Interviews
Q&A with Independent Journalist and Cultural Historian Tomás Peña
For two decades, Tomás Peña has been an indispensable voice within the jazz community, especially in the Latin Jazz and Afro-Caribbean scene, shaping discourse as an independent journalist and cultural historian. As co-editor and senior writer for Latin Jazz Network, his sharp musical ear and insightful editorial guidance have profoundly enriched our content and direction.
In this pivotal interview, Tomás discusses not only the enduring importance of independent journalism in a rapidly evolving landscape but also a significant transition in his own storied career. He shares the reasons behind his decision to close Jazzdelapena.com, the platform he co-founded with me, and offers a glimpse into his exciting new chapter as he migrates his invaluable work to Substack.
Join us as Tomás reflects on his journey and looks ahead to how his distinctive voice will continue to illuminate the world of Latin Jazz.
You describe yourself as Brooklyn-born and Puerto Rico–rooted. How have those dual identities shaped your sensibility as a journalist?
As a child in Brooklyn, I was in a state of becoming, so I can’t say it consciously shaped my journalistic sensibilities. It shaped me as a person first.
What I absorbed was a musically rich environment on every level. Music was everywhere — in the streets, on the radio, and especially at home. I was raised by my mother and my grandmother, women from different generations who carried very different relationships to Puerto Rico and to sound. My grandmother, who spoke little English, anchored the household in older traditions and in the Spanish language.
Through her, I encountered traditional Puerto Rican music — the island’s foundational rhythms and songs. Through my mother, who came to the United States from Puerto Rico at the age of four and became deeply Americanized, I was immersed in contemporary Latin music — what many refer to as “The Big Three”: Tito Puente, Machito, and Tito Rodríguez. She frequented the Palladium — the Home of the Mambo — so that era wasn’t mythology; it was lived memory.
My father, Tomás Peña Álvarez, though estranged from our household, was a vocalist and guitarist who performed in trios in the style of Trio Los Panchos. Even in its absence, that musical lineage formed part of the atmosphere around me.
Like most children at that age, I was a sponge. Or better yet, I was downloading — storing rhythms, voices, and generational contrasts long before I had the language to name them.
You’ve documented giants who shaped the music as well as artists who have not received their due recognition. Is there an interview or discovery that profoundly changed your understanding of the music’s history?
That’s a difficult question to answer, because many interviews have expanded my understanding and profoundly shaped me. Conversations with artists like McCoy Tyner, Esperanza Spalding, Poncho Sánchez, David Virelles, and Papo Vázquez, as well as authors and scholars, were deeply educational, each sharpening my sense of lineage and perspective.
But one interview that truly shifted my frame was with drummer, bandleader, and Sun Ra and Max Roach acolyte Francisco Mora Catlett. He didn’t just recount history — he reframed it. He introduced me to the writings of Henry Dumas and shared intimate stories about his years with Sun Ra and his studies with Max Roach and Babatunde Olatunji.
That conversation pushed me out of my comfort zone and forced me to engage more deeply with avant-garde, free, and spiritual jazz. It expanded my ears and widened the terrain. Many interviews have shaped me, but the conversation with Catlett was a game-changer.
Differently, one of the most surprising moments came during my interview with McCoy Tyner. At one point, he asked for Carlos Santana’s contact information and mentioned he would like to record with him. I passed the message along to John Santos, who said he would forward it to Santana, but nothing ever came of it. The fact that McCoy was still imagining new and unexpected collaborations as an elder was revealing.
What first compelled you to document jazz, Latin jazz, salsa, and Afro-Caribbean music—not just as sounds, but as living histories?
You are the best person to answer that question, because I started documenting sounds and living histories in 2000 when I hooked up with you and Latin Jazz Network. Before that, you could say I was “percolating.”
On another note, from the time I was in grade school, I inherently knew that my calling was to be a writer. In fact, in grade school, my English teacher declared in front of the class, “Thomas is going to be a writer,” then read an essay I’d written out loud to the class. His name was Mr. Longo, which is etched in my brain because he put a name to what I would become.
Also, when I earned my dual bachelor’s degree in Journalism and Latin American Studies, that was the icing on the cake in terms of credentials.
Over more than two decades of writing, what have you learned about the responsibility that comes with telling other people’s stories—particularly artists from marginalized or overlooked communities?
Being a storyteller — or a documentarian — is an enormous responsibility. Over the course of hundreds of interviews with iconic and emerging musicians, authors, cultural workers, club owners, bandleaders, producers, and curators, I’ve learned that access is not entitlement. When someone sits down with you, they are entrusting you with memory, experience, and often vulnerability.
I believe in treating everyone with dignity and respect, regardless of their station in life or career. That begins with preparation. I never walk into an interview uninformed. Knowing the subject’s history, context, and body of work is a sign of respect — and the first step toward earning trust.
But preparation is only half the equation.
You also have to leave room for improvisation — for the unexpected turns, the pauses, the stories that weren’t on the page. The best interviews unfold the way great music does: structured, yet alive. There is a constant balancing act between guiding the conversation and knowing when to step back and truly listen.
If you do it right, the work becomes less about you and more about honoring the voice in front of you.
What readers may not always see is the labor behind that moment — the research, the planning, the careful listening, and the shaping afterward. There’s a reason people refer to the “art” of the interview. Like any craft, it requires passion, dedication, and hard work.
And even after all these years, I still feel like a student who has much to learn.
Jazzdelapena.com became an important independent voice in documenting our music. When we co-founded the platform, what gap were you trying to fill in the broader media landscape?
For me, the gap was Puerto Rico, which historically has been ignored or misrepresented by the U.S. mainstream media, and writing in a bilingual format, which initially was difficult for me as Spanish is not my first language. I made a conscious effort to “hit the books” and train myself to read, write, and report in Spanish. When I published my first article in the Puerto Rican newspaper El Adoquín Times, I felt a sense of cultural pride and like I had finally arrived.
Things are better today than when I initially committed to reporting on Puerto Rico’s music scene, but there is still a tremendous amount of work that needs to be done. I am proud to say that I am one of the few independent, Puerto Rican, bilingual journalists who do what I do, and I am very proud of that.
Many mainstream outlets treat jazz and Afro-Caribbean music as niche genres. How do you resist that narrative in your work, and why is reframing the conversation so important?
It’s false, rooted in racial bias, and meant to divide. Jazz and Afro-Caribbean music are not niche — they are foundational to American and global culture. Calling them marginal ignores history.
In 2011, the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences attempted to eliminate the Latin Jazz category during a Grammy overhaul. After backlash and legal action from artists, the category was reinstated. That episode exposed how easily institutions can sideline entire traditions under the guise of restructuring.
I resist that narrative by rejecting its premise. I don’t treat this music as a specialty beat — I document it as central to the cultural record. Reframing the conversation matters because language shapes power. Once you call something “niche,” you make it easier to ignore.
Good music is good music — and this music is central, not peripheral.
Your writing often feels archival, investigative, and deeply personal at the same time. How do you balance historical rigour with lived experience and community memory?
It isn’t a conflict for me — it’s a discipline. Being part of the culture and speaking the language gives me access and context, but historical rigor gives the work credibility. I treat community memory as a primary source, not as nostalgia. I verify dates, cross-reference oral histories, check discographies, confirm lineups, and document timelines.
Being inside the culture helps me understand nuance — what something meant in the room, what wasn’t written down, what the archive overlooked. But fluency isn’t reporting. I corroborate what I’m told. I separate sentiment from record.
The balance comes from respecting both: memory carries meaning; documentation carries accountability. My responsibility is to hold them together without letting one distort the other.
In an era of shrinking arts journalism, independent platforms have become essential. What has been the greatest challenge — and the greatest reward — of sustaining truly independent cultural journalism?
In my opinion, independent cultural journalism is in crisis. Traditional revenue models have collapsed, social media algorithms distort visibility, and disinformation competes with substance. The greatest challenge is sustainability — building a financial model that allows serious, independent work to survive without institutional backing or corporate compromise.
After more than twenty years of building Jazzdelapena, I closed the site because I could no longer sustain it financially. Continuing to personally subsidize the work was no longer viable. Was it a difficult choice? Absolutely. Was it the correct choice? Absolutely. I knew it was time to make a clean break and try another, more sustainable model.
The greatest reward is not monetary. The reward is freedom — editorial freedom, intellectual freedom, and the ability to document the music and stories on my own terms and in my own words. No algorithms dictating coverage. No advertisers shaping narrative. Just the work and the community that believes in it.
At this stage of my life, I am mindful of balance. The political atmosphere and social discord in this country take a toll. Writing about culture, history, and music does not exhaust me — it sustains me. What drains me is the noise. The work itself remains a source of inspiration.
Now you’ve brought your mission to Substack. What does that platform allow you to do that traditional outlets or even your own website could not?
Thus far, the Substack experience has exceeded my expectations. Unlike traditional outlets — where editorial priorities are often shaped by institutional agendas — Substack allows me to build a direct, reader-supported relationship with my audience and work with the community.
The platform provides tools that my standalone website did not — integrated subscriptions, audience analytics, discoverability, and a built-in ecosystem that encourages cross-pollination among writers. It also presents the work cleanly and professionally, without the financial and technical burdens of maintaining an independent site. I have always been attentive to presentation, and Substack gives me the tools to format and showcase the work as you would see in a high-quality publication.
The competition is intense. Established journalists, public figures, and institutions are all present. But that doesn’t deter me. My voice and editorial identity are distinct. Nobody does what I do, the way I do it — bilingual, historically grounded, and rooted in lived experience. If anything, the competition raises the bar. It demands rigor and pushes me to produce my strongest work.
Will it succeed long-term? Sustainability always depends on readers. But I know this: the work is sharper, the mission is clearer, and the foundation is stronger than before. That gives me hope and confidence.
You mention offering rare interviews, archival discoveries, and historical pieces that readers “won’t find anywhere else.” What drives your archival instinct? Are there still untold stories waiting to surface?
Yes, there are countless stories to be told — and retold.
In revisiting my past work with cultural architects like Dale Kelley Fitzgerald of The Jazz Gallery and Verna Gillis, founder of Soundscape, I’ve uncovered new and vital information that adds depth and dimension to their legacies. The deeper you dig, the more the story expands. What once seemed complete reveals new context, overlooked voices, and details that reshape the record.
And beyond them, many more narratives remain undocumented. These stories don’t surface on their own. They require valuable time, discipline, research, transcription, verification, and sustained reader support.
When I say I offer content you won’t find anywhere else, I mean original archival reporting, rare interviews, recovered histories, and cultural analysis grounded in decades of lived engagement.
On Substack, I widen the lens beyond music — into art, politics, and cultural commentary that refuses simplification. From Dizzy Gillespie’s 1964 presidential campaign to Bad Bunny as a global cultural force, to the untold backstory of What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye, to reclaiming the legacy of early Puerto Rican jazz pioneers — this work documents what is overlooked, misrepresented, or erased.
If journalism that cuts through noise and speaks truth to power feels essential — not optional — then help sustain the platform that produces it. Independent, bilingual cultural journalism survives only when readers decide it should.
Become a paid subscriber. Help keep the archive alive. Without that support, this work cannot continue at the level it deserves.
How do you see the relationship between jazz and Afro-Caribbean music evolving today, especially among younger musicians navigating identity, migration, and globalization?
Jazz and Afro-Caribbean music aren’t moving in separate directions — they’re tightening the circle. What I see among younger musicians is not “fusion,” but fluency. They understand that clave, swing, blues feeling, and Caribbean folkloric forms share a common Atlantic root, so they refuse to be categorized and compose from inside that lineage rather than superficially decorating one genre with another.
Many live between languages and borders; migration and globalization aren’t abstractions but daily realities. That lived experience shows up structurally in rhythm, harmony, and concept — not as branding. The music is already integrated. The only thing still catching up is the industry’s habit of putting it in boxes.
And generally speaking, this generation understands the terrain — they’re not only strong, award-winning artists, but savvy businessmen and committed educators who know how to build platforms, protect their work, and teach the lineage forward.
As someone shaped by family, community, and “rooms where the music happens,” can you share a formative moment that crystallized your commitment to this work?
Over more than twenty years of reporting on this music, I’ve experienced moments that still feel surreal. Being trusted by musical icons — welcomed not as a spectator but as a peer entrusted with their stories — is something I never take lightly. A few encounters, however, crystallized my commitment more deeply.
One came when Cuban icon Bobby Carcassés called me out of the blue from Havana and invited me to attend his performance at The Jazz Gallery in 2010. The invitation alone was extraordinary. The performance was unforgettable. At one point, he placed an easel onstage and began painting in real time — improvising visually as he does musically. Afterward, I spent time with him backstage and purchased the painting he had just created. Later, I interviewed him at a Brooklyn recording studio, extending the dialogue beyond the stage lights. That sequence — invitation, performance, conversation — reminded me that documentation is participation. You are not simply observing history; you are helping preserve it.
I had a similarly surreal experience when I interviewed Omar Sosa and met Don Pancho Terry on 57th Street in Midtown Manhattan as he searched for the backstage entrance to Carnegie Hall. What began as a chance street encounter evolved into something far more meaningful, including a later meeting with the entire Terry family. Like Bobby, they are all gifted and luminous human beings, and I was both honored and deeply moved to be in their presence.
Those encounters — and many others — were inspirational. They reaffirmed why I do this work. It is not about proximity to fame. It is about trust, lineage, and bearing witness to artists whose humanity is as profound as their music.
Your work seems grounded in the idea of cultural responsibility. What does that term mean to you in practical terms?
I think of my work as Finding Your Roots on a broader cultural scale. The more you dig, the more you uncover — stories erased, names omitted, narratives distorted. Cultural responsibility means refusing to let that stand. It means documenting with precision, correcting the record, and placing Puerto Rican music, art, and culture where they belong: inside the central narrative, not at its margins.
That commitment is rooted in pride, but it’s also rooted in discipline. Collaborating with author and educator Basilio Serrano and reading his work on Juan Tizol and other Puerto Rican pioneers fundamentally shifted my understanding of lineage and contribution. The scholarship of Robert Farris Thompson — his deep excavation of Afro-Atlantic aesthetics and what he called “guerrilla scholarship” — reinforced that serious cultural work requires rigor, fearlessness, and independence.
This work can be thankless. It doesn’t always come with institutional backing, applause, or support. But it is necessary. I don’t experience it as a burden — I experience it as a responsibility I willingly accept. If we don’t document our histories with care and clarity, they risk being misunderstood or diminished. Cultural responsibility, in practical terms, means doing the work thoroughly, honestly, and with pride.
For readers and musicians who “get it” and care deeply about this music, what role can they play in sustaining independent voices like yours?
Unless you are independently wealthy, backed by a major institution, or supported by a benefactor, this work does not exist. Independent cultural journalism is not powered by goodwill alone. It requires financial commitment. There is no way around that.
For twenty years, with your help, I supported Jazzdelapena out of pocket. I did it because I believed in the mission. But over time, the model became unsustainable. Passion is not a business plan.
If readers and musicians truly care about this music — about its history, its documentation, its integrity — then they have to demonstrate that commitment in tangible ways. Subscribing. Supporting. Investing. Not symbolically, but financially.
Independent voices survive only when the community decides they should. If the work matters, it has to be supported at a level that allows it to continue with rigor and independence. Otherwise, it disappears.
Looking ahead, what stories still feel urgent for you to tell — and what legacy do you hope Jazzdelapena.com will leave for future generations?
I am my own toughest critic, so legacy is for readers to decide. What still feels urgent are the stories that remain undocumented — the overlooked pioneers, the connective tissue between Puerto Rico, New York, and the broader Afro-Atlantic world, the artists whose contributions are cited but not fully understood. There is still work to do.
As for Jazzdelapena.com, I hope it sets a standard. That it treated the music and the artists with seriousness, accuracy, and respect. That it documented beauty without romanticizing it and offered critique without diminishing it.
The subject is vast. No single platform can capture it all. But if the site preserved important histories, corrected the record where necessary, and demonstrated that independent, bilingual cultural journalism can be rigorous and uncompromising, then it did its job.
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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