido casi intactas a pesar de siglos de persecuciones, prohibiciones y prejuicios. Además, Pattman plantea que a un nivel personal, el aprendizaje de los tambores batá trajo consigo un tipo de disciplina distinto. Como dice él, muchos percusionistas pueden tocar el iyá, pero, ¿quién puede hacerlo “conversar”?

El futuro es promisorio, de acuerdo a David. Hay más gente aprendiendo cantos y bailes yorubas en el Reino Unido. Y por supuesto existe ya una nueva cantera de músicos que quiere aprender los antiguos ritmos que llevaron los esclavos encadenados de la tierra lucumí a la mayor isla de las Antillas. Pero esta vez, el eco de los tres tambores batá no se oirá solamente en el malecón habanero, sino también en el Támesis londinense.De cómo la capital británica le ha dado la bienvenida a una cultura centenaria. De cómo se abre una puerta para llegar al corazón de este lenguaje secreto y sagrado.

Next Post: "Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts", to be published on Wednesday 11th July at 11:59pm (GMT)

London dances to the rhythm of the Yoruba drums

How the British capital has welcomed a centuries-old culture, and how to open a door to reach the heart of this secret and sacred language.

The voices of the musicians let the melody escape through the crack in the door ajar. With no percussion accompaniment, this part of the ceremony (sung oru) takes precedence over the others.

It is private and sacramental. It is followed by the Igbodu oru, a set of silent prayers that can only be expressed through the power of the three bata drums. This section is also unique for both those enshrined in the rite and for newcomers.

Immediately after, the oru of eya aranla comes, where voice, percussion and dance come together to open the circle to all those present, believers or not. The order of the chants is the same as in the two previous orus. Finally, the amazing güemilere comes in, the celebration in which neither order nor disorder matters, only the celebration of the orisha which is being played to.

However, the previous scene does not take place in los Pocitos, Cayo Hueso, or los Sitios, which are neighbourhoods of Havana. It takes place in Brixton, an area in south London, the capital of the UK. But how is this possible?

The answer to this is provided by David Pattman, a musician and omo añá (master drummer), a distinction which is the highest among the percussionists of the Afro-Cuban style of music known as Santeria, which has its origins in one of the most influential cultures in the colonial and post-colonial Cuba: The Lucumi or Yoruba.

Pattman says that he began his career as an artist in the world of salsa over a period of 20 years, but always wanted to go beyond the mere presentation stage. It was his intention from the beginning to know the secrets of the drum, the rhythmic dictionary that is not only played but also reveals the essence of many African cultures.

David, who was born and raised in London, began as a drummer at the precocious age of 11 in 1972, and has since had a successful career in groups such as Roberto Pla and Snowboy.

For the novice who is unfamiliar with the Yoruba culture, they may be surprised to see David, nicknamed El Rubio del Sabor (literally the Blond Man with flavour) in the Afro-Cuban field, sitting with the itótele on his lap, or making sparks come out of the iyá (the most important of the three bata drums).

However, according to Pattman, there is nothing strange about a phenomenon that justifies the status of London as one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world. He adds that the essence of the Yoruba is to include and not to exclude; it accepts everyone regardless of race, nationality or gender.

This last comment is one of the reasons why Santeria, as it is called in Cuba, has been as popular as or even more popular than Catholicism, the ‘official’ religion on the Caribbean island (Cuba is a secular state). From its origins in the late eighteenth century when it started as the manifestation of syncretism between Christian and Yoruba saints, worshipping deities such as Eleggua, Oshun and Chango has always been maintained as a decentralised and spontaneous act.

This is the same trait that can be seen in London. It is a scene which as David describes, is small, but where there is much respect for dancing, singing and drumming. To the aforementioned Brixton, other neighbourhoods in the four corners of the capital must be added. And it is not just in this city in which the orishas are played to; there are other celebrations in Brighton, Leeds and Norfolk.

David mentions another aspect that distinguishes the presence of this African culture in the UK: The act of learning. In the same way Pattman was sworn in as omo añá in 2004, there are about eight or nine drummers with the same title in Britain who, according to him, have gone to Cuba to study the rituals, songs and traditional ways of making the old bata drums ‘talk’, many of which were built on the island by slaves who were determined to maintain their heritage and beliefs in spite of the whipping and beating.

According to Pattman, learning this secret and sacred language is the ultimate goal of the Yoruba drummer. As he says, it’s not the distinction of being a drummer; it’s worth it for the doors it opens onto another world.

In this case, it is a world that consists of three main symbols: The Bata drums, divided into the tiny okónkolo, the medium itótele and the giant iyá. Symbols which, thanks to David and other musicians of equal calibre, have already secured their place in British cultural heritage alongside the Scottish bagpipes, the Brazilian Berimbau and the Indian Sitar.

To Pattman this situation is nothing special. As he says, London has always been a diverse and cultural city. In his words, the culture of the British capital lies in its very diversity.

And yet, it is still amazing that a phenomenon such as the Rule of Ocha, which is the unification into a single liturgical body of different Yoruba cultures or the Rule of Ifa, the sacred order of babalawos (priests), should have followers in a society that is becoming more and more secular.

Perhaps it’s because, David reflects, those who are deeply involved in Lucumi culture, regardless of similar religious affiliations or not, respect it as a set of ancient traditions that have remained almost intact despite centuries of persecution, prohibitions and prejudices. In addition, Pattman states that on a personal level, learning the Bata drums brought a different kind of discipline. As he says, many drummers can play the iya, but how many can make it ‘talk’?

The future is promising, according to David. There are more people learning Yoruba songs and dances in the U.K. And of course there is already a new pool of musicians who want to learn the ancient rhythms that the slaves chained to the Lucumi soil brought to largest island of the Antilles. But this time, the echo of the three bata drums will be heard not only on the Havana coast, but also on the Thames in London.

Next Post: "Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts", to be published on Wednesday 11th July at 11:59pm (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago I will be posting some of the columns I used to write for the now defunct newspaper 'Noticias', a monthly publication that catered mainly to the Spanish-speaking community in London. Chronologically speaking, today's article was the very first one I wrote. The inspiration for it came from a conversation I had with an old acquaintance of mine from my uni days shortly before I came to live in the UK. He and I had became dominoes partners during the years we were both higher education students, though we belonged to different faculties. We ran frequently into each other at the Havana University Students' Club and never missed a chance to sit down to a game of dominoes. And wipe the floor with our opponents' backsides. We were good. Correction. We were crackingly excellent. If our degrees had been in dominoes as opposed to biology in my acquaintance's case and languages in mine, we would have both, by now, achieved our PhDs.

However, after all those years of seeing each other almost every day, one day R (though I haven't seen him for close to fifteen years, I'll use only the initial of his name out of respect), disappeared. He never came to the Students' Club anymore and when I enquired after him to people we both knew they had no answer either. It was starting to look as if he'd also been part of the group of youngsters who'd left Cuba in the immediate aftermath of the balseros crisis of '94.

One day, all of a sudden he turned up at the club whilst I was having rehearsals with the Havana University Folkloric Ensemble. Physically speaking, he was still the same, but the look in his eyes was different. There was an emptiness in them as if someone had gouged the life from them and left the eyeballs intact. It was when he began to talk that it hit me. He said that he'd found the true path and that for those who, like me, had chosen the devil's way, the only option available was hell. He'd become a Christian, and not just any Christian, but a proselytising, hardcore one. R was black, like me. It occurred to me then and the same idea crossed my mind when I sat down to write the article below that he was rejecting his polytheistic African roots (and you don't have to be a non-believer to accept this cultural fact) for a monotheistic system imposed by the coloniser. It was ironic that our forebears had been whipped to within an inch of their lives and here he was now, extolling the virtues of the very God in whose name we were deemed less than animals.

I don't usually make my race a big deal, either here on my blog or in my normal, offline life. After all my skin colour is as much as result of genetics as it is an accident in and of itself. I could have been of a lighter or darker tone. But, what I look to the most above all is to be treated as a human being, first and foremost; that remains my main identiy. R was impinging on that identity. But also, in doing so, he was reneging on one of his identity markers, namely, his African ancestry. Unbeknownst to him (not that he would have cared anyway), my career as an Afro-Cuban performer was not just out of love for the dance but also respect for and desire to learn about the culture.

That's, then, how this column came about. Of course, R's name is not mentioned once and why should it? After all this short write-up was done mainly to honour those who left their sweat, blood and tears behind, in the sugar cane fields and in the mills and yet still managed to bequeath one of the richest cultural heritages ever to my fellow countrymen and women. R's loss was my gain.

My thanks, once again, to Lise McDermot Jones who translated the text into English. The Spanish original appears first and the English version below. The music today is related to the topic. It is a song by Sintesis, one of the first Cuban bands that mixed Afro-Cuban folklore and pop music. I hope you enjoy it.

Maferefún* nuestro folclor

"... yo soy descendiente de allá,
donde los negros calmaban su dolor al ritmo del tambor..."
Clave y Guaguancó

Cada vez que escucho esa rumba mi sange de negro cubano se hiela. Pensar que el grueso de mi folclor tiene sus raíces en el negocio más ignominioso, vergonzoso y humillante que haya existido en la historia de la humanidad hace que al mundo le salgan ojos aunque solo sea para llorar de rabia.

Entre 1666 y 1776, los ingleses, franceses y españoles eran los principales importadores de esclavos para sus colonias en América Latina alcanzando una cifra de tres millones. Un cuarto de ellos moría en los viajes.

En Cuba la cultura importada que mas influyó en lo que se convertiría en el folclor afrocubano fue la del pueblo yoruba. Yoruba era el término que identificaba a ciertas tribus que hablaban la misma lengua aunque no estuvieran unidas ni centralizadas políticamente. Su nivel de desarrollo urbano y artístico fue uno de los mas altos del África tropical. Tenían un panteón de dioses a quienes llamaban "orishas", cada uno con sus propios rasgos y atributos. Éstos son una fuerza pura, inmaterial que no puede hacerse perceptible a los seres humanos, sino "tomando posesión" de personas elegidas, denominadas "iyawó".

A fines del siglo XVII surge la "santería", sincretización de los diferentes cultos yorubas y la religion católica en un proceso natural y lógico, pues cada orisha tiene su equivalente en un santo católico. A esto le siguió el nacimiento de la Regla de Ocha, producto de la unión de Latuán, negra yoruba y un negro "babalosha" o sacerdote, Lorenzo Sama. A fines del siglo XIX Eulogio Gutiérrez instaura la Regla de Ifá, la sagrada orden de los sacerdotes "babalawos".

A pesar de haber contado siempre con muchos fieles seguidores (tanto abiertamente como en secreto) la cultura y religión africanas en general no han corrido la misma suerte que aquellas traídas de Europa. Esto se ha debido en mayor parte a la imagen inferior, primitiva, insofisticada que la cultura africana siempre ha tenido en Cuba. Sim embargo, un número significativo de los cubanos creyentes profesan un culto africano (o "profano", como tambien se les llama), o incluso practican este conjuntamente con la religión católica, dándose el caso de aquellos que se persignan y dicen "¡Ay, Dios mío!", pero terminan sacudiéndose los brazos y torso en señal de limpieza y exclamando "¡Siákara!" (una bendición de origen africano).

Es ahí que uno se da cuenta de que a pesar de los maltratos, de las largas horas de trabajo y del bocabajo sufridos por los esclavos, nuestra cultura y religión se sienten hoy más que nunca. Y esto se refleja en un dicharacho muy cubano señalando que todos tienen sangre de uno y otro pueblo africano: "Aquí el que no tiene de congo tiene de carabalí..."

Publicado originalmente en octubre de 1999.

* Palabra yoruba que significa "bendito sea" o "viva"

Long live our folklore

"I am a descendant of that place, where black people soothed their pain with the rhythm of the drums..."
Clave y Guaguancó

Every time I hear the sound of that rumba, my black, Cuban blood freezes. The thought that the main art of my folklore has its roots in the most ignominious, shameful and degrading trade that has existed in the history of humanity is enough to make the eyes of the world cry with rage.

Between 1666 and 1776 the English, French and Spanish were the main importers of slaves to their colonies in Latin Ameria, a trade which reached a figure of three million. A quarter of these died during the voyage.

In Cuba, the imported culture which was most influential in what would later become Afrocuban folklore came from the Yoruba people. Yoruba was the term identifying certain tribes that spoke the same language although they were not united or politically centralised. Their level of urban and artistic development was amongst the highest in tropical Africa. They had a pantheon of gods whom they called "orishas", each with their own characteristics and attributes. These constitute pure, intangible force which cannot be perceived by human beings, but rather "takes possession" of chosen people, called "iyawó".

At the end of the 18th century "santería" emerged, which was the syncretisation of the various Yoruba cultures and the Catholic religion in a logical and natural process, so that each orisha has an equvalent in a Catholic saint. Following this the Regla of Ocha was born, product of the union of Latuan, a black Yoruba woman and a black "babalosha", or priest, Lorenzo Sama. At the end of the 19th century Eugenio Gutiérrez established the Regla de Ifá, sacred order of "babalawos" or priests.

In spite of having always counted on many followers (both openly and in secret), African culture and religion in general have not had the same fortune as those brought from Europe. This has largely been owing to the image that African culture has always had in Cuba as inferior, primitive and unsophisticated. Nevertheless, a significant number of Cuban believers are followers of an African (or "profane", as they are also called) cult, or even practise this alongside Catholicism, a case in point being those who make the sign of the cross and say "My God!" but finish by brushing off their arms and torso as a sign of "cleansing", exclaiming "Siákara!" (an African blessing).

It is then that you realise that in spite of the mistreatment, of the long hours of work and the beatings suffered by the slaves, this culture is felt more than ever today. And this is reflected in a popular and very Cuban expression pointing out that everyone there has blood from one or other African tribe: "Here, whoever isn't part Congolese is part Carabali)

Published originally in October 1999.

©2011

Next Post: “Lilya 4-Ever (Review)”, to be published on Wednesday 20th July at 11:59pm (GMT)

Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music, Ad Infinitum...

Cat's Crumbs (Migas de Gato)

This is a typical Afro-Cuban dish that is best served as a light snack or starter. I saw this recipe originally in a bookby Natalia Bolivar Arostegui.

Serves 10-12

Ingredients:

Bread (loaf or buns)

Olive oil

Garlic (a couple of cloves)

Water (or milk)

First, take the bread and pull the dough out. Break it all up into bite size pieces and roll them all up using middlefinger, forefinger and thumb. Dab them in water (milk can also be used) and leave them on the side. Slice the garlic in thin strips (choose a nice, plump bulb) and brown them for about five minutes on the hot olive oil. Add on the dough balls and bring the heat down. Stir them well so they don't stick to the frying pan. After about 5-7 minutes, take them out, drain the remaining oil (I like leaving it on, but you might be on a diet) and serve. If you used milk, you'll realise that they are more compact and crunchier. Hmmm, tasty.

Playlist

Because this is usually served as a starter or a light snack the music that goes with it (usually dinner party background music) is not very long. Recommended listening includes:

- Maria Bethânia e Erasmo - As Canções que você fez pra mim

- Ramasutra: Kwaidan

- Anna Ternheim - Girl Laying Down

- Ernesto Lecuona: Malagueña

- Gabriel Rios - Broadday Light

- Catatonia- Mulder and Scully

- Bebo & Cigala- Eu sei que vou te amar

- Souad Massi - Raoui(The Storyteller)

Copyright 2008

Carnaval de Cuba

It had rained in the morning and I was expecting a washout in the afternoon. I was, in fact, psyching myself up to perform in a torrential downpour. Fortunately, that didn't happen. The only downpour came from the wonderful atmosphere of camaderie and goodwill present throughout the whole event. Linda Petty and Guillermo Davis, the brains behind the Carnival Comparsa, managed to gather some of the most outstanding and colourful performers around (including yours truly) to represent with a few master strokes the diversity of dance hues Cuban culture has. Inside the tent the hurly-burly of dancers coming and going brought back memories of my time as a performer with the Conjunto Folclórico de la Universidad de la Habana and I have to admit that the nostalgia got the better of me. It's been some time since I had the opportunity to share the stage with such a marvellous group of performers.

At around 5.15pm we started making our way around the park, stopping occasionally to show off our dance skills to the enthusiastic audience who had gathered at Southwark Park. As I was performing Oggun, my grin was seriously restricted, to my own chagrin, I must admit. There were loads of Cubans around and as we approached the stage more familiar faces could be seen doing the call and response so characteristic of Comparsas: "Ahora que vivo en Cuba libre, ahora que vivo en Cuba libre, a cantar la Internacional... And the people swirled and spun, and they drank and got drunk. You could be forgiven for thinking that you'd just strolled into a barrio in Centro Habana or Habana Vieja. I felt euphoric and I can safely say that the vibe was pretty much the same around me.

And yet...

And yet...

And... yet...

Outside the tent now and more down to what a Cuban Festival is and more importantly to the perception of Cuba in the UK. Why is it that Cuba is equalled only to 'salsa'? I'm not in disagreement with the notion that salsa, New York labelling aside, is a pure Cuban phenomenon. The main ingredients come from Cuban son and even the word 'salsa' was coined first by Ñico Saquito back when my Grandma was still chasing chickens in Güines as a knee-high grasshopper. But there's more to Cuba than just 'salsa'. A few years ago I visited the Barbican where there was a special celebration for the forty years of the Cuban revolution (Boy, El tiempo pasa y nos vamos poniendo viejos) and I was surprised to see Edesio Alejandro amongst the musicians on stage. Pleasantly surprised, I hasten to add. His music is the flipside of the coin of our cultural make-up as a nation, But you wouldn't know it from the acts that normally make it to the bill of so-called Cuban events. Nothing wrong with these acts, by the way. Cuban hip-hop has earned its place amongst the main performers of the genre and our dance music, call it son, guaracha or changüi, have been the main staples of our culture througout many decades. But we also have brilliant singer-songwriters, Silvio Rodríguez, Santiaguito Feliú and Gerardo Alfonso to name but a few. We boast some of the better pianists in the Americas, Chucho Valdés and Frank Fernández come to mind and we have good pop bands that have made inroads into genres that were considered no-go areas before or that were not considered at all, Afro-pop anyone? Síntesis and Mezcla are good examples of this. So, in the same way that Glastonbury has its chill-out tent and its dance tent, I would like someone to come up with a tent for Liuba María Hevia or Sara González.

Now, now, I know I'm dreaming and I'm just waiting for someone to snap me awake. At the end of the day, it comes to money and whilst financial matters don't get resolved, we will continue to 'bop till we drop' to the sound of our sensuous and energetic Cuban salsa. And you know what? Give it to me like that any day, I'll take it!

Special thanks to Robert Dickinson who very kindly donated the photo that accompanies this post and thanks to Linda and Guillermo who very kindly asked me to take part in the event.


Copyright 2007