We
both travel a lot (she more than I), but I’m overcome today with the feeling
that I’ve never missed my wife half this much. It’s only my second day in Cuba.
But our routines when one of us is on the road—a text message to say good
morning, FaceTime over breakfast, again before bed—are impossible here. I haven’t
even yet been able to check email, send Karen, and my parents, a note to let
them know I’ve arrived safely. Since we’ve been married, Karen and I have spent as much as
five weeks apart at a time, but I don’t think we’ve ever gone more than twenty-four
hours with zero contact. It’s only my second day in Cuba.1
After
a morning run along the Malecón (don’t expect that to happen every day), I have
my first rehearsal with my Cuban colleagues, violinist Leonardo Pérez and
soprano Lucelsy Fernández, at the UNEAC building—“The pulse of the Cuban arts
scene,” says Lonely Planet. This is
one of several cultural venues in Cuba established by the Unión de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba, set up by the poet Nicolás
Guillén after the Revolution. The existence of such a cultural center triggers one
of several instances today that I’ll ponder the relationship between the arts
and government. This, I feel, is inevitable here.
We’re
rehearsing my Anthem [anathema]. There’s not much to the piece, but I’ve been nervous
about the electronics: will the festival be able to provide the necessary
equipment? have the right cables? Life on this island remains such an enigma
for us norteamericanos, I wasn’t sure
how confident I could be that they would have more than a cheap karaoke
machine. And, in fact, I am ultimately glad that I brought my own microphones;
and the audio interface, forget about it. Nor, indeed, have Leo or Lucy ever
worked with a rig like mine. But these cats do have decent gear down here. I’m
chagrined every time I encounter whatever urbane modernity I thought might be
scarce, but again, how was I supposed to know?
After
much discussion about what we need, an UNEAC employee brings us speakers and
cables—asks if I really need two, or if I can do with just one. Vale, por ahora, one is fine. He’s a
young, blue-collar dude, and when he asks me to play something to test the
connection, I just hit play on the first thing that comes up in my iTunes: St.
Vincent’s Actor. The first five
seconds are enough for him to chuckle and shake his head, say something very
quickly to me in Spanish (which Leo and Lucy—who both speak a good amount of
English—decline to translate), give me a sarcastic high five, and leave us to
our ensayo. Which, if St. Vincent was
so outré, what would he think of my music? Heaven knows, and I think I do too. “Sometimes
Cuba is difficult,” Lucy says, and I’m not sure if she means the rigmarole of
obtaining a speaker, or the lay Cubano’s attitude towards modern music. Vale, es igual en los Estados Unidos.
Leo
and Lucy are both very fine musicians. Leo approaches the score with a keen
instinct for gestural contrast, and Lucy’s voice is big and beautiful. Both
need some coaching to get to the general character of the music, but it’s a
thrill to be working with such open and inquisitive musicians, and such warm, cordial
colleagues to boot. (When I step back and consider this whole thing, my being
in Cuba for this festival, this thrill becomes something like I’m working with real Cuban musicians!—but
work is work, music is music, and our rehearsal feels like any other I’ve ever
had.) And by the end of our rehearsal, they’ve shown me something new in my own
music. Anthem is a mysterious,
atmospheric piece. But as I explain to them how it works, Leo and Lucy follow
my instruction to the same conclusion: ¡Nos
divirtamos! Lucy hears the accented repeated double stops in the violin as
car horns inserted into the street noise playing in the background, which I had
never thought of.
While I’m
excited to perform with Leo and Lucy, as we rehearse, I can’t help but miss
Karen even more acutely. I’ve become so used to hearing Anthem as she plays it. This isn’t to disparage Leo, but what can I
say. He can’t compare.
* * *
The
evening concert is at El Palacio de los Matrimonios, a neo-Renaissance building
on Prado (Paseo de Martí), the luxurious, European-style boulevard in the
middle of the city designed to rival Paris and Barcelona. Actually, the
festival program only lists the Sala Ignacio Cervantes—the room in El Palacio—as
the venue, but doesn’t mention the actual building. I need Emilio’s help to
figure out where this is. He suggests that I take a taxi colectivo to the venue—50 centavos, and the chance to be among
real Cubans—but I’m reluctant about hailing a cab with passengers in it. In
fact, this is stupid, but I’m inexplicably reluctant about stepping into a taxi
at all. Maybe I’m still feeling a little stung by my encounter with Ricardo and
Gina, and am consequently wary of whom else I might meet.
I end up walking into Centro Habana, not even sure what I’m ultimately planning to do. Am I going to walk all the way? hail a cab? And here’s a curious realization: in this grittier neighborhood (and, perhaps, looking over my shoulder for Ricardo and Gina), I’m anxious about walking unfamiliar streets. As if I’d know any better walking the grid in Vedado, or along Malecón—my hood, right? Qué ridículo. It’s only my second day in Cuba.
Finally, I do step into a taxi. Having a friendly conversation, entirely in Spanish, with the amiable driver eases my nerves. He asks if El Palacio de los Matrimonios es una punta de referencia or if it’s where I’m actually going.
I end up walking into Centro Habana, not even sure what I’m ultimately planning to do. Am I going to walk all the way? hail a cab? And here’s a curious realization: in this grittier neighborhood (and, perhaps, looking over my shoulder for Ricardo and Gina), I’m anxious about walking unfamiliar streets. As if I’d know any better walking the grid in Vedado, or along Malecón—my hood, right? Qué ridículo. It’s only my second day in Cuba.
Finally, I do step into a taxi. Having a friendly conversation, entirely in Spanish, with the amiable driver eases my nerves. He asks if El Palacio de los Matrimonios es una punta de referencia or if it’s where I’m actually going.
—Segundo.
—¡Felicitaciones!
—¡Felicitaciones!
Oh, no, I
explain, I’m not on my way to get married… Which is a funny thought,
considering how sweaty and grungy I am. (Have I not yet mentioned the stifling
tropical heat? Havana in November is like New York City in July, plus the whole
city smells like ocean and diesel fuel.) I’m on my way to a concert,
there’s this festival, soy compositor, etc.
El choffer asks me when—date and time—my
music will be performed, para que puedo
escuchar. And given what I’ve been told about Cubanos’ widespread love and
appreciation for the arts across demographics, I think he might mean it. And he
congratulates me on having my music programmed at the Basilica, because la acústica es maravillosa.
I’m
taken aback: my taxi driver congratulated me on having my music performed at a
prominent venue—because of the acoustics.
The
Sala Ignacio Cervantes is remarkably beautiful; it could be airlifted from the
Palacio de los Matrimonios, dropped into Versailles, and fit right in. This
evening’s concert is billed as “La Viola de Nuestros Dias,” and I have to admit
coming in with some viola baggage—as in, I’m not sure how excited I am about
this program, and while wandering Centro Habana moments earlier, half-heartedly
trying to hail a taxi, it did occur to me that I wouldn’t be heartbroken to
miss it.
Of
course, once I’m there, and especially once the music starts, I’m glad I made
it. Strange, being reminded of something so essential to how you self-identify—but
I’m reminded of how much I love going to concerts. Even the ones that I don’t
especially enjoy, and this evening gets a mixed review. The first half is a
short viola recital, which mostly doesn’t do it for me, though a piece by the
Puerto Rican composer Carlos Carrillo, La
continuidad de la Mirada, does quite pique my ears; the other would-be
highlight is On Ear and Ear by the
Welsh composer Hilary Tann, but a shaky performance gets in the way the work’s
lyricism.
The
second half features Maestro Gavilán’s Orquesta de Cámara Música Eterna, a
14-piece string orchestra (44321), with seemingly not a player even close to
30. Two pieces: Gavilán’s Dialogo entre
dos violas, con final feliz, and Poemas
Concertantes by the Cuban-American composer José Lezcano. (Again, all
composers on the program were previously unknown to me, except for Gavilán,
whose name I’ve known now for almost twenty-four hours.) The second half is
more successful. Both pieces come across effectively: Gavilán’s, a concerto for two
violas, has its moments, but doesn’t match his choral piece from last night;
and the Lezcano, a double concerto for flute and guitar, is very attractive. But
the real star here is the orchestra. Holy moly, they sound good. The blend is
exquisite, the textures are nuanced, and—not for nothing—they’re visibly having
a great time playing with each other. I spent three years as Director of
Artistic Planning for the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, one of the world’s finest—and,
pues, I’m not saying these kids could
take it to the SPCO night-in and night-out… But there were definitely weeks in
St. Paul when I would have made the trade.
* * *
Today
is the 495th anniversary of the founding of the city of Havana. I
run into Ricardo (the guitarist, not the freeloader) at the concert, and afterwards,
we share a cab to the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña, an
eighteenth-century military structure on the eastern bank of the Bahía de La
Habana, visible in the distance from Vedado. We understand there’s a
celebration planned; I learn after the fact c/o Lonely Planet that this cañonazo
ceremony is performed nightly, pero
no vale—it’s pretty cool, even if I can’t quite follow everything that’s
going on.
Merchants
line the path to where the cañonazo ceremony
is staged, peddling art, statuettes, and other souvenirs. I buy a copy of José
Martí’s political essay Nuestra America, which
I understand is one of the most important texts by Cuba’s foundational cultural
figure. I’m starting to get comfortable enough with my Spanish that I harbor
ambitions (foolish, to be sure) of actually reading the thing, and am even a
little disappointed later to discover that the volume I bought is only half of the complete essay.
Ricardo’s
and my attention while at the Fortaleza is divided between the ceremony; the
Fortaleza itself (qué edificio magnífico);
at one point, two young Cubanas that Ricardo starts chatting up (Great, I think, he’s on the prowl, and, suddenly sheepish again about my Spanish, I’m not sure how to get home from here if he’s
not doing the talking. I’m relieved that they don’t seem interested—Ricardo,
for his part, seems more bemused than dejected—and I turn our conversation
right away to getting-to-know-you stuff, as an excuse to tell him about my
wife, lest he think I’m going to be his wingman.); but, for the most part,
music—the scene in New York, the scene in Buenos Aires, trading notes re: composers
we like, etc. I have a double Havana Club, a Cuba Libre, and—it was included
with the price of admission—a ham sandwich (I don’t eat meat aside from
seafood), because also, I’m starving, and don’t foresee scavenging for a paladar later in the evening. Whatever,
fuck it. Me chupa un huevo. (Ricardo’s
also teaching me some slang.)
After
a ride in one of those 1950s Detroit classics-cum-Havana taxis back to Vedado,
it’s still early enough and I have designs on trying again for the early set at
La Zorra y El Cuervo. We’re having a
good time, neither of us is tired, and Ricardo’s game, so over we go.
The
club is as advertised. Intimate, easy vibe—think the Village Vanguard, minus
all its history (and the price tag). Sometime around 11:00, the band takes the stage: the leader, Julio
Valdes Fuentes, whom I’m guessing is around twenty-five, doubles on electric
violin and a small Korg; the rest of the conjunto
is an electric guitarist, electric bassist, and two drummers: one on set,
the other mostly inaudible on bongos. The set starts and the music is, you
know, it’s fine. Sort of cookie-cutter modern jazz, well-composed,
virtuosically executed, way far enough from smooth jazz so that tourists don’t
feel patronized, but not nearly as real and dirty as I was hoping for. I guess
the club does pull it’s share of tourists after all, because Julio introduces
each song in Spanish and in English. But they can definitely play, and as it
gets later, the set gets hotter. I lose count of how many Havana Clubs I have
(CUC$2 a shot! It’ll be six times that much in New York after the embargo is
lifted; even this feels pricey, after paying 70 centavos at the Fortaleza), and Ricardo’s keeping up with mojitos.
He’s eagerly unloading his cigarettes on me too (remember smoking in clubs?),
and I have too many of those as well—won’t be running tomorrow, me chupa un huevo. I quit smoking around
the time it became a major faux pas to ask to bum a smoke without offering a
dollar, so I ask Ricardo cuanto cuesta
una paqueta.
Pues, aquí—ie, in this swank jazz club
(entrada: CUC$10, incluido 2 cocteles)—es poco caro. Una-cincuenta.
$1.50!
I tell Ricardo how much a pack costs these days in New York, and his eyeballs
nearly pop straight out of his face.
We’re
rolling like Meyer Lansky and Sinatra now and stay for the second set. Maybe
the tourists are usually gone by this time, or maybe the ron is doing what it does, but the second set straight murders it.
This is what I was hoping to hear. And Julio’s got some wacky gear too.
As we’re
sitting there listening, I wonder how I would take a set like this, in a club
like this, in the States, or anywhere else in the world. You know, I’m digging
it—but am I digging it more because I’m in Havana? I mean, the music is good-not-great; does an American’s
fascination with Cuba sharpen the sound? If this band were playing at a hotel
bar in Los Angeles, would I order a shot and sit and listen?
The
music carries me away with the hope for Cuba’s eventual demystifcation—que mis compañeros puedan visitar la isla, so
that a show at La Zorra y El Cuervo can be heard completely apart from the context
of Eisenhower’s and JFK’s dick-measuring contests with Fidel, and assessed
entirely on its own terms.
And
yet. Ricardo and I talk about this—and he asserts something I’ve wondered
about, que sí, para los otros extranjeros
también, Cuba todavía es un misterio, but I remain convinced that she’s a
greater mystery to Americans than to Colombians, Argentinians—And yet. Who
arrives in Cuba first once the embargo is lifted? Artists, writers, musicians?
Does it mark the dawn of a new era of cultural exchange? I don’t think so. Looking
out over Vedado from Emilio’s condo, the cityscape is blissfully devoid of
Golden Arches. As soon as the embargo is lifted, it may be that life improves
for the common Cubano. It may also be open season. ¿Sería mejor si nunca llegue el comercio norteamericano? No sé. Es
complicado.
* * *
We
chat with Julio for a bit after the set—somos
músicos, which earns me a big smile and a warm hug, y me interesa tu equipo—he tells me he just got it from the States—huh? So, more questions than answers…
But I don’t imagine either of us wants to talk about the embargo; what I really
want to talk to him about—okay, what I really want to talk to any Cubano about, and am a little sad
that they’re not as eager to bring up first as Lonely Planet has warned—is béisbol. See,
he’s wearing a White Sox cap, and his compañero
José Abreu, Chicago’s slugging first baseman, has just won Rookie of the Year. Sí, es excelente, pero por mí, porque
vivo en Nueva York, mi héroe Cubano es El Duque, which gets a big whoop and
another hug. Julio makes sure I’m aware that Duque won three World Series with the Yankees. I’m stunned that he thinks I might not know that.
And then I wonder, how does he know that?
These cats follow the game, even after their héroes get into MLB. They don’t get the games down here. I guess
they can follow on the internet? (Vale, Julio
says he’ll connect with me on Facebook.) I realize it’s far from impossible,
but am still impressed by how attuned he is to a game he can’t watch. I explain
to him that, while I get the greatness of another recent Cuban import, Yoenis Céspedes,
I can’t root for him, because—Sí, sí, yo
sé, juega por Boston… But, he tells me, Yasmani Tomás is next, y Nueva York quiere. Alright, I didn’t know that. Uncle. And I’m
calling Brian Cashman as soon as I get back stateside; I’ve got a scouting
report I like better than any of the ones he’s got, and the Yankees better not
whiff on Yasmani.
Ricardo
and I close the place out. I’m satisfied with my Zorra y Cuervo experience. Entonces, también puedo una cerveza más. This turns into dos, at a tiny outdoor bar down the
street from La Zorra, watching a
couple burn up the ten square feet of available floor space with their impromptu salsa
dancing.
I so wish Karen were here, because tonight has been crazy fun.
I so wish Karen were here, because tonight has been crazy fun.
1 Naturally, one inevitably thinks of Cuban refugees in the United States and elsewhere, so painfully separated from their loved ones, with limited recourse for communication and, per my gringo ignorance, I don’t even know what degree of hope for reunion. Their circumstances obviously obliterate mine. This travelogue won’t attempt to reconcile sociopolitical circumstances that far surpass my comprehension. All I have is my own experience, and right now, I miss my wife.