article on cuban music - london times

[Ken Gargett]

The Buena Vista Sisters’ Club

This is the extraordinary story of Anacaona, a glamorous all-girl orchestra which stormed to success in Thirties Cuba and became the toast of Old Havana. The 11 sisters took their exotic ‘son’ rhythms across the world before fading into obscurity after the Cuban Revolution. Here, in an extract from a new book, saxophonist Alicia Castro, now in her eighties and one of the surviving four, recounts how it all began

“Rum is a Cuban’s life blood,” says my sister Ada, and she’s right. Without rum, how would we cope with life – with the daily grind, with growing older? We three sisters, living here in our parents’ house in Lawton, a district in Havana, have reached that happy age at which one may, indeed must, relax and enjoy life. Even skinny Ondina, who hardly eats anything (and at every meal acts as if we’re just trying to tease her by giving her an especially large serving), pushes her glass over for a top-up. A little glass or two at lunchtime is a must.

I like my rum with a couple of ice cubes. I leave it just long enough to get nice and cold, then down it quickly before the ice melts in the midday heat and dilutes it. That would be a shame, even with the ordinary rum you can get anywhere now, after years when it was hard to come by. On almost every street there’s a family selling it from big plastic containers. Only Ondina protests that it’s not up to standard. “I’ll have a dry martini. And don’t forget the olive,” she shouts to me in the kitchen. That’s her way of bragging about the fact that she used to move in the best circles in Paris.

Ada, unlike Ondina, is not at all particular. Rum, as life, she takes as it comes – with ice or without; a double or, if rum is in short supply, with lime juice and sugar. She takes everything in good humour. After all, she’s a child of the Twenties, the boom years when Cuba’s economy soared and nobody had to worry about the future.

Lawton is the old tobacco workers’ district. It’s only a quarter of an hour by bus along the Calzada 10 de Octubre (the broad shopping street formerly known as Jesús del Monte) to the heart of Old Havana. From the hill nearby you get a fantastic view of the turquoise sea and the Malecón, the famous ocean-front promenade. The shining white dome of the Capitolio, the former seat of the government, rises up majestically above the weathered roofs of the surrounding buildings. The aires libres used to be directly opposite. These open-air cafés were the beating heart of Havana in the Thirties. It was there that my ten sisters and I caused a sensation with our Orquesta Anacaona.

The whole family – 11 sisters, two brothers – used to sit together here at the long mahogany table in the high-ceilinged dining room of our father and mother’s house. Ada, Ondina and I are the only ones still sitting here. I’m the youngest and I’m over 80 years old now. Ada teases me because I don’t hear so well any more. But we all have our ailments: Ada is quite forgetful and Ondina can hardly see a thing because of her cataracts. Never mind – together we make a good team.

By the time I start mixing cocktails in the midday heat, Ada has already done the basic shopping. We’re only waiting for Ondina now, so we can clink glasses. She’s always doing something around the house. When our morning chores are complete, we have earned a break. I lean back in my rocking chair with a glass of cool rum and enjoy the fresh breeze coming through the open door to the courtyard. So why on earth does the doorbell have to ring now?

Ondina strides down the long hallway. “Who’s there?”

“Pardon me, my name is Gutiérrez. I’m a journalist and would like to interview you for an article about the all-female band Anacaona.” Somehow the stranger eloquently succeeds in convincing Ondina that he is harmless. One by one she unlocks the three deadbolts.

“Come in, young man. Ziomara has to come over right away. I hope she’s home.”

Our little sister Ziomara is used to telling our story to the press. She lives with her husband, Enrique, only two blocks away. Fifteen minutes later she steps into our living room, impeccably dressed, made-up and coiffed. “Quiet please! Recording!” As the tape starts rolling, Ziomara begins.

“It was Cuchito, our second oldest sister, who had the idea of forming the all-women Orquesta Anacaona. That was in the early Thirties, when the dictator Machado was tyrannising the people with a bloody fist. Gradually all 11 sisters joined the band; most of us were still minors at the time. George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Nat King Cole? all the great musicians who travelled to Cuba would come to our performances in the aires libres, the open-air cafés. That’s how we were discovered.

“Do you want me to tell you how we girls from Lawton ended up on the Champs-Elysées in Paris? One day, when we were performing in one of the aires libres?”

As soon as Ziomara mentions the trip to Europe Ada can no longer keep quiet. “Señor Reportero, we travelled to France on a luxury liner. There was every imaginable variety of food on board – vast buffets with eight kinds of ham, beautifully arranged on silver platters. And the cheese!”

“For God’s sake, Ada,” Ziomara interrupts her, “do you really think that Señor Gutiérrez has nothing better to tell his readers than what we had to eat on the ocean liner?”

Ziomara resumes. “When we started out at the open-air cafés, we were earning a mere pittance. In order to bring more money in for our family, I had to pitch in at the tender age of seven. I would go from table to table and offer the tourists, wealthy Americans, promotional postcards with our picture on it. Those were hard times indeed under the dictator?” And so she carries on for an hour and a half.

The reporter is barely out of the door before Ondina protests, “Ziomara, why do you keep saying that? It’s just not true. Nobody ever forced you to work at night in the aires libres when you were a child. It was only because you harped on and on so much that we finally brought you along with us and, since you were too small to play an instrument, we sent you around with the postcards.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, yes, it is!”

“I should know, I was there!”

I leave them to argue among themselves, although I’m the one with the best memory. I would have told the reporter that, for me, there was nothing I enjoyed more than going every evening from humdrum Lawton to the vibrant nightlife of Old Havana; or that initially father was dead against us performing in the open-air cafés, saying there was no way his daughters were going to work at night near the sleazy bars and brothels. I would also have mentioned that we stood our ground in the face of male chauvinists, who believed that a woman’s place was in the home by the stove, or working in a brothel. But unfortunately my sisters won’t let me get a word in.

After cocktails and lunch, Ada and Ondina take their siesta. Ondina above all needs the break, because every other day – during the few hours that Lawton is supplied with running water – she gets up before seven and busies herself with our cistern.

Ondina has never been afraid of anything. As a child she would race so fast on roller skates along the paths in the park across the street that sparks would fly. And at 13 she took to the stage. Her teacher Lázaro Herrera, the great trumpet player, had talked her into it. He recognised her talent and knew that she was ambitious, fearless and self-confident, all the qualities you need to become one of the best. With only three months of trumpet lessons under her belt she walked on stage, unflinching, to join the musicians of the Septeto Nacional – then the most successful son septet in Cuba – and let rip. Ondina was soon one of the best trumpet players in Cuba.

While Ada is out tending to her transactions and Ondina is busy somewhere in the house, I rummage through the little chest in the dining room where we keep the sheet music. Cuchito transcribed many pieces of music by hand; as our director she was always on the lookout for the newest arrangements. The little chest with its treasure trove of musical inspirations accompanied us everywhere, from Broadway almost as far as Tierra del Fuego, to Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela, to the Copacabana in Rio and into the snowy mountains of Chile. Just looking at the yellowing pages is enough for me to hear the music again.

After lunch, while my sisters are relaxing, I take out one of the songs. Playing the clarinet or the saxophone, I let the spirit of the music move me. I like playing in the dining room best; there’s always a little breeze blowing through the courtyard door. Siboney, my favourite piece, was written by Ernesto Lecuona. In my opinion he is the best composer Cuba has given to the world. We worked with the maestro many times. I’m the only one of us sisters who still practises regularly. When Ada retired, she gave in to the pleading of younger musicians and sold all her instruments.

But there are still plenty of instruments left in the house to be able to have a jam session. Just a few days ago there was a knock at the door. Ondina hurried to get it and let out a yell when she saw Frank Emilio Flynn and his wife standing there. “We just thought we’d look in on you muchachas from Anacaona.” That’s what he always says? They live just a few blocks away. We’re always happy when Frank visits. He’s blind, but refuses to let that stop him, and even today he is the greatest jazz pianist in Cuba.

As soon as Frank sat down he coaxed perfect melodies from that out-of-tune instrument, as only a great master can. And Ondina? Instead of sitting still and listening, she hurried to call Pedrito Soroa, one of our musician friends who was a member of the Orquesta Riverside. Half an hour later he and his brother were at the front door, with their conga drums piled on a wheelbarrow.

Frank Emilio gave his all to one piece after another: bolero, son and jazz. Pedrito and his brother Yolanda played the drums. At last Ondina was happy. She ran a wooden spoon up and down a potato grater to accompany the improvisations. All at once it was like the old days: passers-by, parents, children and lovers stopped on the street and peered in at us through the french doors, as if looking across all the decades we had practised and played in that living room.

Every now and then we’re invited to award ceremonies, because our Orquesta Anacaona, which played together for more than five decades, was declared part of the “cultural heritage of Cuba” in 1989. I appreciate the honour, but now I find it too exhausting to travel to Old Havana just to be lauded. The young musicians who played with us at the end of our career continue with new colleagues, still using the name Anacaona. When our successors, the “new” Anacaonas, performed not so long ago on Cuban TV, Ondina was quite beside herself. “Look at them! They’re running around half-naked,” she said indignantly. “I thought it was about playing music!”

“Ondina, times have changed,” I said. Let’s be honest, even we started our career with a scandal.

In the Thirties, son was regarded in Havana’s better circles as the vulgar music of the common people. When, all of a sudden, we young girls began playing these electrifying songs, with their suggestive lyrics, it shocked many an upright citizen.

Even though many of us are now single, or were only married for a short time, we have never lacked for charming companions, even today. It’s a blessing that we’ve been able to count such excellent musicians and wonderful people as our friends all these years. I’m thinking of Lázaro Herrera in particular: the legendary trumpeter visited us every month until only a year ago. Even at the age of 96 he would still take the bus, and walk in the midday heat from the bus stop on the Calzada to our house, and back again after a few cocktails and a couple of hours of telling stories. Unfortunately he hasn’t been well lately and has had to take to his bed.

That made me think. A short time later our niece Ingrid showed up and started pestering me with questions, and it seemed to me like a stroke of fate. Ingrid’s mother, Millo, was once the star of the orchestra. She played percussion, conga and bongos, and she was my favourite sister. She left the band in 1953, when she got married, and later moved to Germany, but she visited us whenever she could. Millo came to Havana for the last time in 1981, when she was very ill. Three days later we carried her to her grave. After that, Ingrid came to Cuba more often. I made sure she knew what an exceptional percussionist Millo had been. And the more I told her, the more she wanted to know.

We would often retreat to one of the rooms upstairs. I sometimes felt as if I were confessing to a priest. And I know why, too: it’s not pleasant to stir up painful memories. Some things are better left undisturbed. If I don’t speak candidly now, how will anyone understand what we did and why we did it? That’s why I want to tell our story. I want to talk about how we moved back and forth between simple living and luxury, between moments of heady success and times when it felt impossible to go on. About our daily lives and how each of us had to find her own way, on her own, without any fuss, and prove her mettle. After those long conversations my niece and I always treated ourselves to a glass of rum: Havana Club, the seven-year-old king of rums. You drink it neat. Without ice, lukewarm in the palm.

[JMH]

That was a great read. Those sisters really love their rum.