CENTRO Journal

7Volume xv1 Number 2fall 2004

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¡Ecua Jei! Ismael Rivera, El Sonero Mayor(A Personal Recollection)

AURORA FLORES

ISMAEL RIVERA

Top left, in New York at the Loíza Festival. Middle right, on Venezuelan television,circa mid 1970s.Top and bottom photographs courtesy of Izzy Sanabria. Reprinted,by permission, from Izzy Sanabria. Middle right photograh courtesy of AuroraFlores. Reprinted, by permission, from Aurora Flores.

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blue and always walked around with those damned drums draped aroundhim.” But fate had been sealed. RafaelCortijo and Ismael Rivera were about to make music and history together.

Cortijo encouraged the young crooner,instilling confidence in him as a performereven while he labored on the constructionsites. He would recommend Maelo tobands that needed singers and broughthim along to play bongos with theconjunto of Moncho Muley and manyothers when the pair began playingprofessionally on the San Juan scene. And it was Cortijo who brought theyoung Maelo to the attention of LitoPeña, at a time when the Maestro waslooking for a vocalist who could sing thenative plena music of the Island’s poor for his big band, La Panamericana.

“Yo soy Maelo de la Calle Calma”“El Charlatan,” Maelo’s first hit with LaPanamericana, rocked the Island. “Anocheen el baile, charlatán, le diste a mi Lola” washeard from every radio, home, social club,and dance hall throughout Puerto Rico.Defending the honor of his girl from anabusive charlatan was a theme thateveryone could relate to and one thatcatapulted the young singer into Island-wide stardom by the mid ‘50s. With themoney he earned from this initial hit Maelobought his mother a house on Calle Calma,building the facade with his own hands.

Paving the way for Cortijo’s success,composer Rafael Hernández returnedto Puerto Rico in 1947 a conqueringhero at a time when Puerto Rico washungry for heroes of Afro-Boricuadescent. By the ‘50s and ‘60s RobertoClemente and Peruchín Cepeda madethe big leagues, representing PuertoRicans, particularly black PuertoRicans, with honor. While the civilrights movement was still a few yearsaway from being formally signed by thenPresident Johnson in 1964, Puerto Ricowas already brimming with black power.

The feeling among the Island’s blackswas one of elation, as if a liberatingexplosion had hit the island.

By the late ‘50s, Cortijo y Su Combo conIsmael Rivera became the first all-blackband to be featured regularly on televisionand radio on El Show de Medio Día and La Taberna India. Their front line and brasssection danced and jibed to the nativeIsland rhythms infused with brassy, jazzylines, and commercial instrumentation.

Cortijo incorporated Afro-Cubanmontuno lines and vamps on the piano withjazz licks on the brass over the indigenousbomba rhythms of the Island, played onCuban tumbadoras rather than the Island’snative barriles (drum barrels). Maelo’srapid-fire soneos (improvised vocal phrases)staccatoed over melodies, building layersof rhythms while playing catch with theclave. Improvising street phrases andsinging in unison with the percussion, tres or cuatro solo, Maelo danced, jumped,and played the clave while holding theaudience in the palm of his hand.“Someone opened the cage and let all theblacks loose,” DoñaMargo once said.Indeed, Cortijo andMaelo’s perform-ances had a liber-ating fury thatcrescendoed into anexhaustive ecstasy.Their music was anelectrifying release.

Singer/composerBobby Capó wrotehits for them, as didPedro Flores, DonRafael Cepeda, andDoña Margó. DonCepeda, the guardianof Boricua bombaand plena rhythms,had been singingtunes to the duo foryears, polishing their native-bornknowledge of the genres.

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He walked the path of pain andsuffering singing joyful, soulful,rhythmic songs that touched hearts

and inspired minds. A five-foot-ten, caramelo-colored, Puerto Rican prophet of Boricuasoul, fondly called “Maelo” by his friends andEl Sonero Mayor (the “Master Singer”) by hiscontemporaries, Ismael Rivera was a natural.

Maelo began to sing once he reached“the age of reason,” and reason made hisvoice fly, dodging in and around the clavewith a facility that could only have been agift from God. But reality also told himhe was born in one of the poorest sectorsof San Juan, one of five surviving siblings(seven others did not make it). Very earlyon, his father told him stories steeped inroots of slavery; he sang out of love for anisland that remained enslaved in her ownright. Maelo wrapped this love aroundhim for protection during a difficult time,when he had to fight for respect andwork for survival from youth intomanhood. From deep in the belly ofpoverty sprang a joy and celebration of

life that was infectious, a priceless potionof release and cleansing of the soul fromthe daily pain of existence.

One day, six-year-old Maelo announcedto his mother, Margarita (Doña Margó),that he would learn a skill to support hisfamily. He ran off to play rhythms—banging on paint cans while shaking babybottles filled with beans. He made goodon his promise. He shined shoes afterschool and ran errands before becominga skilled bricklayer and master carpenter.

Rivera explored finger-poppin’ clavesthrough the snap of his fingers while hishands labored over bricks and mortar;Maelo’s noontime coros resoundedthrough the cangrejero ‘hood of Santurce,where he and boyhood buddy RafaelCortijo would hustle gigs for the tribalareitos that released the soul at sunset. He met his partner, Rafa (Cortijo), when he was eleven years old in elemen-tary school. The family frowned on the friendship, quipped Doña Margó,because “Rafa was so black he looked

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Cortijo y su Combo—rising to the top. Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.Reprinted, by permission, from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

The great duo, Cortijo and Maelo.Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph”Méndez. Reprinted, by permission, fromRafael “Ralph” Méndez.

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Witinila…uye, uye: breaking cultural chainsDuring an interview in the summer of 1976, Cortijo once said he took therhythm of Boricua blood, dressed her up in her Sunday best and paraded heraround the world for everyone to see. He loved her, and you could feel it. When he was about to record his firstalbum, Cortijo made a point of recordinghis beloved bombas and plenas first, at a time in Puerto Rico when the Afro-Cuban conjunto sound was the big seller.

Bomba and plena were seen as anexclusive, insular rhythmic mysterysteeped in an unmentionable blackreligious ritual of music and dance,protected by folklorists and academicswho analyzed the music to the exclusionof the pueblo. The older folklorists were

never satisfied with the genre’s loss ofauthenticity decade after decade; theywere always critical of the dance andmusical styles of the generation afterthem. Yet music, like people, evolves andchanges with time, and Cortijo’s visionwent beyond banal criticism toencompass global acceptance of a form of music inherited through his enslavedancestors. The music was capable ofretaining its power of resistance while

entertaining audiences at the highestlevels of professional musical acumen.Cortijo’s replacement of barilles forcongas had less to do with authenticitythan with recorded coherence. Clearly the tauter skin over the narrowercircumference of the conga drum carriedthe rhythmic patterns farther than thewider skin needed to fit the head of thelarger barril. The pandero rhythms wereswapped by the congas as well with therequinto-talking pandero played out onthe quinto drum. As far as Cortijo wasconcerned, it is the skill and precision of the indio and not the choice of arrowthat hits the target. The bomba was nowneeded for a newer insurrection, a culturalone inclusive of both black pride andBoricua identity unifying the lighter-skinned jíbaro with his black coastal cousin.

They hit the bullseye. Not only was Cortijo y suCombo a hit from its firstrecording on, their dailyappearances on televison, radio, festivals, dances, andconcerts were testament to apopularity unprecedented atthat time. Cortijo’s band playedbomba, plena, mambo, guracha,cha-cha, oriza, calypso,mozambique, merengue, samba,and bolero within a context of Puerto Rican pride andrhythmic creativity notduplicated since. Their themeswent beyond conformist lyricsof living large and embraced

local island perspective with urbanstories and current events that wereglobal in scope. “El Satelite” focusedattention on the US/Russian space racewhen the Russians launched a sputnikinto the universe. “El Negro Bembon”tells the tale of a black man killed simplybecause his lips were large; the song’srepetitive refrain insists, “eso no esrazón” (that’s no excuse). Cortijo’s wake,as described in Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá’s

book, El entierro de Cortijo, reflected theunifying power and crossing of cultures,classes, races, and places that his sancochoof music had on the pueblo. Cortijo hadcreated a recipe with a taste, un bocaitofor everyone, and isn’t that how we, as island people eat, with everything onthe plate instead of separated into neat,American TV dinnerstyle compartments?

One of Don Cepeda’s sons, Roberto Cepeda, recalls how proud hisfather was of these initial recordings.“They brought the music of the poorout of isolation. It went from margin-alized ghettos onto radio, television,records and movies,” Roberto comments.The old man would sing bombas tothem, Cortijo would then transform the various rhythms of bomba—yuba,cuembe, cocobale, holandes and lero—intothe more fast-paced bomba sica, makingit commercially appealing to a dancecrowd used to a Cuban conjunto sound.Don Cepeda and Maelo would sing thecoro together while Cortijo quickenedthe foundation’s rhythmic pace. Maelo would start on the verses,improvising and scatting parts of the

African Congolese phrases into theimprovised “mambos” (instrumentalinterludes) of the tunes. During thesemeetings, Don Cepeda’s many childrenwould gather around Maelo, who alwayshad his pockets filled with candy andtrinkets for them.

De ColoresMaelo loved children. He believed that all children should feel love and joy, no matter where they came from. He recalled a party in his honor at thestart of his career at a five-star hotel inPuerto Rico. Maelo rented a van andgathered all the kids from the block.When the promoter of the party sawthose scruffy children in the lobby hebegan to chase them out. Maelo steppedin and said, “These are my guests, and this is my party. I want them treated just like any other visitor at this hotel.” They all sat at Maelo’s table.

Maelo was the same with beggars. It didn’t matter what they wanted themoney for. I watched him take desperatepeople to eat a meal, peel off dollar billsto strung-out junkies with outstretched

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Cortijo y su Combo with Arsenio Rodríguez—”El cieguito maravilloso.”Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph” Méndez. Reprinted, by permission,from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

Cortijo y su Combo in New York.Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph” Méndez. Reprinted, by permission, from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

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extemporaneously. It immediatelybrought tears to my eyes, and my mindmade a mental record that remained withme throughout the years: “Me duele elcorazon destila sangre, y un grito se meahoga en la garganta, de no poder gritar a cuatro vientos, que quiero libertad parame patria” [My aching heart is drippingblood, a scream drowns in my throat,when I cannot shout to the four winds,that I want freedom for my country].

I met, talked and hung out with friends,children, and many of the ladies that Maelowooed and loved. He was a ladies’ man forsure, often comparing women to candy—all good with different flavors—but I methim in a introspective time in his life whenhe was able to have platonic friendships.Sometimes I felt as if he were confessingthings to me he could not tell another manor a woman he was intimate with for fearthat he would be judged by them. But it wastough being his chronicler. He would bringme to the apartments of various womenhe knew, and at first, I could feel the cold,penetrating looks of suspicion piercingright through me. Not being a street kid,many times I was terrified by the unspokenhostility, but Maelo would always give thema look that said, “Don’t even think it,”introducing me as his student and friend.We’d all end up having dinner together.

El Sonero Mayor…porque vacilo conla clave y tengo saborBacktrack to 1955. Maelo and Cortijowere the talk of Latin music. They tore up the Palladium, ripped up the carnavalesand fired up Colombia and Venezuela.While rehearsing at Roseland for a gig atNew York’s Palladium, Beny Moré heardCortijo y Su Combo. They were to sharethe stage that night and Beny was aboutto rehearse with a band that was not hisown. Once he heard Cortijo, he asked thePalladium’s promoter to pay the boysbecause he wanted to be backed up by the Puerto Rican combo. By 1958, Benytoured Puerto Rico with Cortijo notingMaelo’s singing, he passed the torch ofvocal greatness to the young Boricuaproclaiming him “El Sonero Mayor”—The Master Singer—a moniker later usedas a marketing tool when Maelo went solo.

Meanwhile, Cortijo y Su Combo hadbroken through the Condado color line,the black barrier in Puerto Rico thatallowed only lighter-skinned musicians toplay. Cortijo increased the pay scale forblack musicians, in particular drummers,paying them equal to what “schooled”musicians were paid. He also secured theall-black band lodging in the same five-starhotels they played, something unheard of at that time. Singer/composer Bobby Capó,

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hands, and buy groceries for the sick andelderly. I once asked him why he wouldthrow his money away on someone whowas just going to get high with it. “If you’re going to give—don’t look atwhere it’s going—just give it away anddon’t look back. That’s what it’s about.”That’s what Maelo was about.

I was a music correspondent forBillboard Magazine when I met Maelo. He was my neighbor, but more impor-tant, he was my friend. He came into my life at a time of loss and heartache.Maelo’s fatherly warmth toward me had a healing affect. I was a young writer

searching for cultural answers whiledigging for roots, and Maelo became mymentor and maestro. He lived up to thechallenge, digging out old recordings whileintroducing me to key musicians like DonRafa himself. He invited me to sing coroin his and Cortijo’s band. We’d discussmusic, myth, history, and Puerto Rico,

explaining rituals, defining termsand ceremonies. He and Cortijowould work a lot on the surround-ing islands, alternating withcalypso groups. He sang inEnglish back then, and he laughedwhen he told me that theydidn’t like his accent in English.

Maelo would school me onthe bands that toured PuertoRico, all of them wanting toperform wherever Cortijo wasplaying. The bands included LaSonora Matancera who, beingon the same label, performedwith Maelo’s group around 1958.We were going through oldphotographs of his when hepulled out an 8x10 black-and-white photograph of a veryyoung Celia Cruz with Maelo’sarm around her. They bothlooked wery young and weredressed elegantly, cozying up to one another. Wide-eyed, I asked, “Maelo, did you dateher?” With a sly look on his facehe answered, “We dated for alittle while, but she told me shewas a serious girl and wantedmarriage, and you know,Aurorita, that I’m just a títere.”

Doña Margó was visitingMaelo the summer of 1978 when

I met her in the apartment he kept on108th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. She was such a pretty lady with strongopinions that embraced the passion andlove she had in her heart for her son, her music, and her flag. A writer and poetherself, she gave me a poem she recited

Ismael and Celia Cruz at Madison Square Garden, circa 1970s.Photographs courtesy of Aurora Flores.Reprinted, by permission, from Aurora Flores.

From left: Cortijo, Ismael, Tony Chiroldes, Martín, Beny Moré and Sammy Ayala. Coro singer Sammy Ayala remembersBeny Moré saying that the young Maelo was a “Sonero Mayor” because of his unique way of playing with the clave whilesinging. Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph” Méndez, Reprinted, by permission, from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

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El Negrito de Alabama Maelo spoke to me about his annualpilgrimage to Panama where he touchedand felt the pain of the Black Christ ofPortobelo—El Nazareno.

El Nazareno moved him… inspiredhim… helped him stay away from heroinfor sixteen years. He recalled the firsttime that he danced with the devil: in thearrabales. In the ghetto. It was a commonrite of passage. A dare. A badge that madeyou into a man. In New York it got worse.At the Palladium it was a test of musicalprowess. “A macho trap,” he agonized.“How ‘bad’ could you be under theinfluence and still perform. That was themeasure of manhood, of musicianship.”He knew it was a lie. He felt it deep in his soul, and his heart ached with despair.Tears ran down his cheeks as he recalledthe torture of self-inflicted drug abuse.

The Puerto Rico rejection woundedhim deeply. Maelo returned to New York,broken-hearted and self-destructive.He recorded Lo último en la avenida withmaster percussionist Kako. By 1968 heformed, Ismael Rivera y Los Cachimbos.

The trail of hits began once more. But this time, Maelo hit with a vengeance.

Rivera had found El Nazareno. His career and voice reached its peak.He performed at a Tico-Alegre All-Starconcert in Carnegie Hallheadlining along with LaLupe, Yayo El Indio, VitínAvilés, and the Alegre All-Stars. He sang “Mi negritame espera,” a tune intribute to his mother thatexpressed her anxietywhen he started playingall-night gigs. He recordedRafael Hernández’ classic“Cumbanchero,” where heunderscores his musicalmastery with the words“A mi me llaman el Sonero

Mayor, porque vacilo conla clave y tengo sabor”

[They call me the Master Singer becauseI party with the clave and I have swing]in a rat-tat-tat, percussive, word-playingsoneo, drenching audiences with soundlike hard rain falling on a hot tin roof.The Hernandez standard became for-ever his. His band was tight with a soundthat now expressed a Puerto Rican/NewYork reality. This was a more laid-backmusic, with recordings such as “Traigo detodo,” “Soy feliz,” and “Dime por qué.”There were also tunes about prison, “Las Tumbas” sprinkled with Spanglishstreet phrases that punched through thesolid wall of instrumentation like a heavy-weight at a prize fight, venía por la maceta.Maelo was clean. He was strong. He wasEl Sonero Mayor.

In New York, he wrapped himselfaround the anonymity of the poor, thelumpen, the forgotten. He formed a familynucleus with Gladys Serrano, his com-panion of 25 years whom he calledGladiola. They had a child, Carlito,but Maelo also raised her eldest sonRodney, whose birth father was anothergreat Puerto Rican vocalist, DanielSantos. His eldest son, Ismaelito, Jr.,from his first wife Virginia (they werenever divorced) would come to stay withthem in New York during summervacations. In fact, many were the children

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who was light-skinned, would arrange andsecure the hotel rooms for Cortijo and hisband members. Once the rooms wereconfirmed, there was nothing managementcould do to ban the “brothers” from restingafter their gig. Indeed, Capó played apivotal role in the success of Cortijo y suCombo. It was Capó who had an influentialposition on radio and television, and it wasalso Capó who took their demo to theSeeco recording label that gave the grouptheir break. A handsome crooner andcomposer, he had already felt the sting ofracial exclusion when Xavier Cugat toldhim he was just one shade too dark to singwith his orchestra. He also had first-handknowledge of America’s Southernhospitality, having toured with KatherineDunham. So it was with great pride thatCapó chaperoned Cortijo onto stageswhere all-black orchestras had never setfoot before.

Las Tumbas After nine years of hit after musical hit,Maelo took one of his worst hits at theSan Juan airport in 1962. As Sammy Ayala,one of Cortijo’s coro singers and friend of Maelo put it, “it was a coup d’etat.”Someone informed officials at the airportthat the band was carrying drugs.

Maelo, Cortijo, and some ofthe other band members wereindeed carrying, but Maelostepped forward and took therap for everyone, asserting thatall the drugs were his. He wasarrested, handcuffed, and parad-ed for all the media and thepublic to see. Owing to thelarge quantity of drugs found,he was charged with traf-ficking, trying to smuggledrugs into the Island.

Maelo served some time in San Juan’s notorious Oso

Blanco jail. After that, things werenever the same. Since it was a federaloffense he was taken to and tried in the States. His lawyer was an Americanwhom he didn’t even understand.Maelo was sentenced and sent to apenitentiary in Lexington, Kentucky.

While in prison, Maelo formed a bandwith other prisoners who were intomusic. He composed, sang, and played,reflecting on his life on the Island whileobserving the life of a black man in theSouth at the start of the civil rightsmovement in America. Most of all, he missed his friend, Cortijo.

Back on the Island, the Cortijo Combofloundered. Puerto Rico was outraged at the nerve of these negros, condemningtheir bon vivant lifestyle at the height oftheir success. According to Cortijo andMaelo, pianist Rafael Ithier bolted first,organizing El Gran Combo. Later, formermembers of the band went their separateways, starting their own combos.

Maelo served about four years inprison. He returned to the Island in 1966 to record a comeback album withCortijo, Bienvenidos, utilizing the TitoPuente orchestra as backup with theKing of Latin music himself on coro. But neither Maelo nor the recording were welcome; sales were flat. Promotersdid not want to hire them. Puerto Ricowould not forgive him.

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First New York tour, rehearsing at the Club Caborrojeño,mid 1950s. Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.Reprinted, by permission, from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

Tocayos, Ismael Quintana and Ismael Rivera at a recording session for La Lupe’s Stop I’m Free Again album, circa late 1960s. Photograph courtesy of Chico Álvarez.Reprinted, by permission, from Chico Álvarez.

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who called him “Papa Maelo.” His apartment, was always filled withchildren. I once watched him counsel a troubled teen who was self-destructing.Maelo was emphatic about the boyreturning home, finishing school, and getting a job. For dramatic affect he pulled out an old shoeshine box from the closet and showed him how he usedto shine shoes when he was his age,emphasizing humility as nothing to beashamed of. He had decorated the foyerof his apartment with wood paneling and maple banquitos where he and the boywere sitting and talking. Maelo was proudof his carpentry skills, and talked of themto the young man, telling him how hemade his own clave sticks out of wood he found in the streets.

I traveled with Maelo and Gladiola toPanama in 1978 for the yearly pilgrimageto Portobelo on October 21st, where hecarried El Nazareno. At the airport, wewere met by Panamanian officials whotreated Maelo as an arriving dignitary: he was an ambassador gracing theircountry with his presence. We were

escorted to the hotel in the capital city ofColón and treated to sumptuous dinnerparties at the homes of top officials.Maelo was truly loved there.

Despite the fanfare, Maelo was itchingto get on with the spiritual tradition. He went into detail as to how the ritualwould take place as he showed off thebeautiful lilac with gold trim robe he worefor the event. “We walk 17 kilometers toget to Porto Belo. There are no cementroads and everyone travels into the smallcoastal town by foot. I wear the robewhile walking and think about how el negrito will help me. I think of his words of love for everyone and aboutforgiveness for all the evil in the world.The people gather at the Church of SanFelipe. They pray, they make promises,they cry, and they sleep there. I join themen carrying the platform that supportsthe [life-size image of] El Nazareno.”

I watched with Gladiola as the mencarried the huge statue around the town,three steps forward and two steps back to the beat of the drums that prefacedthe procession. The figure stood above

the ocean of people that formed theprocession, seeming to walk above theheads of the crowd. We stood transfixed in the rain, holding candles that did not go out. A crucifixion was reenacted. Tears streamed down devout faces as thepain of Christ washed over us like a wave.After it was over, we found Maelo near thesteps of the Church where barbers wereshaving and cutting the men’s hair. He showed us the bruises on his shoulderfrom the platform, and I asked him why he was cutting his hair and beard. “I growit all year as part of my promise to ElNazareno, and then I leave him my strengthso that he can continue to help me.”

Maelo carried the wooden crossbearing the black face of Christeverywhere he went. When he wasrecording “Las caras lindas” for FaniaRecords in 1978 I saw him make the sign of the cross, take El Nazareno fromaround his neck, put it on the musicstand, put the “cans” (headphones) on his head, pick up his clave y pa’encima.Ruben Blades, Héctor LaVoe, and YayoEl Indio (casi na’) did back-up vocalswatching in awe of the albañil who tradedbricks for words in the construction ofsongs meant to soothe the souls of theforgotten. Maelo quoted from scripturesand prophets and I thought, if Christwalked the earth today, Maelo would beone of his disciples. It is not what goesinto a man that defines his character, but what comes out. What came out of Maelo was real.

Maelo’s recordings were punctuatedwith references to saints and sinners—San Miguel Arcángel and El Nazareno—and underscored with calls to the deitiesof African spirits, ¡Ecua Jei!, forempowerment. He did not enjoy pretenseor suffer fools gladly; he was strong yetsincere about his weaknesses andcompassionate about humanity. He wasnever sarcastic or arrogant with hispublic, demanding and getting respect in return. Although he had many women,

they all knew about each other and notone would even think of making a publicscene. At gigs, he was usuallyaccompanied by an entourage of friendsfrom the ‘hood who, he quickly informedclub owners, managers and promoters,would have to be treated with the sameregard afforded other patrons, or elsehe’d leave. And though his circle ofcompadres were mostly people who sharedthe same pain of poverty he had knownso well, he was able to hobnob withpowerful, celebrated, and influentialpeople as well as an inexperienced littlekid like me. In an interview with atelevision reporter, he was asked whetherhe was anxious about winning a Grammynow that Palmieri had won one, to whichhe replied, “Grammy, Hammy, what’simportant is the music.” He was genuine,expressing the joy and pain of life on avery real level.

Piedras en mi caminoMaelo’s voice had dropped several keysby the time he recorded De todas manerasrosas in 1976. The phrasing was stilldriving, the flirtation with the clave was impeccable, but the range wasfading. Margarita’s boy didn’t know itthen, but polyps were beginning to takehold of his vocal chords. His 1978tribute concert at Madison SquareGarden was a musical disappointment.He began to indulge in vices with a drivethat on some deeper level numbed thereality of his failing voice.

At the end of 1982, Cortijo died ofcancer. The visionary who brought blackmusicians into the limelight of stardomhad passed. Cortijo, the maestro whomarked a new trail of fusion in PuertoRican music; the maestro who incor-porated the native bombas and plenas of Puerto Rico into the Afro-Cuban mix;the same maestro who later, with theearly ‘70s recording of Time Machine,was to fuse elements of rock, jazz, and nueva trova in a mixture celebrated

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Left, Carrying Cortijo. Photograph courtesy of Luis Ramos. Top, At La Janet’s house (from left, Maelo, Frank Ferrer andAurora Flores). Bottom, Cleaning up in Portobelo, Panama. Center, Cortijo, Maelo and Maelito in Puerto Rico.Photographs courtesy of Aurora Flores. Reprinted, by permission, from Aurora Flores.

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His tocayo and friend, vocalist IsmaelMiranda, sent for him to clean up at hisranch and return to the home of hismother, Margarita.

Juntos, Otra VezMaelo found comfort in the bosom of themother who was his muse. He began throattreatments in 1985 in a heartbreaking andhopeless quest to find his voice. But in hisheart of hearts, he knew it was futile. He would often say, “Cortijo had the keyand when he died, he took it with him.”

Doña Margó would say her son sang forher, for the artist that she could never bebecause she was black and a woman. Andindeed it was some of her tunes that shookthe hit parade in Puerto Rico and New Yorkin the early years: “Ingratitudes,” “Máquinolandera,” and “Bombón de canela” amongothers. But Maelo sang for everyone,especially the poor of his barrio. When hebelts out “Yo soy Maelo de la Calle Calma

cantando pa’ ti linda musica,” he brings the song back to the block he grew up in.He and Cortijo took the music of the slavesof Puerto Rico, slaves who jumped shipsfrom Haiti, Cuba, and other islands andwho played the bomba music with its rootsin the Congo and made it a commercialhit in the New World. He was working on a final recording (that would befinished by his eldest, Ismaelo Jr.)“Carabalí y Congolia,” in May 1987 whena heart attack struck, jolting him into hismother’s arms (“Mi negrita me espera”)on the patio he built for her with themoney from his first hit.

In New York, I left my five-year-old sonwith my mother so I could attend thefuneral. I had to see Papa Maelo oncemore. When I reached the communitycenter at the housing project of the LlorensTorres complex, the area was packed withfans and mourners. Drummers GiovanniHidalgo, Cachete Maldonado, Roberto

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from Cuba to Spain (that remains unrecog-nized today)—Cortijo would no longer beseen at the race tracks or clubs of New Yorkand Puerto Rico. He would no longer beseen at his timbales with his bottom bembapouting in concern. Cortijo was gone.

The Island was shocked. Maelo wasdevastated. He went to Puerto Rico tomourn his brother and say goodbye. Tears flowed as he spoke to his compadrein what seemed to be a secret language ofSpanish, English, and African. He carriedhis buddy’s coffin as he carried ElNazareno but this time, in pain andpenance through the streets of San Juanto the cemetery. Once there, he knelt,made the sign of the cross and prayedbefore the masses at the San Josécemetery in Villas Palmeras. He returnedto New York destroyed, his spirit broken.He abandoned the words of El Nazarenoand began to dance with Satan oncemore. His voice was never the same.

El IncomprendidoTwo tumultuous New York years passed,with Maelo literally lost in the streets of El Barrio. He went barefoot; he was crazedand confused. The once mighty warrior ofPuerto Rican soul was seen picking fromgarbage, looking for quarters in phonebooths, and searching for solace in alonely basement. I ran into his timbalero, Rigo during this time. I was a mother bynow, but I still was looking for mymentor. Rigo took me to the basementwhere Maelo was staying, but as I waitedoutside I had a sinking feeling that I wouldnot get to see him again. A few slowminutes went by before Rigo came out totell me that Maelo did not want me to seehim the way he was. Hot tears ran downmy cheeks, and I went home.

After several dark incidences, Maelo raninto a preacher friend who took him to hisfarm in Connecticut, where Maelo foundthe words of El Nazareno once more.

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Cortijo y su Combo in Puerto Rico. Photograph courtesy of Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.Reprinted, by permission, from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

Cortijo, Machito, Sammy Ayala, Maelo and Roi at the Palladium. According to arranger/musician Ray Santos, when Cortijoperformed at the Palladium they sold out more than when Puerte, Rodríguez or Machito performed there. Photograph courtesyof Rafael “Ralph” Méndez. Reprinted, by permission, from Rafael “Ralph” Méndez.

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D I S C O G R A P H Y

ON 45 RPM: “Cha Cha in Blue” (1955)[OUTTAKES FROM ORQUESTA PANAMERICANA] “La vieja en camisa” (1955)

“Yo no bailo con Juana” (1955)“Quimbombom” (1955)

LP WITH ORQUESTA PANAMERICANA DE LITO PEÑA: Orquesta Panamericana (Ansonia 1290)LPS WITH CORTIJO Y SU COMBO (UP TO 1962): Cortijo Invites you to Dance (Seeco 9106)

Baile con Cortijo y su Combo (Seeco 9130)Cortijo y su combo (Seeco 9160)El alma de un pueblo (Seeco 9326)Fiesta boricua, Cortijo (Rumba 5519Cortijo en Nueva York, Cortijo (Rumba 55515)Bueno ¿y que? (Rumba 55534)Quítate de la vía Perico (Rumba 55548)Danger Do Not Trespass

(con Rolando La Serie) (Rumba 55552)Los internacionales (Marvela 92)

LPS WITH CORTIJO (AFTER 1966): Bienvenidos/Welcome Cortijo y Rivera (Tico 1140)Con todos los hierros (Tico 1158)Juntos otra vez (Coco 113)

LP WITH KAKO: Lo último en la avenida (Tico 1215)LPS WITH HIS OWN GROUP (LOS CACHIMBOS): De colores (Tico 1174)

Controversia (Tico 1196)Eso fue lo que trajo el barco (Tico 1305)Vengo por la maceta (Tico 1311)Traigo de todo (Tico 1319)Soy feliz (Vaya 35)Eclipse total (Tico 1400)Feliz Navidad (Tico 1404)De todas maneras rosas (Tico 1415)Ésto sí es lo mio (Tico 1428)

RECORDINGS WITH OTHER GROUPS: Live, Fania All Stars (Fania 515)[“Cúcala” (duet with Celia Cruz) and “El Nazareno”]

Live at Carnegie Hall, Vol. 1 (Tico-Alegre All Stars 1325) [“Sale el sol” and “Dormir contigo”]

Latin Connection, Fania All Stars (Fania 595)[“Bilongo”]

COMPILATIONS: Ismael Rivera: El Sonero Mayor (Seeco 9320)El Sonero Mayor, Vol 2 (Seeco 9353)Compilations: Eclipse total (Tico 1400)Ismael Rivera con Cortijo y su Combo

“Sonero #1” (MP 3164)Cortijo y su Combo con Ismael Rivera (Tico 1406)Llaves de la tradición (Tico 1419)Oro (Tico 1433)Maelo (Tico 1437)El único (Tico 1442)Legend (Música Latina 58)Maelo: The Fania Legends of Salsa,

Vol. 8, 2 CD Set (Fania 739)

Roena, and many others played tribute to ElSonero. Inside, the Center was brimmingwith people, family, women and children.He always told me not to be afraid whenI walked with him and so I walked aloneand made my way through the humidheat and crowd.

I approached the coffin, kneeled andtalked to my teacher and mentor whotaught me so much about life. I remem-bered walking in Panama through ElChorillo with him. I asked him why thewomen’s arms had eruptions as if the skin were bursting through. “Ay benditoAurorita,” he answered. “Those womenare prostitutes, and if they don’t makeenough money, their pimps cut up theirarms. They never go to hospitals.” He explained that many of those womenhad no formal education, and this was theonly way they knew to support theirchildren and families. He told me I shouldnever judge the plight of another humanbeing. At that point, a dusty old man withno teeth yelled out, “¡Salsa!”. Maelo and I stopped. The skinny old Black manhugged and kissed him. Maelo introducedme as his niece. The old man began tosnap his fingers in clave and to sing a coro.Maelo harmonized with the coro liftinghis voice in full song, finishing the tunewith improvised phrases. He told the oldman he would use it in his next recording.

I remembered jogging around CentralPark’s reservoir with him. I was young andlazy and he would push me to finish aroundthe track shaming me into running bysaying, “You’re only 26, I’m 49—if I can doit so can you.” Then he’d break into song.After the run, we’d go to his Panamaniangirlfriend’s apartment on West End Avenue.La Janet would make us fresh juices fromcarrots, oranges, and watercress. I remem-ber the smell of the hot farina he loved toeat and the many discussions he held in hisapartment and in the vest pocket park on105th Street and Amsterdam Avenue.Somehow, the rumberos would always knowwhen he was there, and they’d come out to

jam with him. Maelo never refused. But when the rumba was over, he’d play a bomba, a plena, and tell them they had to know their roots first. They had topreserve the music that held the life sourceof the people of the earth. They had toconserve it, maintain it, and never forget it.

I cried as I knelt and prayed over him. He had made millions throughout hiscareer, and he gave it all away just as he gaveeverything to his public and to his music. As the casket was closed, I spotted SammyAyala. I asked him to let me carry the coffinwith the other men. Being a Nuyorican, I was aware that this was a traditional guything and that he might get offended,but I didn’t care. I was there for Maelo,but I really didn’t know which side of theplace I belonged since there were thewomen from Puerto Rico on one side andthe women from outside of Puerto Rico onthe other side. He moved over and gaveme a little space and said, “Seguro Auroritasi tu eres familia.” We carried him outsideto where the crowd and the hearse waited.

We never made it to the hearse. The throngs of people and pleneros tookhim on their shoulders, parading him thesame way he carried El Nazareno. Even thegovernor of Puerto Rico showed up in aguayabera and took his turn carrying Maeloto the cemetery. Thousands gathered and Icould barely see the final rites when I spottedKako coming through the crowd of colors,ages, races, nations, and professions thatpacked the burial grounds. It was all a blur tome. I just wanted to say my last farewell toa man who treated me with more respect andequality than any corporate president, lawyer,or “educated” fool. I felt the look of painon Kako’s face and opened my arms to him.He cried, “Aye, Aurorita,” sobbing somethinginaudible in that cuembe Spanish they spoke,before weeping inconsolably in my arms.Rigo also stood next to me, along withRoberto Roena, and we all watched andwept as he was laid to rest beside hislongtime friend and brother, Rafa Cortijo.

¡Que descansen en paz, ecua—jei!

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