Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana

Your stutter and beard took me by surprise, up to then I was only used to the millions of whys, that with your verses and notes you asked of the state, your voice was full of concern, in it not a trace of hate. A key part of the New Song Movement triptych you were in those years, although there were also others it was always so clear, that Silvio, Pablo and you were blazing the trail, which to thousands of Cuban youngsters was our own Holy Grail.

That night at the theatre, the first time I saw you live, not for a single second the thought crossed my mind that one day would arrive, when I would not only mourn your untimely demise but the impact you had on thousands of Cubans who have now bid you goodbye. To paraphrase Bertolt Brecht via Silvio’s dream of snakes, there are singer-songwriters who sing one day and do not make many mistakes. There are others who sing one year and manage better, compared to the former they are musical go-getters. There is a third group who can go for many lustra, countless plaudits they receive like a heavyweight boxer. Yet there are also those composers and performers who inspire generations, who sing, not just to their own country, but also to other nations. We call them the indispensable ones, without whom life would be dark, bereft of the sun.

That night at the theatre I realised you were that person, so did everyone else, of that we were certain. On the way to the show, my mates by my side, we sang and we joked, we still had our pride. We were the chosen ones, we kept hearing, for us there were neither borders nor for that matter a glass ceiling.

That night in 198_, however, you gave us a wake-up call, metamorphosed into song, it surprised us all. You asked how it can be that a man can change his mind to the point where his prejudices and narrow-mindedness make him blind. How is it possible that his principles can be traded so easily for a car, a secretary, a desk and a life to be lived lazily? Suddenly the white sheets we had seen hanging on clotheslines on the way to the theatre looked no longer normal but frightening creatures. Like white flags of surrender, they ominously warned of a false splendour.

“What became of the communist Quixote?” was your next question, was the windmill that broke his spear to blame for so many concessions? Or were his hopes dashed by too many hallucinations?

On the way back home we all were deeply silent, quiet, disturbed even, but also defiant. We were the generation that would pay the price, for the disaster over which another bearded man was about to preside.

As I write these lines I still remember that night, the palm trees, Revolution Square, the moon (it was so bright!). I also remember your beard and stutter, but guess what, I remember more the words that you uttered.

This post is dedicated to the Cuban singer-songwriter Santiago Feliú who died a few weeks ago on 12^th February at the age of 51 from a heart attack. I first saw Santiaguito (as he was known) at the Covarrubias Hall, National Theatre in the mid-80s. Along with Silvio Rodríguez Domínguez and Pablo Milanés, Santiago was a key part of the New Song Movement in Cuba and Latin America. Unlike the former two who eventually became part of the status quo,  Santiago was a rebel, a real rebel who, through his songs, influenced generations of young Cubans like me. Rest in peace, brother, and thank you for the music.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 9^th March at 10am (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Rain. It is the same everywhere, isn’t it? Madrid, Sâo Paulo, Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, Johannesburg. No matter what your surroundings look like, what the geometry of your town, village or city is, or the size of the buildings that populate the main avenue, rain remains unchanged.

Well, guess what, you’re wrong.

Not wrong from an objective point of view. The same condensation process takes place all over the world. The same aqueous vapour that forms in the atmosphere before plummeting to earth in the shape of fat drops occurs in all the aforementioned cities. But it’s the subjective, the unbidden subjective interpretation of rain that renders this phenomenon distinctive.

A few hours ago (on the day of writing this post) I went out for a run. It had been more than a month since I last had jogged. The storms sweeping across the UK put paid to any notion I might have had of nipping out for my usual seven-mile run. But today we had a glorious afternoon in London and I felt like doing my longer circuit; ten miles and sixty yards in total.

Halfway through my run the skies opened. To my amazement, to the west the sun still shone brilliantly, whereas to the east (where I was headed) the rain was coming down hard with a vengeance. I could have done a left turn there and then and headed back home. It was still a bit of a jog, about a mile and a bit, but at least I knew I would be dry in minutes as opposed to getting soaked to the skin.

I got soaked to the skin. I carried on running, not only out of enjoyment (I was going at a good, steady pace and the music pumping into my ears was the right one) but also out of the magic this unpredicted rain produced out of its wet sleeve. Sorry, London, the Southeast and Britain: this rain was not British.

This rain was Cuban, or at least tropical.

This was not the rain that has kept pumps working overtime in the last three or four months, the kind that has left cars stranded and made people mutter under their breath: “Oh, bloody 'ell, not again!”. No, this was rain in Technicolor, throwing shapes around as if one were on an LSD trip (which I have never undertaken, mind).

The rain in which I got caught a few hours ago was not cold (we had 14 degrees in London today for the first time in ages, unusual for February). This rain had a warm muzzle with which it poked me gently on my ribs. This rain had “home” written all over the sleeveless T-shirt it was wearing.

What I saw in this downpour was my birth city in my adopted one. Home in home. As I pounded the pavement the scenery around me changed and a sense of randomness took over. Like a film set where leading and supporting actors, extras, the crew and the director mill about and move aimlessly in between shots, the objects and people around me as I ran looked as if they had been scooped up by a giant hand and thrown back down like pick-up sticks. In my delirium (what else to call it?) I heard glasses half-filled with Havana Club cincoañejo rum (the better one) clinking and dominoes being shuffled. I saw a postman stopping right under a balcony and screaming out: “¡Carmencita, telegramaaaaaaaaaaa!”, raindrops falling off his moustache. A couple of children, feet swimming in their oversized shoes, approached me and asked me: “Mi tío, can you get us the ball that went over the fence, please?” The bluesy, funky music on my mp3 player was replaced by the sound of conga drums, hand-clapping and a Spanish guitar. This was not London's February winter rain, but Havana's May’s first spring shower, the one you allow yourself to get caught in because it brings you good luck. The one where the sky parts in two; one side sunny, the other one rainy. I was soaked in the rain; I also was soaked in voices, sounds, rhythms and pregones.

I ended my run an hour and thirty-five minutes later. By then it was letting up. A slight drizzle saw me to my front door. To the west the sun was still shining. Sorry, London, the Southeast and Britain, the rain that had just assaulted my senses was not British. I had just had a Havana moment. Or at least a tropical one.

© 2014

Photo by Keith Cardwell.

Next Post: “Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana”, to be published on Wednesday 5^th March at 11:59pm (GMT)