By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Earlier this month both Mercado and RMM filed Chapter 11 bankruptcy in the face of a $7.7-million judgment awarded songwriter Glenn Moroig. The songwriter alleged copyright infringement and, referring to legislation that applies in the free associated state of Puerto Rico but not on the U.S. mainland, staked a moral rights claim for the alteration of one of his songs by Cheo Feliciano in a documentary film produced in 1996 by RMM Filmworks, Yo Soy ... Del Son a la Salsa (I Am ... From Son to Salsa). According to Mercado's lawyer, Bruce Caplan, a reduction if not a reversal of the ruling is anticipated under U.S. federal law. In the meantime the day-to-day business of RMM continues. While the bankruptcy may well be a quibble on the label's ledgers, it is symbolic of a deeper crisis in salsa as a genre.
Salsa was born, and may perhaps die, by celluloid. The 1973 Nuestra Cosa (Our Latin Thing) introduced the Fania All-Stars in a concert film at the Cheetah nightclub. Then 1974's Salsa confirmed the genre's name and the Fania stable's superstar status with a sold-out show at Yankee Stadium. The early Fania films crackle with the electricity of the new. The kids tapping out clave on tin cans in the back alleys and vacant lots of Nuestra Cosa's New York City are building a brave new Latin world from the refuse of the United States' manifest destiny. The archival footage of Desi Arnaz crooning "Babalu" for an amused Anglo crowd in Salsa is dismissed by sneering narrator Jerry Rivers (yes, Geraldo Rivera before Spanish was hip) as nothing more than a Latin minstrel show that would be run out of town forever by the Seventies' race savior salseros. The 1996 RMM documentary has a more reverent feel, tracing the trajectory the title promises from the origins of salsa in Cuban son through the glory days of Fania, to a sampling of where the sound has ended up: from the romantic R&B-inflected strains of New York's Marc Anthony to the frenetic instrumental high jinks of Havana's Los Van Van. Where Nuestra Cosa was a call to action, Yo Soy ... Del Son a la Salsa is a museum piece, preserving a movement that already has happened.
Long before the advent of MTV, the images of the All-Stars jamming onstage sold enough records for a minority ethnic and largely immigrant group to create an independent music industry of its own. Over the next quarter century, the majors caught on to the selling power of Latin music; as fast as RMM could birth new stars, Sony and others would woo them away. By 1996 Latinos no longer were a community building their own barrios in the belly of the beast. Instead they had become another demographic whose tropically accented desires the marketing departments of the majors would try to tap. Compared to the hemorrhage of RMM's platinum-selling acts, bankruptcy may not even be the heaviest blow sustained by the independent label.
Indeed bankruptcy has done little to deter RMM's promotion of new talent. Last week's Salsa Festival 2000 at the James L. Knight Center opened with a mini-RMM showcase, featuring Cuban-born, Miami-based Vanessa (one name only please; no need to get people riled with the last name of her controversial daddy, Juan Formell, leader of Los Van Van) and Puerto Rican-Colombian hybrid Kevin Ceballos. "I wanted to do a show that would always open the door to new talent," says George Ferro, the Salsa Festival 2000 promoter who counts Ralph Mercado as his "best friend." Ferro compares the duet performed by the pair at the festival and on Ceballos's debut CD with Marc Anthony and La India's now classic "Vivir Lo Nuestro" ("To Live Our Own Thing") recorded for RMM. There's the rub. Vanessa has a tremendous vocal talent that has benefited greatly from her father's exacting standards, however troublesome his political connections. Likewise Ceballos grew up in a musical family, singing from age three at his father's Seventh Day Adventist Church, followed by formal training in high school and college and a long apprenticeship as a back-up vocalist for nearly every big-name New York salsero. Precisely because the two have so much talent, the déjà écoute quality of their performance suggests that salsa, for the moment, is at a standstill. After more than a decade of the romantic salsa that supplanted the Fania style, even the name of Ceballo's current hit, "Mi Primer Amor" ("My First Love"), smacks of places we've been many, many times before.