Speak o’ the Devil!

Latin music always held a special place in my heart: it’s sophisticated enough to be played in Jazz clubs yet groovy enough to remain a staple in most dance clubs in New York. It has the perfect, endless flow only swing can otherwise boast, and is funky and aggressive at the same time. It’s probably the single most difficult style for a bass player to play somewhat proficiently, since no bass note ever hits the beginning of the bar (thus perpetuating the endless, seamless flow of this music) and since it’s the first instrument in the entire band to play the next chord change. Part anticipation, part (self fulfilling) prophecy… I’ve been in love with this music since the first time I saw it played and heard a couple dance to it. So how can I resist when its’ most prominent and captivating piano player, composer and orchestrator is giving a free outdoors concert in Brooklyn? I grab my ipod and brave a fairly long subway ride to see it. It’s outdoors and packed with about 500 Puerto-Rican families (and a white musician or two) out for a barbecue in this perfect July afternoon.
The second Eddie hits the first note the grass is transformed: EVERYONE and their grandmother is on their feet dancing. Now I’m not much of a dancer, though I make folks shake their asses all night long when I play because my fingers know how to move and my beat is as solid and unwavering as that desk leg you ran your foot into last Monday before coffee. But I don’t dance. I come from a nerdy culture; I grew up among a crowd who would rather read an average book than go to a concert of their favorite artist. I couldn’t help thinking how, for all the ‘sophistication’ my culture thinks it has acquired, it hasn’t even begun to tap the potential that lies in relationships between friends, families, perfect strangers. I am repeatedly astounded by how these guys develop and maintain the most intricate, complex and long-lasting bonds simply by dancing with one another. Couples, siblings spin together, grandsons grab their grandmas who in turn and shuffle their feet as if not one day has passed since their very first date, dads dilly with their daughters – nothing sexual or perverse about it, just simply getting to spend time with one another in ways words never dream of doing. One man was spinning both his sister and his mom concurrently with a dexterity that would make an octopus sit and sulk in a corner for at least a week. A girl dancing alone is approached by a perfect stranger who, rather than introduce himself or offer to quench her thirst with some silly tasteless fluorescent pink beverage simply puts his hands up against hers, they both stand still until they’re perfectly locked – and start moving together. It’s rarely the pristine, seductive choreography you would see in competitions or the upscale dance floors – each dances his or her individual character, unassumingly, purely, simply. All their faults, insecurities, hopes and dreams just merge into a place of happiness at being alive and able to move. Conversation or formal introduction can take place while dancing – why waste a good song? Lyrics to the tunes (that have more often than not have made it into the more ‘serious’ jazz idiom) are sung with passion and nostalgia. How many family rows have been avoided, how may divorces never even made the blueprints, how many budding teenage rebellions were crushed simply by touching one another and moving? I stood there deeply envious yet happy to be in their midst, accepted and loved for who I am – a hopelessly left-footed white boy who can play a mean salsa bass line.