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Music is the lifeblood of Cuba. Whether it be a street corner rumba or a septeto in the Casa de la Trova, music is everywhere. Cuba's unparalleled musical heritage has spawned the global Pan-Latin musical hysteria, and even the most rigid hipped of north European travellers can’t fail to be moved by the Havana's impassioned rhythms. The origins of Cuban music lie in the fusion of a vast cultural gene pool of primarily European, and African cultures, forged by migration, enslavement, war and colonization into a Cuban identity, and forged in the villages and on plantations, in tenements and dockyards. 8 See also pp224-228. Timba “Que sabrosura viva, tremenda expresividad,” echoes the chorus, following an opening riff from ‘los metales del terror,’ surely the scariest horn section ever. La Habana circa 1989 and like never before, a new band is rocking the city with a tribute to the neighbourhoods. This is not salsa as we’ve known or might expect it. The structure and feel are fresh and innovative, actually disconcerting. Isn’t it jazz or some weird form of rock? You have to pay attention though because this band overflows with virtuosity, breaking tradition consciously, rather than from incompetence. This was NG La Banda, as they said with characteristic modesty, ‘la que manda,’ a talent concentrate from which some of Cuba’s current leading artists emerged to form bands in their own right. The working title of ‘Bomba-Son’ evolved through the 1990s and onwards with new bands and ideas taking shape from an unprecedented pool of talent. Each has added new ingredients to this urban fusion, lending diversity that defies any categorization that might homogenize it. Today the music has become known loosely as Timba. Not by chance, the pioneers of NG (new generation) La Banda were drawn largely from two other bands with histories in pushing forward the frontiers of traditional Cuban music. Though not necessarily for dance music, Irakere has been acclaimed internationally for its fusions of jazz with funk, disco, rock and Afro-Cuban rhythm. On the other hand Los Van Van had enjoyed 20 years or so as Cuba’s number one dance band, combining elements of pop and pan-Caribbean rhythm within a modernized Charanga band. When some of these two bands’ strongest elements got together, then the result was bound to be explosive. The emergence of Timba rests upon the state education system and changing conditions of life no less than upon Cuba’s traditions and gifted musicians. These days a musician or arranger’s innate talent is complemented with the discipline of a comprehensive academy training. Not that they’re stuffed shirts or anything. Timba is streetwise. The symbiotic relationship between the bands and their audience gives inspiration to musicians while elevating to the stage the lives, dreams and preoccupations of Havana’s youth. As such, and along with more familiar subjects, songs abound about prostitution, the virtues of soya mince, girlfriends disappeared with rich foreign men and just the struggle to survive. Presented with irony, and the facility of street wit, Timba constitutes an antidote to the escapism of ubiquitous tele-novelas (soap operas). The resulting music is shaking salsa to its foundations. For those grown accustomed to dancing the predictable structures of Guaracha-Son (the Cuban genre re-named salsa in New York), the hectic shifting of rhythmic patterns so typical of Timba can feel like having the ground drop away from under your feet. Likewise the Rap-derived shouted chorus which appeared in the mid 1990s can jar on your ears at first, the overall sound seeming tuneless and chaotic. Losing your preconceptions of how salsa should be though, you begin to realise that however precarious it seems, Timba is, like a number of things you’ll find in Cuba, quite ingeniously stuck together. Cuban jazz is exceptionally healthy. Orquesta Irakere continue to renew themselves, inspired by the pianistic genius of Jesús ‘Chucho’ Valdéz, while Grupo Afro-Cuba fuse jazz with traditional Cuban rhythms, including the bata drums of Santería. Among the generation of the 1980s and 1990s the incredible pianist Gonzalo Rubalcaba is supreme, composing pieces using danzón rhythms amongst others. The annual Jazz Festival in Havana was for years attended by Dizzy Gillespie, whose influence is evident in the playing of Cubans such as Arturo Sandóval and has recently heard British jazzers giving their all. The Cuban youth, ever more removed from the revolutionary ideals often romantised in 1950s son and Canción Habanero, are increasingly finding a new voice for their millenial angst. In the local Casas de La Cultura across Havana, social comment erupts from a frenetic fusion of latin beats - son, salsa, bolero and cha cha cha, with New York rap. There are now more than 250 rap groups in Cuba, building on Cuba’s rich musical heritage and legendary figures such as Beny Moré. Previously muted by the government’s radio censorship, rappers now receive the support of Hermanos Saiz, the Youth Communist Union. While the agenda of ‘El Rap’ is certainly not to bash outright the ideals of the revolution, street smart lyrics are peppered with messages to the masses of Cuba’s underlying problems of racism and sexual discrimination. The group Eddyk is at the forefront of rap’s mainstream emergence. The protesting lyrics of band front man Eddy Mora are tame compared to those of Causa 2 who, at the Habana Hip Hop festival 2002, lampooned the state-owned media for their discriminatory enforcement of Cuban racial stereotyping and tropical tourist apartheid.
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