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That September a rescheduling of Fornes's concert at Miami Beach's Jackie Gleason Theater fared little better. Then-City Manager José Garcia-Pedrosa declared war on Fornes and promptly began a campaign of financial blackmail, enacting prohibitive requirements for the concert's sponsors. At el jefe's bidding, the theater's managers even refused to advertise Rosita Fornes's very name on their Washington Avenue marquee, declaring that those two forbidden words "could well be seen as inflammatory" to the delicate sensibilities of Beach residents. Despite the aid of the ACLU, the show's promoters were unable to raise the additional funds for a $100,000 insurance policy Garcia-Pedrosa demanded. That concert too, was canceled.
Why on earth would el exilio raise this much of a stink over the local appearance of a 76-year-old torch singer? Even Fornes herself seemed nonplussed, telling New Times back in 1996: "So many people have asked me to perform in Miami. Friends, admirers, people I haven't met but who have memories of my past career.... I don't understand why they hold it against me, for living the life I've lived. I'm not a political person."
Of course, as with so many of Cuba's artists, it's not what Fornes did as a singer, it's what she didn't do. Namely drop to her knees and assume the position before Jorge Mas Canosa. As a reward for her independently minded refusal to pledge allegiance to Miami's homegrown thought-police, she received the usual barrage of expletives and communist labeling.
The co-promoters of Fornes's upcoming engagement -- Hamlet Casals and Hugo Cancio -- are no strangers to controversy either. Casals has come under fire for his work as a charter agent for relatives visiting family members in Cuba. Cancio is one of a handful of Miami figures braving death threats to challenge the cultural boycott and stage local concerts with the cream of Cuba's music world. While both continue to receive their share of criticism (in Cancio's case an outcry that often centers as much on allegations of shady business practices and unpaid bills as it does on his political stance), the duo remains undaunted.
"I went to the Los Van Van concert with [the singer] Manolin el Medico, and he couldn't believe what was going on," Casals recalls. "But that concert demonstrated that we've turned a corner. The people protesting outside were thinking not even 200 were going to go in. But 3000 people walked that gauntlet saying, 'We are part of this country. This is not a banana republic. Los Van Van have the right to perform, we have the right to see them, and you cannot stop us.'"
As for Fornes's return to South Florida, Casals says with a soft laugh: "The radio stations are already going crazy, calling me names, alleging all sorts of things. Friends call me up and tell me, 'Oh, they said this about you, they said you did that.'" What bothers him more about these modern-day Father Coughlins is their denegration of Rosita Fornes. "You only have to listen to her songs; she opens her mouth and ..." Casals trails off, his voice filling with emotion. He continues, speaking slowly: "I'm really not afraid. We're going to take all the measures in our power for her security. She knows there's lots of people here who want to see her before it's too late."
Fornes's concert will be a retrospective of her life, delving back to several songs she originally sang as a teenager accompanied by the pianist Ernesto Lecuona, a composer often lauded as Cuba's George Gershwin. Luis Carbonell, the show's other attraction, is a legend in his own right, with his charged verse first coming to prominence in the nascent black arts movement of Cuba during the '30s. Although confined to a wheelchair after suffering a debilitating stroke, Carbonell remains a colorful monologist, exploring Afro-Cuban themes, literary negrismo, and working-class culture. He fell out of favor during the Castro regime's brutal crackdown on gays and nonconformists in the late '60s and early '70s, and to Casals, it is no small irony that the same reactionary, homophobic attitude that ostracized Carbonell in Cuba now awaits the poet in South Florida. "Finally he gets the opportunity to come and perform in Miami, and he gets the same poor treatment," Casals says with exasperation.