Interviews
Q&A With Cultural Historian Ivor Miller
Q&A with Ivor Miller, Cultural Historian, Author And Senior Lecturer at the Department of History and International Studies at the University of Calabar, Cross River State, Nigeria.
Prior to meeting Ivor Miller I’d heard about the book, Voice of the Leopard – African Secret Societies in Cuba, which has been described as, “an unprecedented tracing of an African title-society to its Caribbean incarnation, which has deeply influenced Cuba’s creative energy and popular consciousness.” I met Ivor at Minton’s, between sets, when he came over to exchange greetings with pianist, composer Michele Rosewoman. As the evening came to a close Ivor and I spoke briefly and he agreed to participate in a Q&A. Here, Ivor speaks about his remarkable life and his life’s work with candor, humility and passion. — Tomas Peña
TP: You and I met, totally by chance, at Minton’s (formerly Minton’s Playhouse) Jazz at the Crossroads series, where Roman Diaz and his group, El Gallo Mistico held court. Coincidentally, I recently purchased your book, Voice of the Leopard – African Secret Societies in Cuba. Suffice it to say, your reputation precedes you. Thank you for speaking with me before you hit the road.
Ivor Miller: Yes, I’m going to Cuba and then to Calabar, Nigeria, where I’m based at the University of Calabar, in Cross River State.
You are also the author of Aerosol Kingdom: Subway Painters of New York City which has been hailed as, “the seminal study of spray can art of the 1970s and 1980s” and the aforementioned Voice of the Leopard, which led to the first ever encounter between the Efik of Nigeria and the related Abakuá of Cuba.
Actually, my first book was, Ifa Will Mend Our Broken World – Thoughts on Yorùbá Culture and Religion and Culture in Africa and the Diaspora (1997), which I co-authored with Professor ‘Wande Abimbola, who ran the University of Ife for seven years and was majority leader of the Nigerian Senate in 1993. He also led the research to make the IFA oracle system recognized by UNESCO as part of our World Intangible Heritage. Since I had been in Cuba learning about Yorùbá-derived culture, and he was temporarily working at Boston University, we recorded and transcribed a series of interviews about the Yorùbá Diaspora and its constitutive oral tradition. It’s an easy to read, conversational book that’s been popular among practitioners. Because it was translated into Spanish, the book has been my passport within many Yorùbá-derived Ifá, Ochá, and Batá drum communities in Cuba, and it’s been useful to those interested in reorienting the Ifá oracle practice from an isolated Cuban thing to a Diaspora practice with a base in Yorùbáland, West Africa. The work on Aerosol ‘writing’ or New York subway painting began in 1988. It was my first work but it took a long time to get it published. The project has interestingly tied into later research into African heritage, because several of the pioneering painters creatively used a vocabulary of symbols of African origin that clearly had come through migration into the Caribbean, and then later on through Caribbean migration to New York. The idea of symbolic communication is deeply imbedded in the culture of the great graph painters of NYC, and that is also part of the Abakuá initiation society in Cuba, as well as the related Ékpè ‘leopard’ society of Nigeria and Cameroun.
What kind of symbols?
Some of the painters — especially those with family from the Caribbean who had knowledge of their grandparent’s culture —knowingly used symbols as triggers for esoteric philosophy, specifically as embodied in initiation systems like the Lukumí (Yorùbá) and Palo Monte (Kongo) from the Caribbean. Certainly, that’s the innovative elite; not all painters were aware of this, but the use of ciphers, arrows, and geometric designs was definitely part of the culture in the New York City barrios. Painters like Rammellzee called their communication codes ‘Mapamatics’, while also equating Roman letters with numbers and writing in codes.
That was in 2002, correct?
Yes, but Aerosol Kingdom was reprinted in 2010 and still remains in circulation. To tell the story, I did interviews with several artists in New York City to document their oral history. Later on, for the Abakuá book (Voice of the Leopard), I did oral interviews in Havana with the descendants of Africans who had important narratives about the migration of their ancestors and how they founded this institution in Cuba, and what it means for the history of the Cuban people. So far, my lifetime’s work is Voice of the Leopard. I’m planning to do a trilogy – the first book told the story of the Calabar context and how the Leopard Society functioned as an institution for community policing and justice; later the trans-Atlantic trade brought many Calabar people into the Caribbean, who established the Abakuá society in Cuba as a means of self-defense. They also named each of the original lodges after villages in the Calabar region, places which still exist in Nigeria and Cameroun. Abakuá is organized by lodges, parallel to Freemasonry. The founders named early lodge names after communities in Nigeria and Cameroun, so they were recording their history and many of these lodges became important cells in the wars of independence of Cuba, something which has not been well documented in the history books, even though we know that seventy percent of Mambí warriors were Africans and their direct descendants. Another volume of this trilogy will be purely based on recorded music in Cuba, and discussions of their contexts. Cuba is unique in the Americas because RCA Victor was recording there from the 1910s, and black music was recorded in Cuba before it was recorded in New Orleans. One of the foundational examples is singer Maria Teresa Vera’s work with Ignacio Piñeiro, who was known as the “poet of the son,” who had more than two hundred compositions and was an Abakuá member. Africans in Cuba used sound recordings as a way to document their social history. This is very important because for centuries the Spanish authorities were censoring books and newspapers in fear of rebellion. If writing was censored, coded music was not. African descendants used recording sessions as an opportunity to document community history. In 1923, the great troubadour Maria Teresa Vera recorded one of Ignacio Piñero’s songs, “Los cantares del abakuá,” and I believe it is the first example of a non-western language recorded in the Americas, and it happened to be Abakuá language derived from Calabar. That’s just one great example of many others. The book I want to write is a social history of Western Cuba (Havana, Matanzas) in the 20th century, looking at the discography and all the references to Abakuá, Kongo and Lukumí systems that have been recorded, and insights into why they recorded in response to the social events of the day.
Putting together a discography of that magnitude sounds like a painstaking, labor of love. So much history is told through recorded music. I look forward to reading it.
Very much so. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and much of the text is written, but to understand the greater context, I’ve had to go to Africa. I was advised early on about this by Prof. Abimbola, and I’ve been trained, coached and otherwise supported by theoretical linguist Dr. Victor Manfredi of Boston University, who’s helped me understand the larger issues in understanding the larger picture of African and African Diaspora studies, as it’s currently called. A persistent problem with African-derived traditions is that they are perceived as marginal, as bizarre and non-functional because they civilizations existing out of their past context. They are living within the context of European-derived systems, some of them sustain white supremacist values that continue to insist that the only relevant history of Africans is related to slavery, the slave condition, resulting in their life-ways as being perceived as inferior, incorrect, and even criminal. But, if one is able to actually work in Africa with the leaders of traditional African communities, one can begin to understand some of the core values of the communities and how they have persisted until day in various forms. That brings us to the music of Roman Díaz and his colleagues, who include Pedrito Martínez, Clemente, the late Félix ‘Pupy’ Insua, Onel Mulet and many others.
Yes. Of course, we appreciate what Roman is doing but I sense that there is more to the “dance” than meets the eye. Perhaps you could explain the performance, from your point-of-view.
On stage we saw the four Abakuá drums: three timekeepers and the bonkó ‘talking drum’ of Carabalí heritage. We saw three batá drums of Lukumí heritage, as well as cajones (boxes) and tumbador (conga drum). Of course Africans have been playing boxes for thousands of years, but in Cuba ‘cajones’ were part of the early evolution of rumba percussion because the Spanish authorities banned drums, so the percussionists began to use fish crates from their work on the docks. Early rumba was played on cajones. In the set, Roman started out playing Kongo music, the music of Palo Monte, which is the initiation system from Central Africa; his chanting evoked the Gods and the spirits who are present to protect the initiates on their life journey. Then he moved on to the Carabalí, as represented by Abakuá music, which starts with a call and response for initiates: Heyey baribá benkamá! Then finally he went to Lukumí music by playing for the Orishas, starting with Elegwá, the deity who ‘opens the way’ for the others. He did this not as a ceremonial rite, but more in line with the idea of ‘correct protocol’ as stated in many rumba performances, for example in a recording of the Muñequitos of Matanzas, where the lead singer starts by saying, Siempre tengo por costumbre, Cuando llego a una morada Saludar la muchedumbre, Como persona educada . . . 
“I always have the habit, when I arrive to a gathering, of greeting the people, like a well-raised person.” In this way, I see Román’s performance as a way of respectfully greeting the lineages of Kongo, Carabalí and Lukumí in Cuba, as a way of identifying himself as part of these communities. But why did he do it in this order? Because traditionally in Cuba there is a protocol for joining these initiation systems: one should first be initiated into Kongo or Carabalí and then only later then should one become a member of the Lukumí. Those who were initiated into Lukumí first, were prohibited from later joining the Kongo or Carabalí. There are many views on why this is, but one reason is that Cubans are remembering the historical migrations of the Africans, wherein the Kongos by and large arrived first, the Carabalis came after them, and the Lukumís came last. Then you have pianist David Virelles playing very interesting avant-garde sounds, sometimes referring to the Cuban piano tradition of Roldan and Caturla, and sometimes referring to US jazz piano, but basically exploring the integration of avant-garde jazz and these initiation systems, which is kind of wonderful. I think it’s in line with artists like Charles Mingus, who composed and performed Haitian Flight Song and Mexican Dance, that is, thinking about the social origins of the music. But I think that the Román’s larger goal, since he’s living in the USA, is to communicate to North Americans, whose language might be jazz, about the contemporary reality of African-derived initiation systems. In other words, he’s not reproducing ‘folklore’ as seen in tourist shows, but using traditions creatively as living systems. Caribbean African cultures still shape our cosmopolitan modernity.
To get a sense of what David is doing I highly recommend Continuum, his most recent recording. It’s the result of a trip to Cuba where Virelles explored his country’s culture and art and composed a series of vignettes inspired by visual art, Cuban folklore and Afro Cuban languages and practices that include music, poetry, storytelling, divination, magic, improvised storytelling and chants.
Yes, in this amazing recording, Roman asks, “Quien es, Maria de la O?” (Who is María de la O?)
I’ve been hearing the question for years. I did some independent research on Maria de La O and it was inconclusive. Maria de la O is an intriguing and elusive figure in the history of Cuban music.
This is wonderful because David is from Santiago and Roman is from Havana, and there are about 700 miles between these cities. Throughout the island of Cuba there are variations of Carabali, Kongo and Lukumí influence. Whereas Abakuá is only in Havana, Matanzas and Cárdenas, in Santiago there is Carabali influence in the carnival comparsas. What they are doing in this song is looking at the relationship of Carabali influence throughout the island, because Maria de La O was known famous mulata from the 19th century. She’s a mythic figure, because for African-descendants —whose history is largely undocumented — the question of verifying her authenticity is not vital. What’s important is that her memory has been passed on because she was important to the community. I believe that Alejo Carpentier mentioned her in his book, La música en Cuba. In Roman’s performance, I think that this phrase is a challenge, a puya: quien es? Do you know? He’s challenging people to learn about their history. According to Carpentier, Maria de La O was a famous mulata in Santiago, most likely a priestess, a community leader . . . that’s my assumption. The standard phrase in rumba performances is: “María de la O kuenda,” ‘kuenda’ being a Kongo term for ‘to arrive’. María is ‘arriving’ in a Kongo ritual context, which could mean she was a priestess who was a vehicle for the gods to materialize (‘a horse’ in the Haiti usage), or that she herself was a spirit. Instead of being a stereotypical ‘mulata del fuego’ (the pretty mulata), the song praises her power in as a community leader. In his performance, Roman seems to be drawing parallels between Maria de La O of Santiago and the mythical Sikan, the founder of Abakuá in Africa. He’s doing this using Abakuá ritual language. He’s drawing a parallel between this African descended woman in Santiago and the African woman who was the mythic founder of Abakuá in Africa. Abakuá rites are complex procedures that praise the life and death of Sikan; she is their mother and their founder. Roman is suggesting that both sides of the island revere powerful women who are community leaders. In this performance, Roman is challenging stereo-types of Abakuá as being anti-female, anti-feminist, because he is saying ‘We Praise Our Women’, ‘We Revere our Mothers’, because whoever doesn’t treat his biological mother with respect can’t be a member of the Abakuá.
Fascinating. Who knew? Obviously, initiates, people in the “religion” have the benefit of understanding the meaning and the nuances better than most. You did a series of broadcasts on Cuba Calabar Radio (cubacalabarradio.podbean.com) with radios show host, Ene Ita. In one particular broadcast you deciphered the meaning of tunes that I’ve been listening and dancing to, for years. Case in point, the tune Yambeque by Papo Lucca and La Sonora Ponceña.
This is one of my favorite groups, because Papo Lucca and La Sonora Ponceña somehow captured the energy and feeling of Abakuá in ‘salsa dura’ and made several original recordings with its ideas and language. In “Yamba Yambeke” they praise the relationship between Abakuá culture and the playing of rumba music, which is a profound theme in the social history of Havana and Matanzas. Here’s a sampling of the lyrics. Elegbe, elegbe, elegbe, le alala, Elegbe, elegbe, elegbe, le abakuá En una rumba todos los rumberos decian asi (in a rumba, all the rumba players say) enkrukoro enyéne abakua (this is the full name of the Abakuá institution) But this track is especially intriguing because it’s the only I’ve heard that refers to an Iyamba, or Abakuá lodge leader, that is called Iyamba Yambeke, and there’s a lot of history behind this. Abakuá histories speak of an Iyamba in Africa called Yambeke, and in Havana this title was created in the Nyegueyé Efó lodge in the early 20th century. Who this person was and how it all happened is a long story that should be treated in a book! How Papo Lucca learned about this I’d like to know, and I’d like to meet him one day to ask. My guess is that he learned from knowing Abakuá members who were musicians. Incidentally, I have found maps of southeastern Nigeria that show Yambeke as an island or a river in the Bakassi peninsula area on the border with Cameroon, close to Calabar. This is another sign of how popular music has been used in the Caribbean to record the people’s history, and specifically those of African descendants.
There is no shortage of information about your professional life but your personal life is somewhat of a mystery.
I come from a family of educators. My dad is a college professor, my mother taught in elementary schools, and I grew up hearing about the teaching process at the dinner table. Most of my cousins and uncles are also involved in education. With this background, and thanks to many great teachers, I came to understand that the themes we are discussing are worthy of research and publications, and should become part of the educational curriculum, because they are very important for our own history: African leaders played vital roles throughout the history of our continent. My father’s first job was teaching in Beirut, so as a young child I was raised in international communities and hearing many languages. In college, I was able to study African ‘classic’ dance, thanks to a wonderful teacher named Donald ‘Eno’ Washington. Eno happens to be a name from Calabar meaning “gift,” and he certainly was for me. Eno is an American of African descent who was part of the African-Centered movement of the 60s; he was also one of the greatest dancers I’ve ever seen. His training inspired me to go to West Africa, and I did so as a volunteer worker with Operation Crossroads Africa, in Ghana in 1985, and then again in The Gambia in 1987, where I knew many of the Djola and Wolof dances of the villages, so there was a lot of fun. But as a young person, I found being in rural Africa very hard, because I was far from my family, digging pit latrines for a toilet, being without electricity and running water, it was tough. But later on while dancing professionally in New York City, I met some Afro-Cubans who were painters and drummers, and became aware of the possibility of learning about African arts through their communities in NYC, and later on the island.
What company did you dance with?
I studied African dance in college, but being a male with blue eyes and light skin, I was not allowed by my black nationalist brothers to do this professionally. So, I started training in ballet and modern dance, and became a member of the South Street Dance Company in Philadelphia; soon afterwards I came to New York and was lucky to dance with Ken Rinker, who was Tywla Tharpe’s principal dancer for many years. Rinker and Tharpe’s style was very technical modern dance and I enjoyed it, but I soon became bored, because I missed African dance; being part of an African dance community gave me a window into civilizations where dance was more functional, that is, related to community defense, to agriculture, to the land, and I missed that. We had read Robert Farris Thompson’s African Art in Motion in Eno’s classes, and because of this I applied to study with Thompson at Yale. I was accepted with the aim of learning about West African art, but I ended up doing my master’s thesis on so-called ‘graffiti’ in New York, which some of the painters call ‘calligraffiti’! I think the Art History Department faculty were not pleased about my choice! I learned about this painting form because around 1987 I was a bike messenger in Manhattan, and became intrigued by the brilliant paintings along the city walls and subway cars. I began to photograph them, and eventually met and interviewed scores of painters. This resulted in “Aerosol Kingdom: Subway Painters of New York”; through this work I learned how to record oral histories and use them to tell a story. In New Haven, I was lucky to know Jill Cutler, a poet and writing tutor at Yale, who taught me how to write and edit, as well as Jeremy Brecher, a labor historian who taught me the basics on conducting oral and community history. I’ve been honing these skills ever since. During the ‘caligraffiti’ research in New York, I went to the Blanco, Negro y en Colores gallery in the South Bronx for an exhibit of the great subway painters like Phase 2. But a painting there by Cuban artist Juan Boza caught my eye; it turned out to be his rendition of an Abakuá ritual signature. This was surprising but made sense, because many of the New York subway painters were of Caribbean descent, and understood the visual codes of ritual signs. Juan Boza and I became good friends, and he eventually became my padrino (godfather) in the Lukumí Ocha tradition. He was initiated as a son of Yemayá, the sea goddess, and led me to Palo Monte and Lukumí ceremonies in the Bronx, where I met the late Orlando “Puntilla” Rios playing batá and bembé music. Juan was a great painter and installation artist. He was also a black and gay. I learned over the years that these conditions brought him problems in Cuba. In 1972 he had won a national award for his art, but he was not allowed to leave the island to represent Cuba internationally. In 1980 he arrived in the USA during the Mariel Boatlift and began to create art in New York. During my first trip to Cuba in 1990, while I visiting Juan’s mother in Camagüey – in the center of the island — we learned that Radio Martí announced Juan Boza’s death! (Radio Martí is the US sponsored radio program broadcast from Miami).
Boza’s artwork is striking, amazing. How did he die?
Apparently from blood-poisoning from using metallic paints. Since I was a photographer, I had early on created his portfolio in 35mm slides, but I’ve since refused to publish a catalog of his amazing work, because when he died his paintings were scattered and lost. Many are now in private collections, and I have not yet published because I don’t want his paintings to be elevated in price, and become totally out of reach to Boza’s family. As my teacher in the Lukumí Orisha system, Juan Boza created and delivered to me a shrine ensemble known as ‘los guerreros’ (the warriors): Eleguá the messenger, Ogún the warrior and Ochosi the hunter. This was my first step in the Lukumí system and it has served me well. A Yale Fellowship brought me to Cuba for nine months, where I studied dance with the Conjunto Folklorico Nacional (National Folklore Ensemble). This was in 1991, the period when the official ban on religion had begun to be lifted, and I remember the Conjunto dance and drumming teachers being hush-hush about discussing ceremonial activities. Some of them later guided me to ceremonies in the barrios of Havana where I began to meet babalorishas, iyalorishas, babalowos, and other diviners. I eventually became fully initiated in 1993, when I was ‘crowned’ with Shangó by ‘Abébe Osún’ Ruben Hernández and ‘Ogun Deí’ Milagros Miranda, and I’ve been privileged to work in Cuba ever since. Since my Lukumí ‘oyubona’ (the guide of the neophyte) ‘Ogún Deí’ had been initiated by the great teacher and batá player Jesús Pérez ‘Obá-Ilu’, my Lukumí godfather ‘Abébe Osún’ suggested that I work on a book about this master. Jesus Perez had helped co-found Conjunto Folklórico Nacional de Cuba in 1962, and he traveled the globe to promote batá and other Afro-Cuban arts. After nearly 20 years of interviews with colleagues, family, and students of ‘Obá-Ilu’, I’ve nearly finished this project, an oral history in praise of ‘Obá-Ilu’. What I love about Cuba is the intensity of cultural life, where the African, Iberian, French, British, Chinese and Amerindian influences are intertwined, most famously in the music, but also in the initiation systems of Arará, Carabalí, Kongo and Lukumí. This makes it important to be informed about many aspects of social life to understand even a single theme, because it’s all connected. When beginning a study of batá music and lineages, it soon became clear that many batá players were also members of Abakuá and Kongo lineages, that batá playing had been part of highbrow concert music in Havana since the 1930s, and that many themes of these traditions were reflected in Cuban painting. It was during my study of batá drums that I met Roman Díaz at home in Havana in 1995, and also his teacher, Pancho Quinto. A lot of my movements in this period were thanks a mutual friend of Roman and mine: Frank Oropesa ‘el bongocero’ of the Septeto Nacional de Ignacio Piñeiro.
Your story is fascinating. How did you end up lecturing at the University of Calabar, in Nigeria?
After more than a decade of study in Havana and Matanzas, especially with Abakuá elders, I received a grant to study the Abakuá cultural links with Calabar, the port region of southeastern Nigeria that gave name to the so-called ‘Carabalí’ people of Cuba. The people of Calabar received me with enthusiasm when they learned about the deep impact of their ancestors in Cuba. For ten years now in Calabar, I’ve had the great privilege of learning about this incredible trans-African legacy. What I’ve done as a scholar is to essentially follow up on one of the chapters of Thompson’s “Flash of the Spirit,” the one on Ékpè and Abakuá. I have merely taken that idea and expanded it . . . Since coming to New York in 1999, Román’s become an important teacher for me, because he’s helped me understand the profound emotional codes at work in performances and ceremonies of African heritage in Cuban communities wherever they are. Roman is an amazing cat, and I’m glad to see him working so deftly with musicians from around the world. I’m also thankful to Dita for recognizing his genius and promoting him at venues like Minton’s.
I’m reminded of the impact that Orlando “Puntilla” Rios had on the music scene when he arrived in New York (1980 or thereabouts). I feel privileged to have witnessed the passing of the baton. Also, The Midnight Rumba series at the Zinc Bar, which takes place every Thursday at midnight (led by Roman) has become a phenomenon, a hot-ticket. Once again, thanks to curator, Dita Sullivan, who is also is responsible for the New Dimensions in Latin Jazz Series (at the Jazz Standard) and Jazz at the Crossroads at Minton’s.
One of the truly impressive things about Román is that he refuses to allow himself to be characterized as a ‘star’, or an exceptional ‘individual’. Instead, he act very skillfully as a member of a community, and most of his recordings speak to this community or communities in codes that only they can fully know. In other words, he doesn’t have an ego; he’s humble and that’s why he’s learned so much.
Well, I think we can both agree that this has been much more than just a conversation. For me, it has been an education. I look forward to speaking with you the next time you visit New York and continuing the conversation.
Thank You, Tomas!
RECOMMENDED LISTENING AND READING
LISTENING
- Efí Embemoró Septeto Nacional de Ignacio Piñeiro, 1936 (con Bienvenido Granda y con Cheo Marquetti, cantante)
- Abakwa song. Recorded in Guanabacoa by Harold Courlander, 1940
- Afro-Cuban Drum Suite Dizzy and Chano Pozo, 1947
- Abasi-Abacua Conjunto Niágara (1945).
- Ñáñigo Katherine Dunham Ensemble (1956)
- Habanecue Tito Rodríguez. (1950)
- Mambo Abacua Mambo Arsenio Rodriguez
- Cuba Calabar Radio http://cubacalabarradio.podbean.com/
READING
- Voice of the Leopard: African Secret Societies and Cuba University Press of Mississippi, 2009
- Aerosol Kingdom: Subway Painters of New York City University Press of Mississippi, 2002; Reprint 2010
- Ifá Will Mend Our Broken World: Wande Abimbola & Ivor Miller AIM Books, 1997
Introduction: The Rhythmic Map of José Guzmán
For guitarist and composer José Guzmán, the distance between the academic rigours of a Doctoral degree and the street-level pulse of a Puerto Rican bomba circle is non-existent. Born and raised in Ponce, Guzmán has spent his career translating the “hard 90-degree pivot” from rock-and-roll to jazz into a sophisticated, percussion-driven language. His latest project with The Afro-Caribbean Jazz Collective, Cortadito, serves as a vibrant proof of concept for his “drum-first” philosophy—an approach that demands the composer master the hand drums before ever picking up the pen.
In Cortadito, Guzmán departs from the traditional jazz quintet by daringly removing the drumset entirely. By centring the barril and congas, he creates a sonic space that smells of the Caribbean sea and feels like the cobblestones of Old San Juan. It is an intimate, unfiltered snapshot of heritage that balances the intensity of son montuno and songo with the tender, lived-in emotions of the bolero.
In this candid conversation, Guzmán opens up about the “flying without a net” energy of the Collective, his responsibility to the legacy of masters like Rafael Cortijo and William Cepeda and why he believes that to truly play Latin Jazz, you must first learn to speak through the skin of the drum.
“The title Cortadito is a snapshot of my heritage and upbringing… I was flooded with memories of the mountain view from my home in Ponce, the cobblestones in Old San Juan…”
On Cortadito (2025 JGB Music)
Cortadito has clearly resonated with critics and audiences alike—what was the central artistic vision behind this album, and how does it build on or depart from Fiesta at Caroga?
Fiesta at Caroga was a great way to find my artistic voice, while Cortadito has refined my vision. After Fiesta at Caroga, I felt that I needed to connect the audience with my Puerto Rican roots. I composed tunes that put the Puerto Rican folkloric rhythms of bomba front and center (“Holande Pa Uste” and “Witches Dance”) while expanding on our repertoire with son montunos, cha cha, boleros, and songo.
The title Cortadito evokes something intimate yet culturally specific. What does the title represent for you musically and personally?
It’s a snapshot of my heritage and upbringing. As I wrote the music for the album, I was flooded with memories of the mountain view from my home in Ponce, the cobblestones in Old San Juan, and the smell of the Caribbean sea. The imagery of the empty coffee mug in the album cover, the intensity of the music, and the gentleness of boleros are staples on the island.
Can you walk us through your compositional process for this album? Did the pieces emerge from rhythmic concepts, harmonic ideas, or lived experiences?
A mixture of all of the above. I purchased several percussion instruments (congas, Puerto Rican barril, etc) and dove headfirst into learning the lineage of the drum and playing all the patterns that I write music for. If I can’t play it, I won’t write it. It was common to hear teachers at the Puerto Rico Conservatory say, “to play Latin jazz, you gotta play the hand drums,” and that is common to hear in interviews of the masters as well. Some ideas came to me as I practiced my basic patterns and became useful with the help of practice tools such as Agustin Espina’s Latin Percussion Grooves or the mobile app PercussionTutor.
As for the lived experiences portion, it’s very personal storytelling. The idea for Roberto Cantoral’s “El Reloj” came to me as I took care of my father before he passed away, and I always dedicate the song to my audience because we all share that feeling of losing a loved one. Others, such as “A Sunny Kind of Day” and “Orchard Downs,” are based on my day-to-day life experiences in Puerto Rico and the state of Illinois.
How did you approach balancing Afro-Caribbean rhythmic traditions with modern jazz language on this recording?
While I was writing, I felt a strong responsibility to write melodies that swing with the clave, the drum patterns, and, at times, the dancer. The harmonic canvas tends to reveal itself afterwards. My writing process varies; at times I’ll have a melody come to mind, record a voice memo (or more), and then I’ll find the rhythm that fits. Other times, I’ll play the drums and let the pattern lead me to a new melody.
Were there particular tracks on Cortadito that presented unique challenges or breakthroughs during recording?
Recording is always tedious because, unlike playing live music and the “flying without a net” feeling that comes with it, you can easily get stuck in your head, striving to create a good product. I am lucky enough to say that I surrounded myself with very positive friends who were also enthusiastic in the process. “El Volcán” and “Holandé Pa Usté” were challenging but fun to record.
“I am building on the foundation laid out by Rafael Cortijo’s Time Machine and William Cepeda… pushing the boundaries of what was Latin jazz at the moment of publication.”
On Musical Identity & Heritage
Your music reflects a deep connection to Puerto Rican rhythms. How do you translate traditional forms into a contemporary jazz context without losing their essence?
As a fan of salsa music and traditional folklore, I wanted to keep the dance aspect of the Afro-Caribbean rhythmic traditions and adorn it with melodies that percolate from the hand drums. Even the decision of not having a drumset in the recording was made in an effort for the percussion section to shine and pop out. In live shows, I’ll have drummers set up a timbale/drumset similar to what Samuel Formell (Los Van Van drummer and leader) uses, but I still prefer the timbales with a kick drum for the studio.
During the barril solo on “Witches Dance”, I actually had someone come into the studio and dance a traditional bomba improvisation for the drummer to play to. Having that solo kept the spirit of the dancer, which was really important for me.
Growing up in Ponce, Puerto Rico, what early musical influences shaped your identity as a guitarist and composer?
My influences are a wide spectrum of genres. I grew up listening to Fania Records, Puerto Rican folklore artists, and the boleros of El Trio Los Panchos, but in my teenage years, I learned guitar by playing classic rock and mid 90’s trending rock bands. By then, I found myself playing in several rock bands with my neighbors, writing music and playing shows. It wasn’t until I was 18 years old when I discovered Al Di Meola, Paco de Lucia, and John McLaughlin’s Saturday Night in San Francisco that I pivoted to jazz, and that pivot was a hard 90 degrees into the genre.
How do you see your work contributing to the broader narrative of Afro-Caribbean jazz today?
I am building on the foundation laid out by Rafael Cortijo’s Time Machine (1973) and William Cepeda’s Puerto Rican jazz discography (1992 onwards), to name a few. Both artists focused on bringing the rhythms of bomba and plena into the jazz realm, pushing the boundaries of what was Latin jazz at the moment of publication.
“The beautiful (and intimidating) part about the Collective is the rotating cast of musicians… in 2025 alone, we collaborated with over 40 musicians across 8 states.”
On Bandleading & The Afro-Caribbean Jazz Collective
As the leader of The Afro-Caribbean Jazz Collective, what qualities do you prioritize when assembling and directing your ensemble?
If we think of it as a pyramid, sight reading is at the top, followed by improvisational skills (especially over clave), and well-rounded musicianship. This is because we don’t get a chance to rehearse as much as I’d like to, so it’s crucial to get the melody and form with as little or no rehearsal time. Currently, I have a core group that travels with me, and I’ll pick up musicians who live in the area we are visiting. I gravitate towards players who play or have played in salsa bands, and the results are always fun!
Your group has developed a strong identity over several albums—how has the band evolved since its inception?
The beautiful (and intimidating) part about the Collective is the rotating cast of musicians who are well-versed in Latin jazz while also exposing strong musicians to playing clave music. This serves as a place for players to grow, as well as my own growth by receiving feedback from Victor Garcia, Roy McGrath, Tito Carillo, Zach Rich, and Matt Shevitz. This is also due to the size of the group and the hectic schedule of musicians with families and other priorities. In 2025 alone, the Collective collaborated with over 40 musicians while playing across 8 states.
What does collaboration look like within the Collective? Do your band members contribute to arrangements or compositional ideas?
It’s always evolving. When I started the ensemble, I would have people bring in arrangements. The last track in Cortadito (“El Volcán”) was written and arranged by tenor sax player Brian Stark. Brian is a strong composer and arranger for a big band, and I fell in love with the tune. Trombonist Ben Carrasquillo is the arranger of our EP version of Nat King Cole’s “Love for Sale”. Several musicians have asked me about writing for the ensemble, and I always welcome it, but I won’t pressure folks to write. Ever since the release of Fiesta at Caroga, I usually consult ideas with members, bring the arrangements to a show, and members will contribute with ideas to enhance the melodic weight or sections.
On Education & Artistic Development
You’ve pursued extensive academic training—from the Puerto Rico Conservatory to a DMA in Jazz Guitar Performance. How has your formal education shaped your artistic voice?
It was very important in my development since my early years as a guitarist were a combination of playing my favorite songs at home and jamming songs with my neighbor, no music theory or formal lessons. The Conservatory is where I developed the foundation for playing jazz and my first exposure to listening to classical music (chamber and orchestral) on a daily basis. Southern Illinois University in Carbondale exposed me to writing atonal music, taught me to analyze it, and provided me with my first opportunity to write for a big band every couple of months. At the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, I got to write a lot of songs and arrangements for a robust instrumentation guided by a faculty whose legacy is found in albums by Arturo Sandoval, Woody Herman, and many more. The latter also taught me the value of research in academic settings, and I am interested in adding the Afro-Puerto Rican voice to that conversation as well.
As someone deeply rooted in both performance and composition, how do you balance intellectual rigour with emotional expression in your music?
Writing music is similar to writing stories; there’s a narrative that makes an audience feel. For me, there has to be a connection between ideas and not just juxtaposing melodic ideas to create sections. If I can sing the melody while playing clave or drums, then I move forward. My favorite tool when composing is the eraser, especially when overcomplicating melodic statements or when I get a bad case of writer’s block.
On Career & Looking Ahead
You’ve worked across genres—from jazz to chamber music to rock—and collaborated with diverse artists. How have these experiences influenced your approach as a bandleader?
It exposes me to different approaches of ensemble performing, ways of conducting an ensemble, addressing the audience, learning about the music industry from peers, and exchanging arranging techniques that would’ve been “learned” from a book. These projects also influenced my thought process when composing, creating a setlist, and deciding what to do (or not) in the bandstand, and it allows me to get comfortable being on stage.
Looking ahead, what new directions or projects are you most excited to explore with The Afro-Caribbean Jazz Collective?
The success of Cortadito has given me the confidence to continue to write a lot of music. I’m excited to go back into the studio in the summer to record new music that is exclusively focused on bomba rhythms alongside Chicago-based bomba ensemble Colectivo Sayba. I’m also writing new tunes for a separate recording session in a similar vibe to Cortadito.
Brazilian pianist, composer and producer Ricardo Bacelar opens up about Maracanós, his ambitious new collaboration with legendary percussionist Airto Moreira and special guest Flora Purim.
In this exclusive interview, Bacelar reflects on how the album emerged organically during the filming of a documentary at Jasmin Music’s studio in Fortaleza (the capital of Ceará, a state located in northeastern Brazil), where creativity flowed through improvisation, friendship and artistic trust. He discusses building what he calls “a film without images,” blending Brazilian rhythms, orchestral textures, electronics and spontaneous musical interaction.
Bacelar also speaks about Airto’s enduring legacy, Flora’s spiritual vocal presence, the symbolism behind the album title, and why protecting artistic freedom in an algorithm-driven music industry remains essential.
“Art needs risk, surprise, contradiction, silence and emotional density,” Bacelar says.
Read our full conversation on Maracanós, one of the most adventurous Brazilian jazz releases of the year.
“Airto approaches music with the spirit of a child discovering sound for the first time.”
Maracanós brings you together with the legendary Airto Moreira, one of the most influential Brazilian musicians in jazz history. How did this collaboration first come about, and what made this the right moment for you both to create an album together?
This collaboration emerged very naturally through our friendship and through the documentary project we were developing around Airto and Flora at Jasmin Studio. During the filming sessions, we spent many hours together inside the studio environment, talking about music, listening to sounds, and experimenting with rhythms and textures. At a certain point, the creative process itself became stronger than the original plan. We realized there was an album being born there organically.
I believe the timing was special because we were all completely open artistically. Airto carries an extraordinary musical freedom, and I was interested in creating a sonic universe where Brazilian music, improvisation, cinematic atmospheres, and contemporary production could coexist without limitations. Maracanós became the result of that encounter.
You’ve described the project as being born organically during the filming of the documentary. Can you take us back to those sessions at Jasmin Studio in Fortaleza and describe the atmosphere that led to the creation of Maracanós?
The atmosphere was extremely creative and immersive. Airto and Flora stayed with us in Fortaleza for an extended period, and the studio became almost like a living organism. Music happened all day long. Sometimes ideas would emerge during rehearsals, sometimes during conversations, and many times while the cameras were rolling.
Jasmin Studio is inside my home, so there is a very human and intimate dimension to the recordings. We were surrounded by Brazilian light, food, conversations, nature, silence, and deep musical exchange. That emotional proximity created trust, and trust creates freedom. I think you can hear that spirit throughout the album.
The album appears to embrace freedom, spontaneity and experimentation, qualities that have defined Airto’s career for decades. How did you balance structured composition with improvisational freedom during the recording process?
For me, composition and improvisation are not opposites. They complement each other. Some pieces began with harmonic structures or rhythmic ideas I brought to the sessions, but once the musicians entered the emotional space of the music, we allowed the compositions to breathe.
Airto has an incredible instinct. He transforms rhythm into narrative. So I tried to create an environment where spontaneity could happen without losing the identity of the pieces. We recorded many moments in a very open way, preserving imperfections, interactions and
emotional reactions. That human unpredictability became part of the language of the album.
Your production approach combines acoustic instruments, synthesizers, percussion and strings in a very cinematic way. What was your sonic vision for Maracanós, and how did you build that immersive soundscape?
I wanted the album to feel almost like a film without images. A sonic landscape where Brazilian rhythms could coexist with orchestral textures, electronic atmospheres, improvisation and silence.
The production was built very carefully inside Jasmin Studio, which is designed for immersive audio and deep acoustic detail. We used analog and digital elements together, combining percussion layers, piano, synthesizers, strings and spatial textures, almost like painting with sound.
I’m very interested in emotional depth and timbre. Sometimes a texture can say more than a melody. The immersive aspect of the production became fundamental in creating this sensation of movement, memory and atmosphere.
“Flora transforms emotion into sound very naturally… Airto approaches music with the spirit of a child discovering sound for the first time… They have an almost telepathic connection.”
Flora Purim makes a special appearance on “Voo da Tarde.” What did she bring to that track creatively, and what was it like having both Flora and Airto together in the studio?
Flora brings something very unique. She transforms emotion into sound very naturally. Her voice carries spirituality, freedom and an unmistakable musical identity. On “Voo da Tarde,” she added a dreamlike dimension that elevated the piece emotionally.
Having Flora and Airto together in the studio was deeply inspiring. They have lived and created music together for more than six decades, and there is an almost telepathic connection between them. Sometimes they communicated musically with just a glance. Witnessing that inside the studio was very moving.
Airto is receiving the prestigious National Endowment for the Arts honour this year. Did working so closely with him give you new insights into why his influence on jazz and Brazilian music remains so profound?
Absolutely. What impressed me most was not only his musical genius but his permanent curiosity. Airto approaches music with the spirit of a child discovering sound for the first time. He is always searching, always experimenting.
His influence goes far beyond percussion. He expanded the vocabulary of rhythm inside jazz and brought Brazilian musical identity into a truly global conversation without losing authenticity. Working closely with him made me understand even more deeply how innovation and freedom are connected in his artistic philosophy.
The title Maracanós is intriguing. What is the story behind the album’s title, and what does it symbolize artistically or culturally?
The title was created by Airto Moreira himself, and I love the poetic and symbolic dimension it carries. Maracanós combines the words “maraca”, “Maracanã”, and the pronoun “nós”, which means “we” in Portuguese. The title, therefore, brings together rhythm, Brazilian identity, collectivity and movement at the same time.
There is something deeply Brazilian in the sound of the word, but also something open and universal. It evokes percussion, nature, birds, popular energy, community and encounter. I think this perfectly reflects the spirit of the album, a musical encounter built collectively through friendship, freedom, improvisation and cultural exchange.
“Maracanós represents friendship, freedom, improvisation and cultural exchange.”
The Kalimera String Quartet appears on two tracks with arrangements by Liduíno Pitombeira. Why was it important to incorporate strings into this project, and how did they expand the album’s musical vocabulary?
The strings introduced another emotional layer to the album. I wanted certain moments to have greater harmonic depth and cinematic expansion, almost like opening a new emotional horizon inside the music.
Liduíno Pitombeira created arrangements with enormous sensitivity. He understands both classical language and Brazilian musical phrasing, which allowed the quartet to interact organically with percussion, improvisation and the rhythmic complexity of the album.
Your label, Jasmin Music, has become an important platform for Brazilian artists across multiple generations. How does Maracanós reflect your broader vision as a producer and label founder?
Maracanós reflects very clearly what I believe Jasmin Music represents: artistic freedom, sonic excellence, cultural identity and creative risk.
I’m interested in building projects that preserve musical depth and emotional truth. We live in a time where music is often reduced to speed and algorithms. Jasmin was created to protect artistic identity and long-form musical experiences. This album embodies that philosophy completely.
Airto mentioned using his voice throughout the sessions in spontaneous ways when he wasn’t playing percussion. Were there moments during the recording process that surprised you creatively?
Many moments surprised me. Airto uses his voice almost as an extension of rhythm and emotion. Sometimes he would suddenly begin vocalizing textures or rhythmic ideas while listening to playback, and those moments became part of the atmosphere of the recordings.
There was a constant sense of discovery in the studio. Some of the most beautiful moments happened unexpectedly.
The album moves away from commercial formulas and embraces artistic risk. In today’s music industry, where algorithms often shape listening habits, how important is it for you to protect creative freedom?
For me, creative freedom is essential. Music cannot exist only to satisfy algorithms or consumption patterns. Art needs risk, surprise, contradiction, silence and emotional density.
I believe audiences still deeply desire authenticity. Perhaps the industry sometimes underestimates listeners. My commitment is to create music that has identity and emotional permanence, even if it follows a more difficult commercial path.
“Music still has the power to create emotional bridges between cultures, generations and human experiences.”
The upcoming documentary directed by Jom Tob Azulay adds another dimension to this project. What can audiences expect from the film that they may not hear on the album itself?
The film reveals the human and emotional dimension behind the music. Audiences will witness the creative process in real time: conversations, rehearsals, improvisations, memories, tensions, humor, affection and the intimacy of artistic creation.
It is not only a documentary about music. It is also about friendship, artistic legacy, exile, Brazil, spirituality and the passage of time.
You’ve collaborated with artists such as Gilberto Gil, Roberto Menescal, Toninho Horta and many others. Where does Maracanós fit within your artistic evolution?
I see Maracanós as one of the most mature and free projects of my career. It synthesizes many things I’ve explored throughout the years: Brazilian harmony, cinematic language, sophisticated production, improvisation and emotional storytelling.
At the same time, it opened new creative doors. Working closely with Airto and Flora expanded my perception of spontaneity and musical freedom.
The album cover artwork by Fernando França reflects a symbolic connection between Brazil and Africa. How important was visual storytelling in shaping the identity of this release?
Visual identity is extremely important to me. I see albums as complete artistic objects, not only collections of songs.
Fernando França created images that connect mythology, ancestry, Brazil, Africa and spirituality in a very powerful way. The artwork reflects the same emotional and symbolic layers that exist in the music itself.
Finally, what do you hope listeners around the world take away from Maracanós, especially those discovering your music, or perhaps even Airto and Flora’s legacy, for the first time?
I hope listeners feel an emotional connection and freedom. I hope the album invites people into a deeper listening experience, where music becomes atmosphere, memory and emotion.
For younger audiences discovering Airto and Flora, I hope Maracanós reveals the timelessness of their artistic vision. For those discovering my work through this project, I hope they perceive the commitment to authenticity, sonic beauty and Brazilian musical identity.
I believe music still has the power to create emotional bridges between cultures, generations and human experiences. That is ultimately what Maracanós represents for me.
Amsterdam-based Cuban-born vocalist Estrella Acosta continues to expand her artistic horizons with Caminos – A Latin American Landscape, a vibrant and far-reaching recording with her ensemble Esquina 25. A Latin Grammy nominee, Acosta has long been celebrated for her deep connection to Cuban and Brazilian traditions. With Caminos, she goes further—tracing a musical map that spans the breadth of Latin America.
From Mexico to Argentina, and from Afro-Caribbean grooves to Brazilian lyricism, the album embraces what Acosta describes as “music without borders,” brought to life through a collective of international musicians based in the Netherlands.
With Caminos, Estrella Acosta and her band Esquina 25 offer more than a collection of songs—they present a living, breathing dialogue across cultures, traditions, and musical languages. It is a project that doesn’t simply travel across Latin America—it connects it.
In Caminos, Estrella Acosta paints a musical landscape of Latin American traditions. She takes you on the road to experience songs from her motherland as well as Mexico, Venezuela, Brazil, Peru and Uruguay, all the way to Argentina. You will hear in this album formats ranging from intimate duos to bigger sounds with her band Esquina 25 and special guests, bringing the listener a variety of rhythms and creative arrangements. Music to listen to and dance to!
In this conversation, Acosta reflects on artistic identity, collaboration, and the evolving language of Latin jazz.
Caminos – A Latin American Landscape
Now available on HearNow
“Caminos – A Latin American Landscape is about movement—not just geographically, but emotionally and culturally.”
Caminos feels deeply personal. Was there a specific moment or realization that set this project in motion for you?
Over the years, I’ve had the opportunity to discover and sing many songs from Latin America while living in the USA, Europe and also during my travels through Central and South America. Being a voting member of the Latin Recording Academy, every year during voting season, I have the chance to listen to a great variety of music by its members. This has expanded my horizons and revived my interest in exploring the folklore and music from this part of the American continent.
As a musician and anthropologist, I always like to go back to the past, dig into the roots and check out the music of people around the planet. In the past, I explored the music of Cuba and Brazil, and now I want to get closer to other countries of the Americas. Luckily, I could form a band, Esquina 25, consisting of excellent international musicians who understand its character and spirit – they speak the language of these various traditions.
For this album, the first song that caught my attention was ‘Que Nadie Sepa mi Sufrir’, also known as ‘Amor de mis Amores’, which was written in 1927 as a Peruvian waltz by an Argentinian composer, Angel Cabral, with lyrics by Enrique Dizeo. The song was first popularized by Argentinians Hugo del Carril and Alberto Castillo, and then recorded by many more singers. In 1957, with French lyrics by Michel Rivgauche, Edith Piaf made it a big hit in Europe. Of course, what fascinated me about this song was its beautiful melody and lyrics, and the challenge was to make this song, which had been recorded by so many artists, our own. I asked one of my favorite arrangers, Venezuelan trumpetist Michael Simon, to create something different. He wanted some spoken words in it, so this allowed me to feature my mom reciting a few lines of poetry. This song got my project in motion.
Living in Amsterdam as a Cuban artist, do you ever feel a sense of distance from your roots—or has that distance actually deepened your connection to them?
The distance from my motherland has deepened my connection to my roots. I left Cuba when I was 11 years old. Thanks to my parents, I was able to retain my identity and culture while growing up in Texas. They always played Cuban music at home, and my dad taught me how to dance. They still have a great collection of LP’s by Celia Cruz, Beny Moré, Trio Matamoros, Bola de Nieve, Fajardo y sus Estrellas, etc. My mother took care of passing on the poetry of Cuba and Latin America by reciting the many poems she had memorized since her youth. Later in life, I studied poetry and literature at the University of Mexico City and then graduated from the University of Texas at Austin, where, of all things, I started singing Brazilian music.
Coming to live in the Netherlands opened new doors to the music of Cuba. It was here that I first had a chance to listen to many Cuban bands performing live, such as Cachao, Los Papines, Sierra Maestra, NG La Banda, Los Van Van, Chucho Valdés and Irakere, and later Afro-Cuban All Stars, Buena Vista Social Club, and many more artists.
So it was also in the Netherlands that I returned to Cuban music, thanks to a group of Cuban musicians I met there around the year 2000. We formed a band playing Cuban country music, which toured and recorded the album Alma Guajira. So yes, living in Amsterdam brought me closer to my musical roots.
This album travels across so many countries and traditions. Were there any musical cultures in this project that challenged you or pushed you outside your comfort zone?
Yes, I had the adventurous idea to sing a Venezuelan merengue, ‘De Tanto Quererte’, also known as ‘Merenson’. This song is in a fast 5/8 rhythm, a groove very different from what I was used to. I did songs in 5/4 and 7/4 before, but this one was of a different nature. It is part of the folklore that comes easily to those who grow up with it… I had listened to Venezuelans singing this style, and they make it sound so easy – for me, it was a challenge. Double bassist Samuel Ruiz from Venezuela helped me figure it out and saved me on this one; it was great to have an expert on board. Luckily, ‘Merenson’ also goes back and forth between merengue and son, so I could always step into familiar grounds. At the end of the arrangement, we added a coro-pregon section that gave it a Cuban touch.
With Esquina 25, there’s a real sense of chemistry and trust. How did you build that musical family?
Esquina 25 came together in 2004 as part of a project fusing Cuban music with Latin jazz. Marc Bischoff and I started the band, with me as bandleader and him as musical director. We have had various members join throughout the years. The current line-up has been steady since 2013. Everyone in the group enjoys the music we are creating and has a lot of freedom to express themselves. It is this sense of freedom and trust that keeps us together – there is mutual love and respect.
“We’re not trying to recreate traditions—we’re in dialogue with them.”
Your collaboration with Marc Bischoff seems central to the album. What kinds of conversations—musical or otherwise—shaped your work together?
Marc and I talk about what music interests us, and also about what musical subjects we can bring to our audience. The album Mujeres de Luna, with songs by Cuban female composers performed by the band and a string quartet, was a very exciting idea for me as a singer and also for Marc, who was looking forward to arranging for strings. He later said that I was the only Cuban doing country music in this part of the world, so I should focus on that genre. This led to the album Tierra, with songs composed by Cuban country singers and some of my own compositions. For the new album, Caminos, he did the arrangement of my song ‘Nevando en Camagüey’. He also recorded most of the album at his studio and mixed it. It is a great privilege for me to work with him.
‘Nevando en Camagüey’ is such an evocative title. What does that image mean to you emotionally?
‘It’s snowing in Camagüey’ is indeed quite a title since we know that it never does…
I visited the wonderful city of Camagüey on my first trip back to Cuba. My lyrics are inspired by the memory of this trip, conversations with family and friends, and stories based on the history and folklore of this beautiful region. Famous are the ‘tinajones’, huge earthenware jars, which the inhabitants have used for hundreds of years to collect rainwater. The legend says that those who drink the water from the tinajones will fall in love with someone from Camagüey and never leave the city again.
But I was also inspired by my aunt Mirita in Havana, who would always use “Está nevando en Camagüey” as a code when she dared to share by telephone any news about our family members living in the USA.
When you interpret songs by composers like Marta Valdés or Armando Manzanero, what do you look for first—the story, the harmony, or something more intangible?
I look for the intangible – how the song hits my guts, my soul, my imagination. I also look at how the music and lyrics transcend musical genres. For example, Marta Valdés was a fan of jazz music, and you can hear it in her bolero on the album, ‘No Hagas Caso’, and in many of her compositions.
There’s a beautiful balance in your music between structure and freedom. Do you ever feel tension between those two forces?
I feel that structure and freedom complement each other. One cannot be musically free without some structure and cannot work with structure without venturing into free spaces. Our Dutch/American saxophonist, Efraïm Trujillo, plays on most of the album’s tracks and is a very sensitive soloist who knows how to balance structure and freedom in his improvisations.
The guest artists bring very distinct voices to the album. Were there moments in the studio that surprised you or changed the direction of a piece?
Recording the duo pieces with the great guitarist from Austin, David Pulkingham, was a nice surprise. We had never played together before. I gave him two songs, ‘Voy Apagar la Luz’ by Armando Manzanero and ‘Milonga Paraguaya’ by Jorge Drexler from Uruguay. We came together a few days later and recorded in an intimate setting, at close distance, and it turned out to be a very organic experience and gave the music a special feel.
The making of the Uruguayan candombe, ‘Ahí va la Comparsa’, was also a very spontaneous experience: A Cuban, a Brazilian, a German and a Venezuelan were all guided here by our Uruguayan drummer/percussionist Enrique Firpi – an essential core member of the band. It was a thrill to sing together with my close friend from Uruguay, Beatriz Aguiar. Recording these songs that had just come out of the arranger’s pot gave a fresh twist to the music.
The contributions of our guest artists on various tunes all gave the album extra spice. We were fortunate to have Elizabeth Fadel on accordion and Paulinho Paes on guitar, both from Brazil, as well as Jorge Glem (cuatro), Gerardo Rosales (percussion) and Michael Simon (trumpet) from Venezuela participating in this project. They were all essential in painting our Latin American landscape.
“Music without borders is not a concept—it’s a lived experience.”
You describe this as “music without borders.” Has your own idea of identity—musical or personal—changed while making this album?
Both my musical and personal identity have changed, so I see myself more as a world citizen. However, they say you can get the girl out of the country, but you can never get the country out of the girl.
Yes, I feel like discovering more music from the Americas, but I also would like to focus on boleros, a style that I have always loved. And talking about a genre of music that transcends borders, boleros have been created not only by Cuban, Puerto Rican and Mexican composers, but also by people from many other nations, including Brazil, which has contributed boleros with the beautiful sound of its Portuguese language.
What did this project teach you about yourself as an artist?
This project taught me many lessons, but most of all, never to give up learning new things and exploring my musical potential.
When you listen back to Caminos now, do you hear it as a destination—or as the beginning of something new?
Listening to Caminos now, I feel that I am standing at the beginning of a new road, a new path; it is the start of something new.
Thank you, Estrella, for sharing your thoughts with our readers.
Thank you for the opportunity.
TRACKLIST
1. De Tanto Quererte (featuring Jorge Glem & Gerardo Rosales) [Merenson]
2. Dunas (featuring Paulinho Paes & Marc Bischoff)
3. Nevando en Camagüey (featuring Efraïm Trujillo & Gerardo Rosales)
4. No Hagas Caso (featuring Marc Bischoff, Samuel Ruiz & Efraïm Trujillo)
5. Que Nadie Sepa Mi Sufrir (featuring Elizabeth Fadel & Efraïm Trujillo)
6. Voy a Apagar la Luz (featuring David Pulkingham)
7. Ahi Va la Comparsa (featuring Beatriz Aguiar & Enrique Firpi)
8. Milonga Paraguaya (featuring David Pulkingham)
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