Desensitized

In August, I decided to take a break from posting, partly due to our decision to move back to the states. Ever since, I’ve thought about discussing a reality that I’m reluctant to share, mainly because Colombians work hard to change the narrow perception portrayed through the media. Early in my accounting career, I shared with a client my Medellin vacation plans, only to have her respond with, “What’s in Colombia besides drugs?” So I have first-hand knowledge of what I may be fueling with this blog entry.

Although we’re not all drug lords or ruthless leftist rebels, I can’t deny the violence that rocks the city that gave me birth and where I spent the past year. I've been fortunate to live the beauty of Colombia and could write a number of stories about how much I've loved living there. See Vengo del Monte.  Unfortunately, I also must write about the dark side. Filtering only the good stories just wouldn't be right. It's not reality.

So here goes:

My wife’s 11 year old cousin had been staying with us over the weekends because she was struggling with school. She lives in a rough neighborhood so we figured having her around us might help, at least temporarily, her situation. I pick her up around 7pm at a downtown bus stop that her and her mother had agreed we meet. We live on the west side of Medellin and she lives on the east so this spot is half way between.

I get on the same bus that I've taken at least 100 times since being in Medellin. Elevator music here is usually a salsa station, which is an enjoyable aspect of living in Medellin. So there was no surprise that the first song I heard when stepping on the bus was Las Mafia by Orquesta Narvaez, although I didn’t expect the irony of it.

La Mafia by Orquesta Narvaez off the album Reincarnation

The first ten minutes or so are just as normal as any of the previous 100 trips until we get a few blocks from a bridge that takes us over the Medellin River and out of the downtown area. A man dressed in a white button down short sleeve shirt and jeans comes on the bus looking very anxious and announces to the bus driver, "Close the doors. Don't let that man in the back off the bus." Now I had heard stories of gang members coming on buses and robbing passengers so my heart rate instantly shot up. Before picking up my wife's cousin, I had withdrawn some money from my bank account, around $800. This doesn't seem like a whole lot but given that most people only make $250 or less a month, it's quite a lot of money to be carrying around in your pocket. It's approximately 1.5 million pesos, which sounds like a fortune. Plus, I had American debit cards in my wallet so who knows what robbers would have done had they discovered a gold mine, an American with a ton of cash in his pocket and more importantly, access to more cash. So all the stories I heard of the dangers of a South American big city came rushing through my mind.

I sighed a bit when the man sits on the passenger seat and tells the bus driver that he's not here to rob him or anyone on the bus. That “phew moment” lasted... well... just a moment... as he grabs what appears to be a gun under his shirt/jeans while he warns the driver about letting the other man in the back off the bus.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing a kidnapping!

He again assures the bus driver (still holding what appears to be a gun) that he's not here to rob anyone but that the bus driver will be taking him and the other man to the water falls or cliffs (not sure on the translation). He further explains that there are people waiting for him to deliver the other man.

I turn to my left and see the 11 year old girl follow the gunman down the aisle with her eyes towards the poor man that will most likely meet his death tonight. While I almost pissed my pants, she's ready to pull out some popcorn and watch tonight's entertainment. I yank her shirt and angrily tell her to look forward. Just as this happens, the bus crosses the river and pulls over. A woman that appears in her early twenties maybe even late teens stands up virtually in tears and pleads to the man to let us off the bus. The man follows with "any passenger that wants to get off can do so but by no means can the man in the back get off." I now start hearing the other man plead his case (I don't dare turn around). So we don't stick around for that popcorn, we bolt out of that bus.

After discussing this experience with a few locals, I was reassured that the kidnapping of random foreigners was highly unlikely. As a friend explained, the man being kidnapped must have been involved in gang activity and was sure to be paying his debt. “Unless you’re the son of the CEO of Phillip Morris, you’re more likely to get mugged than kidnapped for ransom” he proclaims. He lived in an area of the city that my mother-in-law found undesirable to say the least so I’m sure he knew what he was talking about. I guess it was only fitting that the bus driver was playing Orquesta Narvaez that day, specifically La Mafia. It’s no wonder this album is one of the more popular salsa clasica albums in Medellin. It’s unbelievable that I’ve been able to find 8 vinyl copies of this album during my record shopping adventures. Perhaps that was a small sign of the sociological problems facing the city.

So aside from the obvious traumatic experience, here's what bothered me:

Who on earth would be stupid enough to hijack a bus to kidnap one person? You're not robbing anyone and you're letting everyone, who can now describe you, off the bus. I'm not a criminal but I'm sure there are more discrete ways to kidnap someone. Although we, as Americans, may think of this as a farfetched Hollywood scene, there are similar issues in the states, just not as blatant. There is something about privilege and violence in the US that sometimes buffers us. It doesn't mean that things don't happen. The violence that occurred on that bus was blatant and in our face - which one, I know this is a sick question, is preferable?

I have mulled over this for months. I keep thinking of how this 11 year old girl wasn't fazed one bit. As soon as we got off the bus, she was cracking jokes as though what had just occurred was part of her daily routine. Her attitude on the bus confirms this. While emotions paralyzed me, she had just as quickly put the event behind her. She's been desensitized to violence. No one, especially an 11 year old, should ever HAVE to be desensitized to violence. I was later explained that she has witnessed far worse than what we experienced that night.

I’m still grappling with what it means to be desensitized but my gut reaction was to criticize the locals for their willingness to accept violence. Only a hand full of the passengers left the bus that night. I was shocked to see the number of passengers that stayed behind. They must have known the danger they had just accepted, right?

My wife and I love living in a city. We're city people for sure and whether Boston or Medellin, there's a certain pre-disposition to violence that comes along with living in any large city. While I criticized the locals, I neglected my wife witnessing a shooting in Boston a few years back. Good friends of mine lived in Blackburg, VA during the Virginia Tech shootings and if I was scared while watching the story unfold on the news, I could only imagine the fear and confusion they lived that day. In fact, what prompted me to post this story was getting a text message from my old college roommate that his wife found their home trashed this past Wednesday. They had been robbed.

So why was I so quick to judge the locals for being desensitized? I have friends that are teachers. They see horrible fights at school and what’s even more stomach turning is the way the kids flock to the fights like a show. When we realize that this IS the ordinary for way TOO many young people, not just those living in Medellin, we can begin to understand how that casual attitude is sometimes a way of protecting oneself from showing and feeling fear - a fear that could very well be debilitating.  We can begin to understand why La Mafia could be an anthem for so many youths for over 35 years later.

Does this attitude that protects people really mean that they are desensitized? Do people who experience such violence and corruption really believe that is ok, or just tout the party line because that is what is safe? I wonder what organizations may exist in Colombia, like in other parts of the world that may indeed be working and putting themselves in danger to make change, to get people to speak up. In the states, kids are dead serious when they say "snitches get stitches". What organizations, communities and people exist that are working to combat that?

I know several Colombians living in the states that talk about how they left the because of the violence or have family members that have been kidnapped by the FARC. They are often in shock that no one seems to know about this in the states. Then when we look at organizations and UN declarations that are SUPPOSED to protect and educate they are equally enraged that nothing is done.

Where is the line between running from danger and facing it? What does it mean now that my wife and I are parents? It's one thing to work for Amnesty International to help people so that they feel safe about speaking out against such violence when you’re single, but what about now that we have our loved ones and children to think about? Do we take those risks to show our children we are making this world better for them while acknowledging that what we are doing is indeed quite dangerous? Or do we try to help and make change from afar? I don't have answers for any of this, but now that I’m a few months detached from this experience and living back in the states, it brings these issues up for me.

Peace
DJ Walt

Mucho Guaguancó

Mucho Guaguanco by Orquesta Salsa Latina

After walking around the gloomy hot room greeting as many family members as I could recognize, I sat with my wife to my left and paternal grandmother’s youngest sister to my right. Everyone around me seemed quiet and vacant. Instinctively, the blankness forced a search for any small talk that would alleviate the uneasiness I was feeling. I was sitting next to an aunt I had previously only met once. All I could think of was her famous crispy golden empanadas that I savored on my first trip to Colombia close to nine years prior. Cute wrinkles sprung to life around her slight gentle grin as she explained, “Mijo, es que estas manos ya no me dan para cocinar como antes.” The quick arthritis conversation helped me subconsciously settle into the journalist persona that has guided living in Medellin. As though paying attention to the little details that go into being Colombian will somehow make up for all the years I lived as an American. I tried to soak in as much of my first Colombian funeral as my awkwardness with the situation would allow. This after all was my first opportunity to share in pain with my paternal family.

I was probably focusing too hard on the light blue cement walls that made the room feel old and damp as I found myself back in a sea of silence. As I turned away from my aunt, I watched intensely at my grandmother’s empty stare to see if I could somehow share in her pain. Losing a son, even one knocking on his sixtieth year, must hurt deep. I decided now was a good time to walk over to Mamita. As I placed my hands on her shoulders, kissing her grey filled head I softly whispered in her ear, “lo siento Mamita.” Grandma replied as though she long came to terms with the life that once flowed from the coffin a few yards away, “menos mal ya esta descansando porque vivia una vida muy desordenada.” My sister and I always joke over our grandmother’s dry demeanor. So I wasn’t surprised by her response.

People mostly sat with their arms crossed in deep thought only speaking when it came time to recite the prayer the short curly haired middle aged woman pried out of them. Who was this woman and why was she directing my uncle’s farewell with a chant everyone had perfectly memorized? Some of my uncles and cousins sat outside feeling the hot unforgiving Antoqueño sun conversing about nothing in specific, while a one legged roughly bearded drunk seized the moment to ask for some spare change. This bum provided the only entertainment for the day as he suddenly remembered the long history he shared with my uncle. His begging turned into a persuasive act as he rambled incomprehensible best wishes. Chest thumping and kisses were directed at a heavenly figure. He played the role to perfection, convincing me he was a dear lifelong friend of my uncle until a policeman politely escorted him out of the funeral home. Perhaps my uncle had slipped him a few bucks from another world to add some spark to his uneventful farewell.

Mucho Guaguancó by Johnny Ventura

With the exception of a cousin I’ve never met in Florida, all of my father’s family lives in Colombia. I didn’t know much of anything about them until my early twenties. The continental time and distance made it difficult to form a connection with this side of my family. So as I sat there amongst basically strangers, I mostly felt curiosity. Although moments such as these build relationships, the lack of closeness with my father’s family seeped through my dark grey polo shirt to grab hold of my attention. I felt sad for my family for their loss but found it difficult to feel something more for my uncle.

I saw him five or six times in my life but never had the opportunity to dig deeper into who he was other than the troubled life his physical appearance displayed. I always saw him dressed in a pristinely ironed button down shirt neatly tucked into form fitting blue jeans that stopped just short of his brown penny loafers. However, his profoundly depressed eyes, overly wrinkled forehead, and rough sandy skin spoke a different story. He suffered from severe alcoholism, which made him sort of an outcast in the family. I was told he was an artist, a painter to be precise, living a rather lonely existence. Although I did see brief joyous moments from him at family parties that perhaps only those that really have nothing to live for can transmit.

The curiosity I felt was more towards how my family dealt with death since my personality seems to resemble more of my father’s family. My parents' families are polar opposites with my father on the reserved introspective side, leaving me feeling a bit different amongst my mother’s spontaneous, extroverted side. The death of my maternal grandfather in 2002 was a very public display of pain, filled with tear shedding and emotional outbursts. My mother and aunts periodically threw themselves on his coffin pleading for my grandfather not to leave them.

The vision of my paternal family didn’t fail. Very little emotion seemed to exist at the wake or funeral. I asked my father to tell me a good story of my 59 year old uncle’s childhood. He quickly brushed the question off as though he hadn’t heard me. His response was a clear request for privacy. It seemed as though he had long expected his brother’s fate and spent the funeral reflecting on the future awaiting his own alcoholic heart. I shared with a cousin the encounters I had with my grandmother and father and my perception of the dryness of our family. He explained that they displayed their emotion hours before on the night of his actual death.

The last memory I have of this uncle was his whacky high powered uncoordinated dance at the family Christmas party. Before stepping on the dance floor for what evenutally turned out to be his last performance, he announced a soft “watch this” with a wink at the start of a salsa. He seemed full of life during that dance even if the alcohol and three daily packs of cigarettes where reaching the end of his feeble heart. As my friend Saul would say, “la salsa la cargamos en las venas”, while tapping on his forearms as though preparing for a guaguancó syringe. My uncle had certainly been injected with a bit of life as soon as he heard a salsa at that family gathering. The image of his footwork made me question if a private mourning is what he would have wanted as the final story to his troubled life. Would he have preferred Mucho Guaguanco?

Mucho Guaguancó by Rafael Labasta

The death of a family member, no matter how close the relationship, always seems to conjure up the thought of your own mortality. We’re all on borrowed time with birth impling death.  The clock begins to tick the moment you leave the birthing center. Conversely, I enjoy the idea of death implying birth, especially during this period of my life where I’m reinventing myself. If such a joyous occasion as birth goes hand in hand with death, why do we westerners treat the latter with such sorrow? When I die all that’s left of me is the memories imbedded in the lives I’ve touched. I don’t believe I’ll descend to heaven but if I do, I’d like to believe my friends and family would rejoice in what follows of my existence. If the Christian vision isn’t fulfilled then the least my friends and family could do is celebrate not morn my life. The thought of having a party to celebrate my death seems so much more appealing than one of privacy or emotional outbursts. When I’m gone, would my family honor my wish to say good bye at the sound of the horns and percussion that have been such an important part of my life?

Peace
DJ Walt

Lyrics to Orquesta Salsa Latina’s version of Mucho Guaguancó:

El día en que yo me muera
Quiero que me pongan flores

El día en que yo me muera
Quiero que me pongan flores

Yo quiero que me despidan con un toque de tambores
Yo quiero que me despidan con un toque de tambores

Que suene el compas
Del guaguancó
Y el quinto también
Y el tumbao

Pero que venga bongo
Con su tambo
Y suene con fe
Mucho Mucho Guaguancó

Cuando vaya lo mejor
Con uno pa’ otro lado iré
Dale mucho Guaguancó
Y también aguanile

Chorus:
Aguanile, Aguanile Mai Mai
Aguanile, Aguanile Mai Mai

Hay…. el día en que yo me muera
Quiero que lo sepa usted
No se pierdan el velorio
Pa’ que gocen del bembe

Chorus

Hay… yo soy hijo de Chango
Y tu hija de Yemaya
Ven pa’ que goce la rumba
Que la fiesta va’ empeza’

Chorus

Hay… negrita ven a gozar
Mira que la vida es corta
Vamos a vacilar que la vida corta es

Chorus

Yo… yo soy hijo de Chango
Y tu hija de Yemaya
Ven pa’ que goce la rumba
Que la fiesta va’ empeza’…. aja!

No La Pare

No La Pare by Mon Carrillo y Su Sexteto

For almost two years, I worked from home for the Boston office while we figured out if a business undertaking would finally take off and thus whether we’d call Baltimore our permanent home. For those unhappy with the rigidness of an office setting, working from home can be more challenging than people often imagine. Since your only connection with the working world is through a virtual reality of phone and chat conversations, you’re in a continuous struggle with focus and motivation. Although this struggle is present in an office setting, working from home takes you under the radar, which can prove troublesome for busy bees unaccustomed to this lonely life style.

Salsa clasica helped me adjust to the solitude of Virtual Walt. I set up my new flexible work arrangement in the little dungeon we often referred to as our basement where I blasted salsa all day while building fancy excel spreadsheets. With just me and a Dell laptop battling the often 60 to 70 hour work weeks, salsa clasica was my constant companion. I no longer had the coffee break escapes with the fellas at the office to help alleviate the monotony. Instead, my breaks were dozing off, legs raised, feet crossed on a faded black love seat I treated like my exclusive salsa hammock, listening to the countless playlists living in my iTunes.

During one of these mid-day salsa getaways I first heard No La Pare by Mon Carrillo y Su Sexteto. DJ El Cumbanchero placed it in the middle of his set for the Nick Aguirre’s Salsa Dura Show and oh boy did it knock my socks off, pulled me right up off that couch. No La Pare instantly turned the more half than finished basement into my personal dance studio. Often when I’d have a breakthrough “aha” moment, a solution to a problem I had been working on all day, out of excitement I’d spontaneously dance on the cheap rust brown carpet to whatever salsa clasica song filtered the dusty air. I was lucky to be free from the office norms as the only heat present was from a moody space heater that often forced me to dance out of necessity.

This home confinement is likely where I developed the compulsiveness towards songs such as No La Pare. I listened to this song so often that I’m convinced I drove DJ Travieso crazy with constant “this song is so dope” instant messages. Before I knew it, iTunes had registered me listening to the song 93 times, which prompted the idea for the “93 and Counting” mix composed of songs that couldn’t escape the repeat button. I’m sure that would have driven anyone in an office setting bonkers. However, the musical backdrop aided my focus, liberating me from the burden of a deadline.

These busy season hours and the shack of a home office I had built regularly took me down the cabin fever path. Whether it was the long hours or the corporate games I found myself taking part in, I did my fair share of complaining throughout my accounting career. However, whenever I would grumble over work, particularly when doing so from home, I would remedy my dissatisfaction with some kickass salsa. It always seemed to get me through the work day. I was floating above dense waters with my musical companion, living the moment without a care as to whether tax accounting was really my calling. I left the past and future aside to feel salsa guide me through the task at hand. The solitude of my cave transformed salsa from a main distraction to a conduit for motivation, curing my work related frustration, even if for only brief periods. As I reflect on busy seasons in Baltimore, I was in the zone with songs like No La Pare. Time flew by as though I were having fun.

Peace
DJ Walt

Yo No Consigo

Yo No Consigo Tu Amor by Chuito & The Latin Uniques

During the first year of living in Baltimore, I gave salsa dancing a break to focus on my marriage while we both adjusted to life in the twilight zone we called Charm City. As a result, I don’t have many memorable dances from that first year with the exception of Yo No Consigo Tu Amor by Chuito & The Latin Uniques. The 2008 DC Salsa Congress was the first and only time I’ve heard this song at a salsa event.   Yo No Consigo is part of a list of songs I just can’t get enough of.  Every time I listen to it, seven minutes seems way too short and leaves me wanting more.  However, putting my salsa craziness aside, I always thought of this song as being too long for a set but was thankful that the DJ that night thought otherwise.
 
As soon as I heard the luring introductory piano by Auther Puerto, I knew I had to find a dance partner. My salsa skills were a bit rusty since this was my first night out from salsa hibernation and the song’s speed made me a bit nervous to ask. Luckily Michele was standing next to me and as we turned to each other she took the initiative to ask for a dance.

There were no other dances that night that I enjoyed more than this one with the mystery salsera from Pittsburg. It wasn’t so much that I was able to execute intricate turn patterns or wow the dance floor with a precise body movement to a song that by now I had subconsciously memorized. It was experiencing Michele’s delightful essence that made this dance memorable. In fact, I remember not caring when losing my timing on numerous occasions while watching Michele’s smile as she enjoyed the often humorous way Auther Puerto plays the piano on Yo No Consigo. Her vibe lifted mine and helped rid me of my nervousness, chipping away at my rust bound feet.

Without notice, the catchy chorus effortlessly guided us across the dance floor. I couldn’t help but sing along as I was well aware of the exact moments when Norberto (Benbe) Carrasquillo would impress us with his improvisational efforts on the mic. The singer’s interaction with the musicians served only to increase our connection as my attempts to impersonate Benbe seemed to fuel her funky footwork. “Eso pa’ que te comas un caykeh” sneaking out of the piano’s intensity is my favorite line from the song. 

After our dance, we each cordially thanked each other and went on our separate ways. I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the night as I was reminded of the gift these artists left us over 40 years ago. It was the spark that was previously missing.  Great nights are often fueled by an unexpected great dance. Salsa congresses have a funny way of working out that way.

At the end of the event when soaked from a long night of salsa dancing sweat, we bumped into each other as Michele was leaving the hotel and briefly exchanged facebook info. It wasn’t long before my predictable inclination to spread the salsa love kicked in that I was emailing her my favorite cha-cha-chas, guajiras, and sons as a thank you for that dance.

Social Dancing to Yo No Consigo Tu Amor:  I love the way the female in green gets down to this song.

Revolt - La Libertad Logica

Revolt – La Libertad Logico by Eddie Palmieri with Ismael Quintana on vocals

I probably never gave Revolt – La Libertad Logico a good listen because it’s off Vamonos Pa’l Monte where the famous Eddie Palmieri song by the same title overshadows the rest of the album. I only noticed the song after searching for Frankie Martinez routines on youtube. Even then I focused more on Abakua’s routine then the song’s message. It was only by chance as I finished my regular Sunday run where I simply let my mp3 player randomly guide my ears for two hours that I hear:


Económicamente
Económicamente esclavo de ti
No No No No Me trates así
Esclavo de ti, Esclavo de ti, Esclavo de ti… Caballero
Pero que va’
Tú no me engañas a mí

This message almost stopped me dead in my tracks. About an hour into my run I had entertained the idea of looking for a job in Medellin. I’m certainly enjoying the benefits of watching my daughter develop in Daddy Day Care but the thought of my family’s financial future has me considering changing the plan of staying home for a year to care for my daughter. I was asked a question regarding my five year plan, which led me to think about what I will do for a living once our savings start to run low. It’s the first question that must be answered when flirting with the idea of job hunting.

My follow up question revolved around the amount of money any prospective employment would generate. Perhaps Ismael Quintana literally meant we’re economically enslaved by others but I believe that follow up question results in us enslaving ourselves. I often enjoyed what I did for a living in my past life but felt enslaved to the profession by my husbandly duties to build a nest egg for the future. The enslavement was often produced by the potential of earning a six figure salary that was always in conflict with not doing what I loved. Until moving to Medellin I chose the salary and as a consequence felt a constant uneasiness with life. The following passage from J. Krishnamurti's Think on These Things, which highlights that continuous unpleasant feeling, has haunted me over the past month:

“To find out what you love to do demands a great deal of intelligence; because if you are afraid of not being able to earn a livelihood, or of not fitting into this rotten society, then you will never find out. But, if you are not frightened, if you refuse to be pushed into the groove of tradition by your parents, by your teachers, by the superficial demands of society, then there is a possibility of discovering what it is you really love to do. So, to discover, there must be no fear of not surviving.” J. Krishnamurti

If you haven’t figured it out, salsa is what I love. It’s the only true passion I’ve discovered. Unfortunately, I have yet to live that love. Many salseros have figured out how to live their passion yet some of us are so afraid of not surviving that we never experience what that passion has to offer. Quintana leads Nicky Marrero, and thus us, into a timables solo on minute 1:55 with “Mete mano Nicky” as if to instruct Marrero to live his passion as he so wonderfully does for the next minute. Perhaps if I would have not worried so much on what the future had in store and followed, as Marrero did, where that passion would take me, I may have already had the answer to that five year plan. As Natalie Goldberg puts in her most famous work, Writing Down the Bones, “Trust in what you love, continue to do it, and it will take you where you need to go.” Her advice is part of the reason why I decided to start this blog; to see where the love for this music would lead me.

However, the truth is that the blog isn’t putting food on the table and unless I decide to start growing my own vegetables, paying for that food will eventually come to the forefront. Not being afraid of earning a livelihood is easier said without a child’s future hanging on the balance of every decision. Or is it? Is that very conclusion what’s been keeping me from pursing a dream? Is that really what Palmieri’s “Revolt” is all about? But there’s no better time than now for that pursuit as now is really all that exists. Revolt against my own mind’s misperception of the now is the only libertad logica.

Maybe that’s what Quintana meant by “no me engañes a mi” as it’s us we’re fooling by focusing on external enslavement. We can view Palmieri’s revolt as being against the establishment’s pursuit to economically bind us to the system but where would that lead us? Our own relationship to the establishment’s influence is all we have control over and therefore all we must focus on. You can’t change the system unless you change yourself. The dependency to the system only exists in your head. Just as I never noticed the song Revolt - La Libertad Logico in the eight years I’ve owned the album, I’m just now noticing that the economic enslavement, how it’s affected and dominated my life, has been of my own doing.

Peace
DJ Walt

Abakua Dance Company performing La Libertad Logico

Tengo un Ritmo Bueno Pa' Bailar

Rumbon Melon by Joey Pastrana with Ismael Miranda on vocals

The chorus of Rumbon Melon says it all: “Tengo un Ritmo Bueno Pa’ Bailar.” When playing this gem in a set, it’s what I’m trying to communicate to the dancer: I got a goody in store for ya’. In my book, Rumbon Melon is damn right near as close to a perfect song as you can find and naturally represents my style. I prefer medium speed songs with soneros that, much like Ismael Miranda, master improvisation. The beauty of this song is that there are no timbales or trumpet solos that you can point to for its dopeness yet the random band member comments and Miranda’s work give it the air of a descarga. It’s the combination of Miranda’s youthful voice, the female chorus that only Pastrana seemed to consistently pull off, and the strong campanas following drops in the music that keeps me excited about salsa clasica. My favorite line from this classic is “con migo baila hasta el cojo”, a reminder that this genre was created to get your body, your soul moving.

The changes and breaks in the music give the feel of a somewhat shorter song than the 6 minutes it’s approaching, making Rumbon Melon the exception to the cardinal salsa law of not playing songs that are too long at a salsa event. (See The Mambo Scene discussion on the matter.)  DJ Rob Suave understood this when playing Rumbon Melon at Manny’s Providence Salsa Ball in Rhode Island’s historic Biltmore Hotel this past fall. I had the pleasure of having this dance with Andrea of Salsa y Control. This song always takes me back to that awesome dance and the good friendship I developed with Andrea on my brief return to Boston last year. Towards the end of the night a group of dancers were hooked to singing the catchy chorus, wondering “what song was that?” Jennifer Earls from MetaMovements’ smile while singing “Tengo un Ritmo Bueno Pa’ Bailar” as she walked through the hotel doors at the end of the night was proof of how this song helped make this event a dancing success.

Ataca Jorgie & La Alemana dancing at Salsa Caliente Social to Rumbon Melon

I later played this jam at MetaMovements’ Monthly Salsa Social in December and immediately received a dance floor thumbs up from Carlos “Niche” Acevedo. Watching his relationship to the song through his creativity and witnessing the enjoyment Rumbon Melon transmitted produced a rare moment of clarity, “this is why I DJ!” That split second of Niche’s quick gesture is exactly why I fell in love with salsa clasica. Niche didn’t have to say a word. His glance let me know he was feeling the exact same emotion DJ Travieso and I undergo when we proclaim “Thank You Chango for kick ass salsa!”

Peace
DJ Walt

Rumbon Melon was recorded on the album Let's Ball and released on Cotique Records.  One of the more exciting LP collecting memories was when I found this album hidden at the back end of a record stack at Disco Archivo.  The picture on the back cover with Ismael Miranda looking quite young is the best part of this LP. 

The Beloved Mr. Sony

Plastico by Willie Colon with Ruben Blades on vocals

We had recently moved out of the roach infested second floor apartment situated at the exact midpoint between 60th and 61st street in West New York, NJ. We had finally escaped the 1930’s style brick housing project that sat at our doorstep, a neighborly reminder of our economic status. Our new fourth story humble abode was a mere two and a half blocks away but gave the sensation of crossing an ocean, the newly installed video intercom and trash compactor proof of our journey. It was a small two bedroom apartment for a family of six but never felt quite as crowded as sharing our existence with the thousands of creepy-crawlers that stubbornly blocked our passage on nightly bathroom runs.

It must have been the newly found freedom to roll around on a clean carpeted floor that allowed me to become aware of the presence of music as something other than background noise. We had a black Sony stereo system whose flashy equalizer lights gave the feeling of staring at a slice of Times Square, bars rising and falling as the bass changed throughout a tune. Prior to our newly renovated palace, those lights were the cause of a reoccurring nightmare, a profoundly dark room with only the Sony lights seemingly present. As those lights rose so followed my anxiety, with Mr. Sony using his super natural powers to regulate my darkest fears.

Somehow the new 59th street lifestyle managed to transform Mr. Sony. The music transmitted through that stereo now seemed to ooze out of the beige carpet fibers, sucking me in with its musical tentacles. I would lay stomach flat to the ground, hands tucked neatly under my chin, eyes staring amazed at how the music emitted from the speakers made those lights dance.

I first became aware of Plastico by Willie Colon during one of these dazed interactions with my recently beloved stereo. Mom would frequently play the same Fania compilation where Plastico lived and breathed while she cleaned dishes or cooked her famous chicharrones, crispy delights to feed an artery’s craving. So I’m sure mom had previously given Plastico sufficient rotation but there must have been a missing ingredient that prevented me from noticing this classic. It was one of the first songs I can remember Mr. Sony using to seize my attention. It was the first time the door to the consciousness of music had been opened with Ruben Blades eagerly stepping through to prepare me for the lessons salsa clasica has to offer. I was hooked, mesmerized by Ruben’s story telling ability. He seemed to converse rather than sing. Nothing would rip me away from Mr. Sony’s clutches, not even the noise from the trash compactor that mom seemed to unsuccessfully play with for hours on end.

The beige carpet surrounded by newly minted black leather couches and pristine white walls was my own universe. With music as my refuge, it wasn’t just salsa that engulfed me into a new world but only salsa spoke to me on a different level. Given our new rise in living conditions, Ruben preached his words of wisdom that even as a ten year old I could somehow find a link and connect with. I still hadn’t understood who these salsa figures were, what time period they were from or even that I was being handed the salsa clasica torch. I hadn’t even yet fully understood the connection. I only knew the comfort I felt while laying on that carpet and the awe of Mr. Sony’s trance. It was only natural that a few years later that stereo was the sound system for my first DJ gigs.

Peace
DJ Walt

Live Performance of Plastico by Ruben Blades