I have always admired the diplomatic tongue. It toils constantly, distorting itself into a shape that pleases everyone. This adept speaking muscle sugars each word, creating artificial bliss inside the listener’s ear. The diplomat is a mix between a Nobel Prize nominee and a domineering ad executive (bring your country into the peace accords ... at all costs!).

The best diplomats working today hail from Cuba. In four years, these ministers of healthy vibes have unveiled Cuba’s dark mystique. Its first treaty, “Buena Vista Social Club,” was a vibrant piece of work, spilling the personality of the communist country’s people onto the lap of the world. The fear of big bad Castro was diluted, and adventurers from all over the world discovered the peppery embrace of our once estranged neighbor.

The second diplomatic envoy slid into the U.S. with the fast-talking jive of a timbale and the feathery pull of a trumpet. When nothing else works, it relies on hair-raising vocals to grab the room’s attention. They are known worldwide as the Afro-Cuban All Stars, and their smooth-talking groove is coming to Western Carolina University on April 17.

This musical diplomacy began with “The Buena Vista Social Club.” Thanks to chilly embargo relations between communism and democracy, Cuba’s music had been underground since the 1950s. The sounds that emerged in 1996 had been a staple in Cuba for eons. Guitar angel Ry Cooder planted himself in Havana to play with some of the best musicians Cuba had to offer. He knew the phantom tunes of yore still existed. With the help of director Wim Wenders and Juan de Marcos (coined “the Christopher Columbus of Cuban music” by singing great Ibrahim Ferrer), Cooder performed with an orchestra that demanded instant reverence. The names - Company Segundo, Ruben Gonzalez, Omara Portuondo (to name a scant few) - were on the same noble lines as a Thelonious Monk or a Billie Holiday. U.S. ears had never heard such a joyous communication, and the demand for “black bean soul” ascended. The group (under the direction of Cooder and Juan De Marcos) came to the States and played luminary venues like Carnegie Hall for the first time. The excitement was reciprocal. The audiences went nuts and the musicians learned that their sounds were of great importance. The dawn of the Afro-Cuban All Stars had begun.

“We are trying to keep the roots of Cuban music alive, not as a museum piece but as part of a living tradition,” Juan de Marcos says in the liner notes. “Everything is in favor of our music right now because people have realized that the origins of commercial salsa lie in Cuba. Now the world wants to go back and discover the roots of the music in its purest form.”

Juan de Marcos has always been a willing bedmate. His father was a professional singer and Juan formed his own son group, Sierra Maestra, after graduating from college. The sound was amateur at first, but the band soon morphed into a swan, becoming one of the most popular son groups in all of Cuba. Never tethered by success, Juan de Marcos had a grand vision of becoming a musical curator. The majority of his research would be from the big band sound of the “golden era” of Cuban music in the 1940s and 1950s. His crowning moment came from the shadows as most of the “Buena Vista” credit went to Cooder. The guitarist realized the public inaccuracy and made sure that Marcos was recognized. Marcos recruited most of the musicians and he also suggested a lot of the repertoire and arrangements found on the revolutionary album. Essentially, Juan de Marcos was the “Buena Vista Social Club.”

By 1997, Juan de Marcos had left Sierra Maestra and assembled the Afro-Cuban All Stars. The first album, “A Toda Cuba le Gusta,” was nominated for a Grammy and attracted ardent admirers from all over the globe. The second release, “Distinto, diferente” was a history lesson in Cuban music in the last 100 years. The legions of fans expounded.

Tours all over the earth have solidified the Afro-Cuban All Stars as a premier live band. Names that echoed from the hallowed Cuban music halls of the ‘40s and ‘50s have come to the spotlight once again. Folks like Ibrahim Ferrer and Eliades Ochoa have shown the world the language of celebration. In addition, young bravados like 15-year-old Julienne Oviedo (timbales) has ensured this music has eternal tenure. The carnival atmosphere, combined with immaculate musicianship, has sold out shows everywhere. Last year’s performance in North Carolina sold out before I could muscle a blink. I was one of the poor saps at UNCA last April who was on the receiving end of “sorry, no more tickets.” I wept inside.

The 2001 incarnation promises to expand the parameters of feel-good music. The standout of this jiving soiree at WCU may be singer Felix Baloy, who is one of the most respected soneros in Cuban history. Baloy is the subject of Juan de Marcos’s latest studio babe, “Felix Baloy: Baila mi son.” This album is a delectable morsel and should keep the palate tame before the gluttony feast on the 17th. I remember eating pomegranates for the first time and being amazed at the heap of sensory experiences - the appearance and the explosion of tastes besieged me. The CD is like the curious fruit because it has such a burst of sound. It’s like the music colored my room in a swirl of bright oranges and bubbly reds.
Sounds of temptation lured in every crevice. The seductive grind of the percussion and the bitchy sway of the trumpets mad me feel a touch dirty. It seemed like every musician was having an absolute ball playing. Sure, the music’s as tight as a private’s bunk, but every note is loose.

The musicians lack that fear common in orchestrated attempts. Their courage is immense and somehow this plethora of instruments finds a collective entry point and the unified sound is powerful. The sounds had me playing air piano on the computer keys (the tunes actually wrote this paragraph ... I’m not kidding). Their ringleader is the fabulous Felix. His voice has a light to it that ignites the rest of the band. The best example of this album can be found on the eighth cut, “Lo es to do tu amour” (“your love is everything”). The tune is like a grounded root. It lifts at a slow pace to allow Baloy to mourn his unobtainable love. The sway is mellow and gives no indication that the song is getting ready to become a salsa volcano. The back chorus chimes in, “I’ll give it to you any time of day. I’ll give it to you and be on my way.” Baloy and the flute exchange pleasantries, before allowing the trumpet tirade to slam to earth. In and out the trumpets go as Baloy informs a phantom suitor to “Leave her here, leave her here, Let her dance to my son for awhile.” For six and a half minutes, the listener is treated to one plateau of music after another. To describe every fluid detail would entail a painstaking dissertation. So many sounds, so little time. The whole album is like this. Forget the morning java. Wake up to the sounds of Felix Baloy, and I promise the caffeine demons will go away.

Do yourself a cultural favor and attend this one-time event at Western. These are musicians not tainted by the almighty dollar or the shallow observances of record execs. These musicians perform because they love music, and it’s a language that elicits the best in each person that hears it. We are all familiar with bluegrass, rock, jazz, etc., but there’s hardly an opportunity (unless you have gobs of time and money to travel on) to experience the sounds of places that are usually only seen from brochures, cable TV, or easy to read atlases. This is the sound of a country Americans are not allowed to visit. Forget your misconceptions. Loosen the body, and go see soul of a different order.

 

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