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By Ciara LaVelle, Kat Bein, Carolina Del Busto, and Liz Tracy
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Pablo Herrera's home in the Havana neighborhood of Santos Suarez isn't that dissimilar from those of his rap-producer counterparts in the States. A mixing board, synthesizer, speakers, and a scattering of CDs fill a table in one corner of his living room. Underneath lie crates of vinyl, every producer's basic source material for sampling. But if the electronic clutter would look familiar to an American music professional, it would astonish most Cubans.
As Herrera prepares two cups of steaming café con leche, he acknowledges both the equipment's uniqueness and the central role it has helped give him in Cuban hip-hop. Nodding in the direction of the mixing board, he slyly quips to Kulchur: “I'm probably the only person in the whole country with a setup like this.”
After several months of intensive work, the fruits of that home studio -- a gathering spot for Havana's most talentedraperos-- are about to pay off. In conjunction with the Cuban state-run record company EGREM and a New York City-based producer, Herrera has assembled a compilation of twelve Cuban rap acts, including Anonimo Consejo, Alto y Bajo, 100%, and Instinto, the last a female trio whose breathless harmonizing and onstage charisma could give TLC a good run for their money. With the compilation's international release date set for early fall, foreign ears are about to hear their first taste of Cuban hip-hop. (Fearing possible prosecution under the American government's Cuba trade embargo, the NYC producer has insisted for the time being on anonymity for both himself and the prominent American independent label that has expressed interest in picking up U.S. distribution rights for the album.)
Don't expect the usual array of Seventies funk grooves on Herrera's rap productions. “I only sample Cuban music, nothing else,” he declares flatly. “There's a huge stock of Cuban classics that's untapped. Why would I want to sample James Brown?”
Instead Herrera has turned to his own collection, from which he mines distinctive breaks: big-band albums from bolero singer Vincentico Valdez, a piano run off Emiliano Salvador's 1979 jazz-fusion outing Nueva Vision, the slinky in-the-pocket rhythm of Los Van Van's 1974 cut “La Habana Joven.” He picks up a beaten copy of an album from Sixties doo-wop group Los Zafiros and says with a smile: “There's a great guitar riff on here.”
Herrera isn't averse to live instrumentation either. For the song he created with the group 100%, he hired the bassist from Chucho Valdés's jazz ensemble, Irakere. There are limits to this approach, however. The stripped-down conga sets that powered American protorappers such as the Last Poets and Gil Scott-Heronin the late Sixties may seem like an obvious choice for Cuban raperos, but such a neorumba vibe is strictly verboten.
“The youth that listens to hip-hop wants to listen to something that resembles where the music comes from,” he says, referring to the digitized timbre and rat-a-tat-tat drum machines of mainstream American rap. Congueros are not welcome. “If you overdo [the percussion], people say, “That's salsa; I've already had enough of that.'”
Indeed, "we've already had enough salsa" could be el rap's rallying cry. American audiences might still be in their honeymoon phase with sonand timba, but for increasing numbers of Cubans (particularly young Afro-Cubans), such music is hopelessly stale; the Buena Vista Social Club is quite literally the soundtrack of their grandparents.
The reasons for this cultural disdain are on full display at Café Cantate Mi Habana, a Vedado nightclub that has become the favored venue for many of the island's most prominent salsa groups. Performing there one evening last month was NG La Banda, whose 1989 debut album En La Callemade them the toast of forward-thinking Cuban-music aficionados worldwide. But while their moniker may still translate as the “New Generation Band,” their actual performance was clear evidence of why the young turks from a decade ago have been superseded.
By 1:30 a.m. NG La Banda's leader, José Luis “Tosco” Cortes, was putting his group through its paces, the horn section blasting away and an electric bassist assuming a busy central position in the mix. Their performance, though, was all flash -- pointless, empty soloing with the kind of showy musicianship that impresses composition students but puts the dance floor to sleep. The American funk and R&B influences that once seemed so fresh (salseros who came of age in the early Eighties still speak of Earth, Wind and Fire in reverent tones) have played themselves out to a logical end.
Even more telling was the audience itself: The admission price ($15 U.S.) ensured that the only native islanders present were privileged ones. In the middle of the set, Tosco suddenly called for a spotlight to play across one long table full of leggy dancers from the Ballet Nacional de Cuba. From there he began a global roll call, bellowing out: “Are there any Brazilians in the house?” Receiving a smattering of cheers, he led the band into a faux samba. Argentines, Italians, and Brits all got their due, though the cry of “¿Alemania?” elicited only silence; there were indeed a cluster of German men standing at the club's bar, but they were far too preoccupied with gleefully grinding up against their "dates" for the evening to pay attention to what was happening onstage.