Call of the congas

None
of the women in the little club are standing still. Short-skirted and
spike-heeled, they risk spilling Sangria as they hip-sway to the relentless Latin
beat. Horns wail. Congas throb. Couples dance. Everybody is touching somebody.
Tapas, a small club in the St. Paul Quarter, is hot and intimate, its dance
floor swelling to capacity, boiling over with the rubbing of black, white, and
brown bodies.

            “It’s impossible to sit still with
this beat,” says Madeline, a bank teller from Greece. “And you don’t have to have a partner to dance.” But it
sure makes it nice.

            Some arrive together; some, perhaps,
will be leaving together.

            Two dateless guys on the prowl —
and pleading anonymity — stress their preference for flying solo.

            “A lot of single women come to see
these bands,” one says. “A lot.”

            Those who hold partners instead of
drums or horns or guitars are still instrumental in the proceedings, as the
line between bandstand and dance floor vanishes. Now this is a night out.

I swear it’s a
fever.
What was once just an expression of Latin culture within its own community has
become a nightlife phenomenon. Wherever this music is found, the nightclubs are
packed, their dance floors teeming. You’ll see couples dancing with fluid
sensuality. You’ll see women dancing mid-sentence, even if they can’t. You’ll
even see men dancing — a phenomenon in itself.

            Outdoor events like those at the
Public Market and the annual Puerto Rican Festival attract droves of young
families. Their children, too young to understand the social significance of
the music, shake their little booties nonetheless.

            Whether it’s salsa, merengue,
Afro-Cuban jazz, mambo, or Latin pop, Rochester’s Latin music scene is
salacious, infectious, and growing — big time.

            Already known and appreciated within
the Latin community for its flamboyant, hot-blooded undertones, the music of
Puerto Rico, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic is rapidly expanding its fan
base, crossing over into mainstream America.

            Some first discovered the dancing,
with all its languid flow and subtle sexuality. For others it was the hypnotic
lure of the music. Regardless, Latinos and non-Latinos are heading downtown,
answering the call of the congas.

“I think it’s
something that’s not common,” says conga player and promoter Tony Padilla. “I think it’s
the dance movement. The music itself is high energy. It’s something that makes
you want to move. It’s the fact that the dancing requires partners, where the
guy guides the woman as far as movement.”

            In addition to this energy, machismo
runs rampant through the music.

            “It’s a very ballsy music in
general,” says saxophonist Josh Rutner. “There is so much testosterone in these
bands, minus the girls of course.”

            And sure, folks can dance at home by
the old Victrola, but Latin music is very live and is best enjoyed that way.

            “Even if the DJ is good, you can
listen to the same records at home,” says La Orquestra Fama Sin Gafas’
keyboardist Relton Roland. “But when you see a live band, it’s totally
different. You see the performers playing their congas and playing their horns and
doing solos, you see the people connecting and jumping and really having fun.
It’s a symbiotic relationship between the public and the musicians.”

            It’s as if everyone has an integral
part in creating this cacophonous, joyous whole as the dancers’ hips and the
musicians’ hands blend in blurry unison. And it’s the dancing that truly brings
the music to life.

            “It’s just very romantic,” says
fan-turned-dance-instructor Jonah Inikori. “It’s very energetic. It’s something
that involves you.”

Latin music’s
much-touted comeback isn’t due so much to a resurgence but a heightened awareness. What was
generally ignored by popular media is now a media darling.

            “I can’t say it was ignored,” says Roland. “But American
media was not interested because it did not have mass appeal. It was not
mainstream.” And though Latinos like Tito Puente and Carlos Santana surfaced
here and there, the music remained ethnically exclusive and therefore, underground.
Miami’s Latin pop explosion in the mid-80s ignited the fire.

            “I think when Gloria Estefan made
that crossover, she was the starting point,” says Padilla. “I mean it goes way
back to Tito Puente and stuff like that. But his focus was primarily jazz.
Gloria made that crossover to pop.”

            “There was a scene,” he says. “But
it just wasn’t being promoted right. And it wasn’t to the point where enough
work was being given to everyone.”

            So Padilla sought out musicians
throughout the city, picking the cream. He started Prime Time Entertainment
three years ago in an effort to better organize musicians and score consistent
gigs. And though Prime Time’s roster isn’t exclusive, the majority of its bands
are Latin.

            “What I basically did was take a
crew which I used on a consistent basis,” he says. “I tried to get the best
players in Rochester, and from within that crew I just expanded and changed the
vocalists, who get most of the attention anyway.”

            Beneath Latin music’s general
umbrella, there are roughly eight Latin bands playing the Rochester circuit.
Bands like Flor de Luna (Latin jazz, Brazilian), Cachao (Afro-Cuban jazz),
Tumbao (instrumental Afro-Cuban jazz), Alla Turca (Mediterranean and
Spanish-influenced guitar), Latin Vibes (classic New York style salsa and
merengue), Caliente (modern salsa, merengue, Latin pop), Sarahi (modern salsa,
merengue, and Latin pop), and La Orquestra Fama Sin Gafas (salsa, merengue,
Cuban), are meeting this growing demand to such an extent that a good number of
the musicians have banded together.

            Padilla is part of the core, playing
150 to 200 shows annually in seven Latin bands to an increasingly diverse
audience.

            “I think right now it’s a huge
crossover,” says Padilla. “You have a lot of people who are interested in
learning salsa dancing. It depends primarily on the club. Tapas has a wide
variety of cultures — white, black, Hispanic. And when you get into the
Latinos, it’s not just Puerto Rican, it’s Dominican, Cuban, Peruvian,
Columbian. It’s a wide array of people and cultures.”

            Other clubs like Milestones on East
Avenue and Chasers in the St. Paul Quarter frequently bring in Latin music.
These are clubs that book a wide range of musical styles and where the vibe is
set specifically by the evening’s entertainment. The hardcore Latin crowd seems
to follow loyally, regardless of the locale.

            And while they started out watching
apprehensively from the wings, regulars are slowly but surely turning into fans
at these joints, happily dancing amidst the generic neon beer signs and
dartboards. Dance floors are filling up weekly with new blood.

            Padilla embraces this fusion. “This
is absolutely for everybody,” he says. “It’s not a color thing or anything of
that sort. It’s for everybody.” This includes the musicians as well.

Jazz
saxophonist Josh Rutner falls into the gringo category. His jazz background,
education (jazz degree from the Eastman School of Music), and talent make him a
regular gun for hire in the local Latin scene. Known more for his work with the
hyper-adventurous jazz combo Respect Sextet, the majority of Rutner’s work
these days is in Latin music thanks to Padilla. “Rutner plays like a monster,”
Padilla says. “He’s a white guy playing like he eats rice and beans for a
living.”

            “The first set of gigs that I played
with these guys was five gigs in two days, which I had never done,” Rutner
says. “It was ridiculous. This isn’t like an hour of dinner music. This is like
balls for three hours, especially
with the merengue.” Virtually every local Latin band today employs Rutner’s
talent. Though educated and musically diverse, he had to learn the hard way.

            “What I didn’t understand were the
formal aspects,” he says. “No one had really explained it to me, so it was
sorta like trial by fire. The first gig, I had no idea. The lead sheet was like four bars of a mambo and that was
it, no instructions. After each gig I would ask ‘What am I doing wrong? Why
does everyone keep looking at me weird when I’m doing these?’ And it was hard
for them, actually, to explain to me in my terms. I was coming from a
music-reading background. These guys don’t read music. I’m just honored to play
their music without them throwing me out.”

Originally
from Santa Domingo, keyboardist Relton Roland is “probably the guy with the
deepest roots” in Rochester’s Latin music scene, according to Horacio DeJesus
Martinez, the vocalist for La Orquestra Fama Sin Gafas. Roland’s nimble fingers
dance purposefully across the ivory keys, offering a light, cascading
counterpoint to the drums’ thunder and the vocalists’ pleas.

            Roland arrived in Rochester in 1967
for “educational pursuits.” Soon after he formed Los Impossibles.

            “This group had the fattest sound
ever,” he says. “It was all percussion, piano, guitar, bass.” Some band
members’ involvement in the local Latin scene dated as far back as the early
1950s, according to Roland.

            “The basic band form in those days
was guitarists, like trios,” he says. “All guitars, sometimes with timbales and
percussion. And they used to play all sorts of music from Puerto Rico, music
from the countryside. Basically the market was just playing for the community.
Playing at churches, playing for weddings, and maybe festivals. There were
always parties, home-based parties or neighborhood parties.” Roland didn’t see
much crossover appeal back then.

            “It was more provincial. We always
invited friends and neighbors,” he says. “But there were enough people to go
and have fun with these bands. And those were real fun days.”

            Though the music was fun, these
early bands arose out of necessity, a form of cultural preservation, according
to Martinez.

            “There was a strong Cuban migration
in the mid ’60s,” he says. “People came here and it was culture shock. So right
away what they did is try to group together in order to have a cultural
identity.”

            Roland continued Los Impossibles
through the 1970s, adding horn players from the Eastman School of Music to
broaden his sound. But for some Latinos, interest in the scene was losing
momentum.

            “In the ’80s I quit because I saw
something happening,” Roland says. “I noticed people were not dancing like
before, especially the guys. They were too cool. And I said ‘What in the hell
is going on here? Qué le pasa a esos
tigres? [What’s up with these cats?]’ I don’t know whether it was the drug
culture that was penetrating the community or what. I like to play so people
can dance and enjoy themselves.” Roland saw this as a cultural breakdown. “The
young guys were becoming estranged from the girls,” he says.

            Martinez blames homogenization.

            “That was the first generation of
immigrants that was born here,” he says. “And some of the effects of that was
assimilation into the mainstream culture. And some guys, some families, were
losing part of their identity.”

            Vocalist Johnny Vega moved to
Rochester from New York City, where he had been singing with the legendary
Raphael Cortijo’s Combo.

            “When I got here in September of
1970, the local bands had heard about me,” says Vega. “They knew who I was
singing with before and they knocked on my door.” Before long, La Muralla was
formed. The band stayed together for nine years. When they disbanded, Vega
moved back to his native Puerto Rico for five years and wrote several hits for
the La Fania Records label. Now back in Rochester, Vega is part of the city’s
renewed passion for real Latin music. Vega proudly takes some of the credit
along with his band, Latin Vibes.

            “First off there was a band called
The Mambo Kings playing some of the clubs,” he says. “But they were not playing
the heavy salsa that we do — the real
Latin. They were playing Latin jazz. It wasn’t for dancing, it was more for
like when you’re having dinner.”

The lighter
bands and the Latin DJs did, however, spark an interest in the clubs. Latin Vibes
started playing at Tapas. “Oh man, we blew that place apart,” Vega says. Vega
doesn’t so much sing as he commands — demands
— with such energy, enthusiasm, and apparent wisdom, that audiences are
immediately swept up. He’s a master, and they know it.

            Vega also supposes a lot of the
resurgence lies at the feet of the dancers. This is a style of dance that can’t
easily be shoehorned into just any musical setting. It needs that passion and
polyrhythmic drive.

            “People would see Latin dancing in
movies,” he says. “They would take lessons to learn salsa, merengue, cha-cha,
mambo, and then have no place to do it.” The people were already there, eager
for the music to begin.

            Latin dance instructor Jonah Inikori
stumbled upon Latin dance, fell in love with it, studied vigorously, and now
teaches. It was after seeing two salsa dancers at a Christmas party that the
Latin bug bit.

            “I got totally swept away by their
presentation,” he says. “They had very good stylings. I was really attracted to
the romantic, sexual aspect of the dance. It was just so beautiful.”

            Inikori began taking lessons and
traveling to dance conventions in Los Angeles, New York City, and Atlanta. When
he returned to Rochester, none of his dance partners could keep up, so Inikori
started giving lessons. And on any given night, if there’s a Latin band
playing, Inikori’s dance card is full.

            Sure it’s a gig. But to the
musicians it’s an answer to a calling, a joyous manifestation.

            “It just completely transforms my
personality,” says Sarahi vocalist Myrnali Martinez. “I’m usually very quiet.
I’m not really that outspoken.” Martinez and her singing partners Karen and
Eileen Monserrate are heartbreak personified as they shimmy and shake in unison
and with hypnotic speed. With their lilting harmonies, energy, and ever-present
smiles, Sarahi tend to leave listeners breathless.

            The music is also what keeps Johnny
Vega going.

            “It’s what keeps me alive,” says the
61-year-old Vega. “It gives me that thrill. A lot of the musicians who started
out with me, I don’t hear from anymore. But I’m still hanging in there because
every night that I go and I dance and I sing and I see people laughing, it adds
to my life. Oh my goodness, every time they come to me, it gives me another
year of life. You know how when Popeye takes his spinach? Well, that’s my
spinach — the people.”

            “You don’t have to understand the
words,” says Roland. “But if you’re touched by the sound and it makes you move,
that’s the purpose of Latin music.”

            For Latinos, it’s obviously a
perpetuation of cultural identity. For non-Latinos it’s something new and
exciting, something that requires energy and participation. It’s a dash of hot
in the lukewarm.

            So maybe it’s a knee-jerk response
to the plastic sheen of pop music and pop culture. Maybe romance is back. Maybe
guys just want to dance with their wives again. Or perhaps couples prefer to
meet socially over something a little more substantial than beer pong. Latin
music and all that goes with it is something that sounds and feels genuine. Who
doesn’t want to hang with that?

This article appears in Sep 3-9, 2003.