By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Those faraway sounds that bring tears to nostalgic eyes captured the imagination of the young men in Mo'Guajiro. Woloschuck first encountered traditional Cuban music as an eighteen-year-old exchange student in Ecuador. "I started listening to salsa, like Willie Colon," he explains, "but then I started working at this small club where there was a little conjunto that played son. They were all Ecuadorians and they had just fallen in love with the music, the same way we did."
Woloschuck in turn introduced the music to Halva, who at that time was an electric guitarist playing straightforward blues and funk. "The first time I heard it, I just went under," recalls Halva, who quickly taught himself to play the tres, the three-string instrument prominent in son. He continues with a laugh, "I learned how to string a tres from a guy down the street."
Roaming around New York City, the two met up with other Cubanophiles from around the hemisphere. Puerto Rican vocalist and conga player Jainardo Batista Sterling joined the group after exchanging numbers with Woloschuck and Halva in a health food store in Brooklyn. Spontaneous jam sessions in Central Park drew three South Americans who had come to New York to study music at the New School: Venezuelan timbales player Tony DeVivo, Argentine guitarist Martin Quaglia, and Colombian bass player Ihan Betancourt. Asked why Mo'Guajiro, a group with such an affinity for Cuban music, never picked up any Cuban musicians, Halva responds with a shrug: "That was fate; there certainly is no reason for that other than the Lord Himself, I guess."
An international collection of amateur enthusiasts, making up in sheer passion for what they lack in formal training, Mo'Guajiro secured what Woloschuck calls their "first legitimate gig" playing for weekly parties at a salsa school. The experience may have earned them only the princely total of $50 for the whole group, but it also forced the musicians into a new stylistic discovery. "It was funny because the students were dancing in class to hard salsa, like El Canario," says Woloschuck. "Then we come in with this laid-back old Cuban stuff. They were always asking us to play faster and faster. We would try to go faster, and from there we sort of started to play descarga."
Paying dues on New York City's cuchifrito circuit, Mo'Guajiro made some important friends. Halva remembers meeting Alfredo "Chocolate" Armenteros, the legendary trumpet player. "This friend of Choco's invited us to play this political fundraiser up in Harlem, at Lexington and 111th," says Halva. "That was Chocolate's neighborhood, so his friend hooked us up. We were all nervous because there was Chocolate, but he just played with us like it was no big deal. After that he kind of took in the group and has always given us encouragement."
As Mo'Guajiro added new musicians and new styles, the venues shifted from salsa schools and campaign stumps to established clubs like Bayamo and SOB's. This past September the band members took up temporary residence in Puerto Rico, playing regular gigs at clubs across the island and promoting their first compact disc, Pueblo Alegre. Playing in Puerto Rico, however, puts extra pressure on this merry, self-taught group. As Halva points out, Cuban music "isn't automatically exotic to Puerto Ricans. You gotta have your shit together, because they know the rhythm."
In Pueblo Alegre (Happy People), Mo'Guajiro sets out to demonstrate its mastery of the rhythm without losing the happy-go-lucky spirit that inspires the band. The opening lines of the album's title track state the Mo'Guajiro philosophy: "Pueblo Alegre celebrates with style/It's the people of a thousand colors and a thousand languages/Everyone knows it's true, that life is short/With the right atmosphere, we all know how to enjoy ourselves." Indeed, the band's clean, relaxed re-creation of the traditional son is all about making the atmosphere right. On most tracks Woloschuck and Batista Sterling sing in two-part harmony. Woloschuck has infused his Oregon voice with the nasal resonance of a seasoned sonero, with the sometimes amusing addition of a crystal-clear Spanish pronunciation rare among Cuban performers. Woloschuck cedes to Batista Sterling for most of the actual soneos, the improvised vocal parts sung over the chorus. Following a long Caribbean tradition of self-taught singers, Batista Sterling lets himself get meaningfully messy as he sets loose soulful riffs on the hardship of life as a guajiro and the virtues of a well-sung rumba.