 Por qué decidí publicar esto ahora
Hace tiempo que venía dándole vueltas a este artículo. El tema es delicado, y sabía que incluso un intento honesto de ser equilibrado podía malinterpretarse. Cuando se habla de Cuba, la salsa, el crédito histórico, la autoría, las regalías y la memoria cultural, la conversación puede calentarse muy rápido. Por eso, aunque ya había escrito buena parte de esta reflexión, decidí dejarla guardada por un tiempo. Luego vi un video de un instructor cubano hablando con mucha pasión sobre lo que él consideraba una gran mentira alrededor de la salsa. Su frustración era evidente. Su reclamo tenía fundamento. Pero el tono de la presentación también me recordó por qué este tema merece un tratamiento más sereno. No creo que la historia de la salsa tenga que discutirse desde la acusación por un lado y la defensiva por el otro. La contribución de Cuba puede honrarse sin descartar a Nueva York, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, Panamá, la República Dominicana y tantos otros lugares que ayudaron a moldear la música después de que esta viajó. Al mismo tiempo, esos desarrollos posteriores no deben usarse para borrar el papel fundacional de Cuba. Ese es el espíritu con el que ofrezco este artículo: no como una sentencia final, ni como un ataque contra el orgullo de nadie, sino como un intento de mirar el tema con respeto, honestidad histórica y la menor cantidad posible de calor innecesario. Un buen punto de partida es reconocer lo evidente Hay debates musicales que nunca terminan, pero este por lo menos debería comenzar con una admisión clara: las raíces musicales de lo que hoy llamamos salsa son profundamente cubanas. Eso no es un detalle menor. No es una nota al pie. Es la base. El son, el mambo, la guaracha, el guaguancó, la rumba, el cha-cha-chá, el danzón y otras formas cubanas ayudaron a formar gran parte del lenguaje rítmico, melódico y estructural que generaciones posteriores de músicos utilizarían bajo el amplio paraguas comercial de la “salsa”. Así que cuando muchos cubanos dicen: “Un momento, gran parte de esto salió de nosotros”, no están inventando nada. Están señalando algo real. Pero la siguiente parte de la historia también importa Una vez que esa música llegó a otras orillas, no se quedó congelada en el tiempo. En Nueva York, especialmente, la música bailable de raíz cubana entró en un ambiente nuevo. Se mezcló con la vida de puertorriqueños, cubanos, dominicanos, afroamericanos, músicos judíos y otras comunidades que compartían calles, clubes, estudios de grabación y barrios. El sonido absorbió jazz, R&B, soul, lenguaje callejero, presión urbana, política de barrio y la energía particular del Nueva York latino. Por eso no basta con decir “la salsa es cubana” y cerrar ahí la conversación. Una afirmación más justa sería esta: la salsa tiene una deuda inmensa con Cuba, pero se convirtió en un lenguaje panlatino y diaspórico más amplio después de salir de Cuba. La palabra “salsa” ayudó a darle un nombre práctico y comercial a una música cuyas raíces eran mucho más antiguas que el nombre mismo. El nombre era nuevo. Los ingredientes no lo eran. Pero el plato final ya había cambiado. Otra manera de entenderlo es escuchar país por país La música bailable cubana contemporánea no suena exactamente igual que la salsa neoyorquina. La salsa de Nueva York no suena exactamente igual que la salsa puertorriqueña. La salsa puertorriqueña no suena exactamente igual que la salsa colombiana. La salsa venezolana, dominicana, panameña, peruana, mexicana y de otros países también desarrolló sus propios acentos, prioridades y sabores. Eso es lo que ocurre cuando un lenguaje musical viaja. El vocabulario básico puede compartirse, pero cambia la manera de decirlo. Cambia el swing. Cambia la manera en que entra el coro. Cambia el tratamiento de la percusión. Cambia el arreglo. En algunos lugares el sonido se vuelve más urbano; en otros, más romántico, más agresivo, más elegante, más folklórico, más comercial o más callejero. Eso no debilita el reclamo de Cuba. En cierto sentido, lo fortalece. Una tradición musical no viaja tan lejos si no tiene poder. El baile cuenta una historia parecida En la pista de baile, las diferencias también se notan. El casino cubano y la rueda de casino no se mueven por el espacio de la misma manera que los estilos lineales que suelen asociarse con Nueva York o Los Ángeles. El casino tiende a sentirse más circular, más envuelto alrededor de la pareja, más conectado con ciertas tradiciones sociales del baile cubano. La salsa lineal, por su parte, suele enfatizar la línea, la pausa, el patrón de vueltas, el sistema de tiempo y la presentación visual. Por supuesto, los bailadores se prestan cosas unos a otros todo el tiempo. Ninguna comunidad está encerrada en una vitrina. Aun así, cualquiera que haya pasado tiempo en distintos ambientes salseros sabe que “salsa” no significa exactamente lo mismo en todas partes. Ese es parte del punto. El término paraguas cubre mucho. A veces, demasiado. Aquí es donde el reclamo cubano merece ser escuchado El reclamo no es solamente musicológico. También tiene que ver con crédito, dinero, visibilidad e historia. Muchas composiciones, ritmos, arreglos e ideas musicales cubanas viajaron ampliamente. Algunas fueron grabadas, regrabadas, arregladas de nuevo, renombradas, empaquetadas de otra manera y vendidas en mercados muy lejos de Cuba. En algunos casos, compositores cubanos y sus familias no recibieron la compensación, el reconocimiento o el control que consideraban justo. Esa parte del reclamo es legítima. No es amargura porque sí. Viene de una historia real en la que la música cubana alimentó una industria internacional, mientras muchos de sus creadores quedaron separados de los beneficios comerciales de esa misma industria. Al mismo tiempo, hay que decirlo con cuidado. Sería demasiado simple describir todo como si un grupo simplemente le hubiera robado a otro. El cuadro completo incluye antiguos contratos editoriales, derechos de autor disputados, política del exilio, la Revolución cubana, el embargo estadounidense, pagos bloqueados o restringidos, prácticas de las disqueras y la compleja situación legal de los derechos cubanos fuera de Cuba. En otras palabras: sí, hubo explotación. Pero la maquinaria detrás de esa explotación fue más grande que un club, una disquera, un país o un solo culpable. El embargo complicó aún más una situación que ya era complicada El muro político entre Estados Unidos y Cuba creó un ambiente extraño y muchas veces injusto para la música cubana. Después de la Revolución cubana y el embargo estadounidense, los negocios normales entre los dos países se volvieron difíciles o imposibles en muchas áreas. Eso también afectó a la música. Los derechos, las regalías, las licencias, la edición musical y los pagos dejaron de ser asuntos puramente artísticos o comerciales; quedaron atrapados en la política. Eso no significa que todo uso de música cubana en Estados Unidos haya sido automáticamente ilegal o inmoral. Tampoco significa que todo músico que tocó música de raíz cubana haya actuado de mala fe. Pero sí ayuda a explicar por qué compositores cubanos y sus herederos podían sentir que sus obras circulaban, generaban dinero y construían prestigio para otros, mientras ellos se quedaban mirando desde afuera. El reclamo es real. La historia legal es complicada. Las dos cosas pueden ser ciertas al mismo tiempo. Hay ejemplos que muestran la profundidad del problema Las disputas alrededor de composiciones cubanas que volvieron a adquirir fama internacional en la época de Buena Vista Social Club sirven como recordatorio de que estos temas no son imaginarios. Hubo pleitos y controversias sobre canciones cubanas antiguas, contratos editoriales, compensación a compositores y control de derechos. Ese tipo de caso no trata necesariamente sobre la salsa en el sentido más estrecho de la palabra, pero revela un problema más amplio: la música cubana tuvo un enorme valor internacional, y las personas que la crearon no siempre fueron quienes se beneficiaron de manera más clara. Esa es la herida detrás de gran parte de esta conversación. Cuando muchos cubanos cuestionan la manera en que la palabra “salsa” puede borrar orígenes, a menudo están hablando de algo más profundo que una etiqueta musical. Están hablando de una sensación de borradura histórica. Aun así, reconocer a Cuba no debe exigir borrar a los demás Aquí es donde la conversación suele desviarse. Un lado dice: “Todo es cubano”. Otro responde: “No, la salsa nació en Nueva York”. Alguien más dice: “Puerto Rico hizo la salsa”. Y luego aparecen Colombia, Venezuela, Panamá, la República Dominicana y otros países con argumentos propios. La verdad no cabe cómodamente en ningún eslogan. Cuba aportó gran parte de la base musical profunda. Nueva York le dio a esa música una nueva plataforma urbana y una poderosa identidad comercial. Los músicos, cantantes, arreglistas, bailadores y públicos puertorriqueños fueron esenciales para el desarrollo de la salsa, tanto en Nueva York como en Puerto Rico. Luego otros países latinoamericanos tomaron la música, la amaron, la transformaron, la hicieron local y se la devolvieron al mundo con sus propias voces. Eso también importa. La salsa no es menos cubana porque se volvió internacional. No es menos puertorriqueña porque tenga raíces cubanas. No es menos neoyorquina porque su ADN musical venga del Caribe. Y no es menos colombiana, venezolana, panameña, dominicana, mexicana, peruana o global porque una industria haya ayudado a vender el nombre. La música es más grande que un solo pasaporte. Pero tampoco salió de la nada. La palabra “salsa” es útil, pero también puede esconder cosas Como término práctico, “salsa” funciona. Los DJs lo usamos. Los bailadores lo usan. Los promotores lo usan. Las plataformas digitales lo usan. Las disqueras lo usaron. El público lo entiende. Pero como término histórico, puede ser resbaladizo. Puede hacer que formas cubanas más antiguas parezcan simplemente materia prima esperando a que otros las modernizaran. Puede poner a Nueva York en el centro y dejar a La Habana, Matanzas, Santiago de Cuba y otros espacios cubanos en el fondo. Puede hacer que la gente olvide que muchos “clásicos de salsa” están ligados a formas musicales que ya tenían largas historias antes del boom salsero. Por eso el reclamo cubano no debe descartarse. A veces la palabra “salsa” aclara. A veces tapa huellas. El enfoque justo no es escoger un bando, sino contar la historia completa Para honrar a Cuba, hay que nombrar las raíces. Para honrar a Nueva York, hay que nombrar la transformación. Para honrar a Puerto Rico, hay que nombrar a los músicos, cantantes, arreglistas, bailadores y públicos que cargaron esa música con tanta fuerza. Para honrar al resto de América Latina, hay que reconocer que la salsa no llegó a esos países como un producto terminado. La gente la reinterpretó, la bailó de otra manera, escribió nuevas canciones, creó nuevos sabores orquestales y le dio nuevos hogares emocionales. Y para honrar a los compositores, no conviene romantizar el lado comercial de la historia. Algunas personas fueron celebradas. Algunas fueron pagadas. Otras no. Algunos nombres viajaron por el mundo. Otros quedaron escondidos detrás de editoriales, sellos discográficos, política y papeleo. La música puede ser alegre. La historia no siempre es limpia. Quizás la respuesta más respetuosa sea esta La salsa le debe a Cuba una deuda que jamás debe minimizarse. Esa deuda es musical, cultural, rítmica, histórica y espiritual. Pero la salsa también se convirtió en otra cosa al pasar por Nueva York, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, Panamá, la República Dominicana y el resto del mundo. La música creció porque la gente fuera de Cuba no se limitó a conservarla. La vivió. La discutió. La bailó. La arregló. La urbanizó. La romantizó. La comercializó. Y a veces, también, la malinterpretó. Eso es lo que hace la música viva. Viaja. Cambia. Sale de casa. Y a veces, quienes se quedaron en casa tienen todo el derecho de preguntar si el mundo recuerda dónde empezó el viaje. La última palabra, por lo menos para mí, es respeto Respeto por Cuba, porque sin Cuba esta conversación no existiría. Respeto por los músicos de Nueva York y Puerto Rico, porque no se limitaron a copiar; crearon un nuevo lenguaje urbano a partir de materiales heredados. Respeto por los países que luego hicieron suya la salsa. Respeto por los bailadores, que demuestran cada noche que la música no pertenece solamente a los archivos ni a las discusiones. Y respeto por los compositores cuyas obras movieron al mundo, incluso cuando el mundo no siempre se movió justamente hacia ellos. Así que cuando alguien dice que la salsa tiene raíces cubanas, estoy de acuerdo. Cuando alguien dice que la salsa llegó a ser algo más amplio que la música cubana, también estoy de acuerdo. Y cuando los cubanos insisten en que el crédito, la compensación y la memoria histórica todavía importan, creo que debemos escuchar con atención. No a la defensiva. Con atención. -El Caobo  Why I decided to publish this now
I had been sitting with this article for a while. The subject is delicate, and I knew that even an honest attempt to be balanced could still be misunderstood. When people talk about Cuba, salsa, credit, ownership, royalties, and cultural memory, the conversation can become emotional very quickly. So, although I had already written much of this piece, I held back from publishing it. Then I came across a video by a Cuban dance instructor speaking passionately about what he saw as the great lie surrounding salsa. His frustration was clear. His grievance was real. But the tone of the presentation also reminded me why this subject deserves a calmer treatment. I do not believe the history of salsa has to be discussed with accusation on one side and defensiveness on the other. Cuba’s contribution can be honored without dismissing New York, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, Panamá, the Dominican Republic, and the many other places that helped shape the music after it traveled. At the same time, those later developments should not be used to erase Cuba’s foundational role. That is the spirit in which I am offering this article: not as a final verdict, not as an argument against anyone’s pride, but as an attempt to look at the subject with respect, historical honesty, and as little unnecessary heat as possible. A fair place to begin is with the obvious. There are some debates in music that never really end, but this one should at least begin with a clear admission: the musical roots of what we now call salsa are deeply Cuban. That is not a small detail. It is not a footnote. It is the foundation. The son, mambo, guaracha, guaguancó, rumba, cha-cha-chá, danzón, and other Cuban forms helped provide much of the rhythmic, melodic, and structural language that later generations of musicians would use under the broad commercial umbrella of “salsa.” The Smithsonian’s ¡Puro Ritmo! exhibition describes salsa’s journey as one in which Afro-Cuban music evolved into a defining sound in the United States, moving from Havana to New York and beyond. So when Cubans say, “Wait a minute — a lot of this came from us,” they are not imagining things. They are pointing to something real. But the next part of the story is just as important. Once that music reached other shores, it did not stay frozen in time. In New York, especially, Cuban-rooted dance music entered a new environment. It mixed with the lives of Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Dominicans, African Americans, Jewish musicians, and other communities moving through the same streets, clubs, studios, and neighborhoods. The sound absorbed jazz, R&B, soul, street language, barrio politics, urban pressure, and the particular energy of Latin New York. That is why it is not enough to say, “Salsa is Cuban,” and stop there. A more honest statement would be this: salsa is heavily indebted to Cuba, but it became a wider pan-Latin and diasporic language after leaving Cuba. The U.S. Patent and Trademark Office’s profile of Johnny Pacheco and Fania Records puts it plainly: Pacheco popularized a New York version of Cuban dance music, and Fania helped turn that sound into a worldwide market for Latin dance music. The same source notes that the word “salsa” gave a convenient and marketable name to music whose roots were older than the name itself. That distinction matters. The name was new. The ingredients were not. The final dish, however, had changed. Another way to hear the difference is to listen country by country. Cuban popular dance music does not sound exactly like New York salsa. New York salsa does not sound exactly like Puerto Rican salsa. Puerto Rican salsa does not sound exactly like Colombian salsa. Venezuelan salsa, Dominican salsa, Panamanian salsa, Peruvian salsa, and Mexican salsa all developed their own accents, priorities, and flavors. That is what happens when a musical language travels. The same basic vocabulary can be shared, but the phrasing changes. The swing changes. The way the coro sits may change. The percussion may lean differently. The arranging style may be more urban, more folkloric, more romantic, more aggressive, more elegant, more commercial, or more streetwise depending on the place and period. This does not weaken Cuba’s claim. In some ways, it strengthens it. A musical tradition does not travel that far unless it has power. The dancing tells a similar story. On the dance floor, the differences can be just as clear. Cuban casino and rueda de casino do not move through space in the same way as the linear styles often associated with New York or Los Angeles. Casino tends to feel more circular, more wrapped around the couple, more connected to Cuban social dance traditions. Linear salsa often emphasizes the slot, the break, the turn pattern, the timing system, and the visual line. Of course, dancers borrow from each other all the time. No community is sealed off in a glass box. Still, anyone who has spent time around different salsa scenes knows that “salsa” does not mean the exact same thing everywhere. That is part of the point. The umbrella term covers a lot. Sometimes too much. This is where the Cuban grievance deserves to be heard. The grievance is not only about musicology. It is also about credit, money, visibility, and history. Many Cuban compositions, rhythms, arrangements, and musical ideas traveled widely. Some were recorded, rearranged, renamed, repackaged, and sold in markets far from Cuba. In some cases, Cuban composers and their families did not receive the compensation, recognition, or control that they believed they deserved. That part of the grievance is legitimate. It is not bitterness for the sake of bitterness. It comes from a real history in which Cuban music fed an international industry while Cuban creators were often separated from the commercial benefits of that industry. At the same time, this has to be said carefully. It is too simple to describe the whole thing as one group stealing from another. The real picture includes old publishing contracts, disputed copyrights, exile politics, the Cuban Revolution, the U.S. embargo, blocked or restricted payments, record-company practices, and the complicated legal status of Cuban-owned or Cuban-controlled rights abroad. In other words, yes, there was exploitation. But the machinery behind it was bigger than one nightclub, one label, one country, or one bad actor. The embargo made an already messy situation even messier. The political wall between the United States and Cuba created a strange and often unfair environment for Cuban music. After the Cuban Revolution and the U.S. embargo, normal business between the two countries became difficult or impossible in many areas. That affected music too. Rights, royalties, licensing, publishing, and payments were not just artistic matters anymore; they became trapped inside politics. That does not mean every use of Cuban music in the United States was automatically illegal or immoral. It also does not mean every musician who played Cuban-rooted music was acting in bad faith. But it does help explain why Cuban composers and heirs could feel that their work was circulating, earning money, and building reputations for others while they were left outside the door. The legal picture has also shifted over time. Current U.S. Cuban Assets Control Regulations authorize certain transactions related to informational materials, including royalties or other payments connected with those transactions. That is important because it shows why the royalty question cannot be reduced to one simple statement that applies equally to every decade. The grievance is real. The legal history is complicated. Both things can be true. There are examples that show how deep the problem runs. The disputes around Cuban compositions made famous through the Buena Vista Social Club era are a useful reminder that these issues are not imaginary. In British court reporting from the mid-2000s, companies fought over rights to Cuban songs dating back to the 1930s, with arguments over whether composers had been properly compensated and whether old publishing agreements were valid. That case was not about salsa in the narrow dance-club sense, but it reveals the same larger problem: Cuban music had enormous international value, and the people who created it were not always the people who benefited most clearly from it. That is the wound behind a lot of the conversation. When Cubans object to the way the word “salsa” can blur origins, they are often objecting to more than terminology. They are objecting to a pattern of erasure. Still, crediting Cuba should not require erasing everyone else. This is where the conversation often goes wrong. One side says, “It is all Cuban.” Another side says, “No, salsa was born in New York.” Someone else says, “Puerto Rico built salsa.” Another person adds Colombia, Venezuela, Panamá, or the Dominican Republic to the discussion. The truth is not as neat as any slogan. Cuba supplied much of the deep musical foundation. New York gave the music a new urban platform and a powerful commercial identity. Puerto Rican musicians and audiences were central to salsa’s development, especially in New York and Puerto Rico. Other Latin American countries then took the music, loved it, changed it, localized it, and gave it back to the world in their own voices. Oxford Bibliographies notes that, beyond the old Cuban-or-Puerto Rican origins debate, salsa scholarship has increasingly looked at salsa as a music representing Latin Americans of many national, ethnic, and social backgrounds. That feels right to me. Salsa is not less Cuban because it became international. It is not less Puerto Rican because it has Cuban roots. It is not less New York because its musical DNA came from the Caribbean. And it is not less Colombian, Venezuelan, Panamanian, Dominican, Mexican, Peruvian, or global because Fania helped market the name. The music is bigger than one passport. But it did not come from nowhere. The word “salsa” is useful, but it can also hide things. As a practical term, salsa works. DJs use it. Dancers use it. Venues use it. Record stores used it. Streaming platforms use it. Promoters use it. The public understands it. But as a historical term, it can be slippery. It can make older Cuban forms seem like they were merely raw material waiting for someone else to modernize them. It can place New York at the center while pushing Havana, Matanzas, Santiago de Cuba, and other Cuban spaces into the background. It can make people forget that many “salsa classics” are tied to musical forms that already had long histories before the salsa boom. That is why the Cuban complaint should not be dismissed. Sometimes the word “salsa” clarifies. Sometimes it covers tracks. The fair approach is not to choose a camp, but to tell the whole story. To honor Cuba properly, we should name the roots. To honor New York properly, we should name the transformation. To honor Puerto Rico properly, we should name the musicians, singers, arrangers, dancers, and audiences who carried the music with such force. To honor the rest of Latin America, we should recognize that salsa did not simply arrive in those countries as a finished product. People there reinterpreted it, danced it differently, wrote new songs, created new orchestral flavors, and gave the music new emotional homes. And to honor the composers, we should not romanticize the business side of the story. Some people were celebrated. Some people were paid. Some people were not. Some names traveled. Others disappeared behind publishers, labels, politics, and paperwork. The music may be joyful, but the history is not always clean. Maybe the most respectful answer is this. Salsa owes Cuba a debt that should never be minimized. That debt is musical, cultural, rhythmic, historical, and spiritual. But salsa also became something else as it moved through New York, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, Panamá, the Dominican Republic, and the rest of the world. The music grew because people outside Cuba did not simply preserve it. They lived inside it. They fought with it, danced to it, rearranged it, urbanized it, romanticized it, commercialized it, and sometimes misunderstood it. That is what living music does. It travels. It changes. It leaves home. And sometimes, the people at home have every right to ask whether the world remembers where the journey began. The final word, at least for me, is respect. Respect for Cuba, because without Cuba, this conversation would not exist. Respect for the musicians of New York and Puerto Rico, because they did not merely copy; they created a new urban language from inherited materials. Respect for the countries that later made salsa their own. Respect for the dancers, who prove every night that music does not belong only to archives and arguments. And respect for the composers whose work moved the world, even when the world did not always move fairly toward them. So when someone says salsa has Cuban roots, I agree. When someone says salsa became something broader than Cuban music, I also agree. And when Cubans insist that credit, compensation, and historical memory still matter, I think we should listen carefully. Not defensively. Carefully. - El Caobo  What “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” reveals about salsa’s enduring power
Sometimes a song does more than entertain. It opens a door, starts an argument, brings back a memory, and reminds us that a rhythm many people treat as “classic” is still very much alive. The Surprise Was Real When Bad Bunny released “BAILE INoLVIDABLE,” the reaction was interesting to watch. Here was one of the biggest names in reggaetón and música urbana stepping into salsa — not just borrowing a little percussion here and there, not simply adding a tropical flavor to an urbano track, but leaning into salsa in a way that people could immediately recognize. For some listeners, that alone was enough to raise an eyebrow. Bad Bunny is not a salsero in the traditional sense. His rise came through reggaetón, Latin trap, and the broader urbano world. So when a salsa track from him started gaining serious attention, it caught people off guard. But maybe the real surprise was not that Bad Bunny made a salsa record. Maybe the real surprise was that so many people seemed surprised that salsa could still hit that hard. Salsa Did Not Need Rescuing I think it is important to say this clearly: salsa did not need Bad Bunny to rescue it. Salsa has never disappeared for the people who actually live with the music. It is still in dance studios, social dances, family parties, clubs, festivals, radio programs, playlists, and the memories of people who know exactly what a good coro can do to a room. Those of us who have spent years around this music already know its power. Still, there is something meaningful about a global artist using his platform to bring that sound to listeners who may not usually seek it out. That does not make him the owner of the tradition. It does not make him the final authority on salsa. But it does create a moment. And moments matter. They can send a young listener searching for more. They can make someone ask, “What is this rhythm?” They can remind another person of music they heard growing up. They can even make longtime salsa lovers reconsider how the music travels from one generation to the next. Why This Song Connected Part of the appeal of “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” is emotional. The song does not feel like a museum piece. It feels like someone reaching into memory — love, loss, nostalgia, identity — and placing those feelings inside a danceable arrangement. That is something salsa has always done well. At its best, salsa is not only about steps. It is not only about spins, shines, patterns, or whether someone dances on one or on two. Salsa can be romantic, defiant, joyful, wounded, elegant, streetwise, spiritual, playful, and deeply personal — sometimes all in the same song. That emotional range is one reason the music lasts. A good salsa record can make people dance before they even understand all the words. Then, when they do start listening more closely, they often discover there is another layer waiting for them. That is part of the beauty. Puerto Rico Is Not Just a Backdrop Another reason this moment feels important is that “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” is part of a larger project rooted in Puerto Rican identity. Bad Bunny’s DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS has been discussed not just as an album, but as a statement about place, memory, culture, and belonging. The music pulls from different Puerto Rican and Caribbean traditions, and “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” sits inside that broader conversation. That matters because salsa is not just a musical style floating around without history. It comes from people. It comes from neighborhoods, migration, struggle, celebration, language, dance floors, radios, record collections, and live bands. It carries the voices of Puerto Rico, Cuba, New York, Panamá, Colombia, Venezuela, the Dominican Republic, and many other places where the music has been shaped, loved, argued over, and kept alive. So when an artist as visible as Bad Bunny records a salsa song, the question is not only, “Is it good?” The better question may be, “What door does it open?” A Doorway, Not a Destination For some listeners, “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” may be the first salsa track they have paid close attention to in years. For others, it may be one song in a much longer musical journey. My hope is that the song becomes a doorway rather than a destination. If someone comes to salsa through Bad Bunny, beautiful. But don’t stop there. Go listen to El Gran Combo. Listen to Héctor Lavoe, Willie Colón, Rubén Blades, Ismael Rivera, Cheo Feliciano, La Sonora Ponceña, Roberto Roena, Bobby Valentín, Frankie Ruiz, Celia Cruz, Oscar D’León, Gilberto Santa Rosa, and so many others. Listen to the old records. Listen to the arrangements. Listen to the singers. Listen to the coros. Listen to the piano montunos, the bass lines, the campana, the congas, the timbales, the horns, and the spaces between them. Then go dance to it. Because salsa is not fully understood from a distance. From the Dance Floor Perspective From where I stand, the most interesting thing about this moment is not whether Bad Bunny has now “become” a salsa artist. That is too simple. The more interesting thing is that a salsa track could still cut through the noise of today’s music world and get people talking, listening, dancing, debating, and feeling something. That says a lot. It says salsa still has reach. It says the rhythm still has force. It says younger audiences are not automatically closed off to the music. Sometimes they just need a point of entry. And it says that the tradition is strong enough to welcome new attention without losing itself. The Real Lesson I do not hear “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” as proof that salsa needed a superstar from outside the traditional salsa world to make it relevant. I hear it as proof of something else. Salsa was already powerful. Bad Bunny simply stepped into that power, and a lot of people felt it. That is the part worth paying attention to. The music still speaks. The rhythm still moves people. The emotional pull is still there. And every time a new listener discovers that, the story continues. That, to me, is the real beauty of the moment. - El Caobo  Exploring the space between the count, the clave, and what actually shows up on the dance floor
On the dance floor, the difference is hard to miss. I’ve been in rooms where the music is right, the floor is full, and everyone is dancing on time…but not everyone is dancing the music. You see it pretty quickly. Some people are moving through patterns—clean, consistent, on beat. And then there are others who look like they’re having a conversation with the song. Same timing. Same floor. Completely different feeling. So what’s the difference? When someone is really hearing the music—not just counting—what are they actually responding to? The tumbao? The clave? The phrasing? Or something else entirely? So I put the question out to the dancers. I recently posted this question in one of my Facebook groups. The responses were varied—and honestly, better than I expected. Some people kept it simple. Others went deeper into the music, the structure, even the cultural side of it. And somewhere in all of that, a pattern started to emerge. And that’s where things start to split. For some dancers, the answer is simple. They’re not thinking about clave. They’re not thinking about phrasing. They’re stepping 1-2-3… 5-6-7. And to be fair, there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s where most people start. It’s how many people dance for years. The music is there, of course—but it’s more of a backdrop than a guide. The goal is to stay on time, stay consistent, and move cleanly through patterns. But for others, that’s where the questions begin. Because at some point, staying on time doesn’t feel like enough. That’s when dancers start to listen differently. Instead of just counting, they begin to notice things they hadn’t paid attention to before. The groove starts to come into focus—the push and pull of the conga and bass, that steady pulse that carries the music forward. Then, for some, the clave starts to reveal itself. Not always as something loud or obvious, but as a kind of internal compass—something that organizes the music, even when you don’t hear it directly. And then there’s phrasing. The music stops feeling like a string of counts and starts to feel like ideas—something that builds, develops, and resolves. Like a conversation, or a paragraph that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. At that point, the dance begins to change. Movements aren’t just placed on beats anymore. Accents land with intention. Pauses start to make sense. Transitions feel like they belong. The dancer is still on time—but now they’re starting to move with what the music is doing, not just alongside it. When the Music Becomes Culture At a certain point, listening goes beyond recognizing patterns or musical elements. It becomes something deeper. It becomes cultural. One of the responses I received came from a Cuban instructor, and his perspective added another layer to the conversation. For him, dancing without counting isn’t just about musicality—it’s a sign of maturity. Not just as a dancer, but as someone who understands where the music comes from. It means recognizing the difference between a son, a son montuno, a guaracha, or a timba—and understanding that each one carries its own feel, its own movement, its own logic. It means hearing the instruments not as a single sound, but as a conversation—knowing when something shifts, when something opens up, when something resolves. It means being able to follow the phrasing, not just in counts, but in ideas—sometimes across eight counts, sometimes across entire sections of a song. And maybe most importantly, it means accepting something simple but fundamental: The music is in charge. Not the pattern. Not the count. The music. From that perspective, dancing isn’t about applying movement to a beat. It’s about responding to what the music is asking for in that moment. And that response isn’t random. It’s shaped by experience. By listening. By time spent with the music—not just on the dance floor, but outside of it. It’s the difference between knowing how to move… and understanding why you’re moving the way you are. So Why Doesn’t It Show? If all of this is true—if dancers are hearing the groove, the clave, the phrasing… why do so many still look the same on the floor? Why do two dancers, listening to the same song, hearing the same elements, still move in ways that feel almost identical? Part of it is habit. Most dancers spend years learning patterns—repeating them, refining them, getting comfortable inside them. And once those patterns are ingrained, they tend to show up no matter what the music is doing. Even when the ear starts to develop, the body doesn’t always follow right away. You might hear the break… but still finish the turn. You might recognize the shift in the music… but continue the same sequence you started eight counts ago. And over time, that creates a kind of disconnect. The dancer is listening—but not fully responding. There’s also the reality of social dancing. On a crowded floor, with a partner you may not know, there’s a natural tendency to rely on what’s safe—what’s familiar, what works. Musical risks get smaller. Movements get more predictable. And little by little, the dance starts to prioritize consistency over conversation. But maybe the biggest reason is this: Hearing the music and dancing the music are not the same skill. One is internal. The other is visible. And the space between the two—that’s where growth actually happens. That’s where a dancer has to make a choice: to let what they hear change what they do. So maybe that’s the real question. Maybe the question isn’t just what we’re hearing. Maybe it’s whether what we hear is actually changing the way we move. Because at some point, counting isn’t the challenge anymore. And even listening—really listening—stops being the hard part. The real work is in the translation. Taking what you hear—the groove, the phrasing, the shifts in the music—and allowing it to shape your decisions in real time. Letting go of what you planned to do… and responding to what’s happening instead. Sometimes that means doing less. Sometimes it means holding a moment a little longer. Sometimes it means breaking out of a pattern you’ve done a hundred times, just because the music is asking for something different. And sometimes, it simply means being present enough to notice that there’s something to respond to at all. The music has always been there. The question is—are we dancing to it… or just dancing on time around it? - El Caobo  What years behind the music have taught me about timing, restraint, reading the room, and the responsibility of moving people well
The DJ booth has taught me lessons that go far beyond music. From the outside, people often see the booth as the source of the sound, the place where the songs come from and the energy begins. But after years of doing this, I can say with certainty that the booth is also a place of judgment, discipline, patience, instinct, and responsibility. It teaches you how to listen, even while you are the one creating the soundtrack. It teaches you how to guide a room without forcing it. And it teaches you that a great night is never just about having good music. It is about knowing what the moment needs. A good night is built on timing. I have said for years that playing good music is not enough. A song can be excellent and still fail if it arrives at the wrong moment. On the other hand, a song that some people might overlook can become powerful if it lands exactly when the floor is ready for it. That is one of the great lessons of the booth. It sharpens your sense of timing. It teaches you that selection matters, but placement matters just as much. In many ways, the whole night depends on that difference. The room is always talking, even when nobody says a word. One of the most important skills a DJ develops is learning how to read what is happening in real time. The dance floor speaks through movement, hesitation, excitement, anticipation, and sometimes even silence. You can see when people are leaning in. You can feel when they are waiting for something more. You can sense when the energy is holding, rising, or beginning to slip. Over time, you learn to trust those signals. The crowd may not be verbalizing anything, but it is always telling you what is working and what is not. Not every strong decision comes from pushing harder. There is a tendency sometimes to think that the answer is always more force, more volume, more intensity, more impact. But many of the best nights do not work that way. Some crowds need to be drawn in gradually. Some rooms need warmth before they need fire. Some moments call for elegance, tension, sweetness, or groove before they call for explosion. The booth teaches restraint. It teaches you that trying to force a night too quickly can flatten the very feeling you are trying to build. A DJ has to balance what people know with what they did not know they needed. This is one of the parts of the craft that I find most interesting. People want familiarity. They want that song that makes them react immediately, that opening phrase, that rhythm, that chorus they know is coming. But they also want character. They want to feel that the night has shape, flavor, and identity. They want to be surprised in the right way. That balance matters to me. I never want a set to feel lazy or automatic, but I also never want it to lose touch with the people in front of me. The sweet spot is where recognition and discovery meet. The booth teaches composure. Not every transition lands perfectly. Not every crowd responds the way you expected. Not every room reveals itself right away. And sometimes, despite your preparation and experience, the energy simply takes longer to unlock. In those moments, the booth teaches you not to panic. It teaches you to stay calm enough to make good decisions. Recovery is part of professionalism. The crowd does not need to feel your frustration. It needs to feel that the night is still under control. Years behind the music have a way of humbling you. No matter how much experience you have, the booth can still humble you. There are nights that remind you not to get too comfortable. There are moments when you realize you leaned a little too hard in one direction or missed what the room was quietly asking for. I think that is healthy. It keeps you alert. It keeps you honest. The danger is not making mistakes. The danger is thinking experience exempts you from reflection. The booth keeps teaching, if you are willing to keep learning. Patience has become one of the most valuable tools I have. Earlier on, there can be a temptation to prove yourself quickly. Fill the floor immediately. Show range immediately. Impress people immediately. But over the years, I have come to appreciate the power of patience much more deeply. Many strong nights do not arrive all at once. They develop. They gather momentum. They settle into themselves. The booth teaches you to trust that process. It reminds you that not every moment has to peak in order for the night to succeed. The longer I do this, the more I understand that ego can get in the way of great DJing. There is a difference between bringing confidence to the booth and making the booth about yourself. That distinction matters. Yes, a DJ should have taste, identity, and presence. But the deeper lesson is learning how to serve the room without disappearing into it and how to lead it without dominating it. Some of the best choices a DJ makes are not flashy at all. They are simply right for the moment. And often, that matters much more than showing everyone how much you know. Music carries responsibility. This is something I feel more strongly now than ever. When I play music, especially music with history, culture, and emotional weight behind it, I do not take that lightly. A DJ helps shape how people experience a night, how they connect with each other, and in some cases how they connect with a tradition. That deserves care. The artists deserve respect. The dancers deserve intention. The music deserves more than convenience. When the booth is approached with that kind of respect, the night can become more than entertainment. It becomes memory, connection, and shared feeling. In the end, the booth teaches much more than how to play songs in the right order. It teaches steadiness. It teaches awareness. It teaches humility, judgment, and timing. It teaches you how to stay present, how to recover, how to listen, and how to guide. For me, that is part of what has kept this work meaningful over the years. The booth is not just where I play music. It is one of the places where I have learned, refined my instincts, and deepened my respect for what it means to move a room well. And the truth is, after all this time, it is still teaching me. - El Caobo  What years behind the music have taught me about people, pressure, preparation, mistakes, and the quiet discipline of DJing
The booth teaches lessons that have very little to do with glamour. From a distance, people often imagine DJing as a matter of music, applause, and atmosphere. And yes, those things are part of it. But if you spend enough years doing it seriously, you begin to understand that the booth is also a place of discipline, adjustment, restraint, and responsibility. It teaches you how to stay calm when something goes wrong, how to prepare when no one is watching, how to recover without drama, and how to carry a room even when you yourself are tired, distracted, or under pressure. Some of the most important lessons are not musical at all. They are personal. Preparation is a form of respect. One of the clearest things DJing teaches is that preparation is not optional if you care about your work. People may only see the hours of the event, but the event begins long before anyone enters the room. It begins with organizing music, checking files, reviewing the audience, thinking about the occasion, packing cables, preparing backups, charging devices, confirming details, and imagining different possibilities before they happen. None of that feels glamorous, but all of it matters. Preparation is how you reduce avoidable problems. It is also how you show respect to the people who hired you, the people who came out, and the craft itself. The crowd sees the performance, but not the recovery. One of the quiet arts of DJing is learning how to recover smoothly. A transition may not land the way you hoped. The room may respond differently than expected. A piece of equipment may behave strangely. A request may interrupt the flow. Something may be louder, duller, slower, or less responsive than it was during soundcheck. In those moments, the lesson is not perfection. The lesson is composure. Panic spreads quickly, even when no one can name what they are sensing. But steadiness also spreads. The booth teaches you to solve problems without making the whole room feel the problem. Mistakes are painful, but they are also instructive. Any DJ who has done this long enough has had nights that did not go the way they were supposed to go. A song was played too early. A room was misjudged. A transition was forced. A moment was missed. An assumption turned out to be wrong. Those experiences are uncomfortable, but they refine you if you let them. The danger is not making mistakes. The danger is refusing to learn from them. DJing can humble you very quickly. It reminds you that taste alone is not enough, confidence alone is not enough, and experience alone is not enough if it hardens into arrogance. The booth rewards attention much more than ego. Professionalism often reveals itself in small things. People sometimes associate professionalism with big credentials, large events, or public recognition. But many times it appears in smaller habits. Showing up early. Communicating clearly. Being appropriately dressed for the setting. Respecting time limits. Keeping your cool. Knowing when not to overtalk. Understanding that the event is not always about you. Reading the room includes reading the purpose of the event itself. A wedding is not a social dance night. A cultural gathering is not the same as a lounge set. A community event is not the same as a nightclub. DJing teaches you that professionalism lives in your ability to adapt without losing your identity. Not every lesson from the booth is about music; many are about people. The booth gives you a particular vantage point. You see joy, hesitation, flirtation, celebration, insecurity, nostalgia, pride, fatigue, and release, often all in the same night. You begin to notice how differently people carry themselves when they feel welcomed, and how quickly a room can soften when the atmosphere becomes right. You also notice how fragile that atmosphere can be. A room is made of human beings, not abstractions. People bring history with them. They bring stress from work, tension from relationships, excitement, loneliness, memory, and expectation. A DJ who forgets that is likely to become mechanical. The longer you do this, the more you realize you are not only playing songs. You are helping shape a temporary social world. Patience is one of the least celebrated strengths in DJing. There is often pressure to make something happen immediately. Fill the floor now. Raise the energy now. Impress the room now. But many good nights develop gradually. They need time to breathe. The booth teaches patience because forcing momentum too early can flatten the night before it has had a chance to grow. Sometimes the right move is not to push harder, but to wait, observe, and let the room come toward you. That can be difficult, especially for DJs who care deeply and want to prove themselves. But patience is not passivity. It is disciplined timing. The work becomes deeper once you stop trying to prove yourself every minute. Early on, many DJs feel the need to demonstrate everything they know. The range of their collection. The sharpness of their transitions. The rarity of their music. The depth of their taste. That impulse is understandable, but over time the booth teaches a more mature lesson: not every moment needs to be a declaration. Sometimes the strongest choice is the simplest one. Sometimes the room does not need to be impressed; it needs to be carried. Sometimes a night is successful precisely because the DJ resisted the temptation to make it about himself. This is not a lesson in timidity. It is a lesson in proportion. Consistency is harder than brilliance, and often more valuable. A single great night can feel exhilarating, but consistency is what reveals character. Can you bring care to a smaller crowd? Can you stay sharp when the event is not ideal? Can you remain prepared when no one is likely to praise the details? Can you deliver quality even when you are not in your favorite setting? The booth teaches you that professionalism is not built on isolated flashes. It is built on repetition, reliability, and standards. Anyone can feel inspired once in a while. The deeper challenge is learning how to be dependable. The booth also teaches you how much invisible labor goes into ease. When a night feels smooth, people often experience it as natural. The music flows. The mood holds. The transitions feel effortless. The room seems to move as one. But ease is often the result of many hidden decisions. What to play and not play. When to wait. When to pivot. When to simplify. When to trust a classic. When to take a risk. When to let a song breathe instead of interrupting it. This is one of the paradoxes of the craft: the better the DJ is, the less visible some of the hardest work becomes. Perhaps the most enduring lesson is humility. No matter how much you know, the room can still surprise you. A crowd can reject what you were sure would land. A simple selection can outperform a brilliant one. A quiet night can suddenly open up. A strong night can lose shape. The booth does not let you live comfortably inside certainty for very long. And that is probably a good thing. Humility keeps you observant. It keeps you learning. It keeps you from confusing experience with infallibility. In any serious craft, humility is not weakness. It is what allows growth to continue. In the end, the booth teaches a way of carrying yourself. Yes, it teaches timing, selection, adaptation, and stamina. But beyond all of that, it teaches a posture toward work. Be ready. Pay attention. Stay calm. Correct quickly. Do not romanticize avoidable mistakes. Respect the people in front of you. Respect the setting. Respect the music. And when the night goes well, enjoy it without becoming careless. The deepest lessons from the booth are not only about how to play music for people. They are about how to show up, how to remain steady, and how to keep learning from the work year after year. - El Caobo  How a DJ learns which songs connect, which moments last, and why some records move a room more deeply than others
Some songs work immediately, and some earn their power over time. One of the most interesting things about DJing is that a record can be excellent and still not work in a particular room, while another can connect almost instantly for reasons that have less to do with prestige than with timing, familiarity, mood, or emotional need. That is one of the first realities a DJ has to accept. Personal taste matters, of course. Knowledge matters too. But once the music meets a real crowd, theory gives way to response. The floor either opens, leans in, brightens, relaxes, or it does not. Over time, a DJ starts to notice that what works is rarely random. There are patterns, and those patterns begin to teach you why. What works often begins with trust. A room is far more willing to follow a DJ when it feels understood. That is why a well-placed familiar song can do more than fill the floor for three or four minutes. It can establish confidence. It tells the crowd that the person in the booth is paying attention to who is present, what kind of night this is, and what emotional register the room is already inhabiting. Familiarity, when used well, is not laziness. It is social intelligence. It creates a bridge between the known and the unexpected. Once that bridge exists, people are often more willing to travel somewhere deeper, harder, older, or more adventurous. Rhythm may attract people, but emotional shape keeps them there. A strong groove can pull people onto the floor, but groove alone is not always what makes a song stay with them. Many records that truly work do so because they have contour. They rise, they breathe, they tension and release. They create expectation and then reward it. A good arrangement understands pacing in much the same way a good conversation does. It knows when to insist and when to hold back. Dancers feel that, even if they never name it directly. They respond not only to percussion or tempo, but to movement within the music itself. A record that unfolds well gives the body something to follow and the spirit something to anticipate. The records that connect most deeply usually offer more than one point of entry. Some people enter through the beat. Others through the melody, the coro, the brass, the bass line, the lyric, the mood, or even the memory attached to a song they have heard all their lives. The records that work best across a broad crowd often have multiple doors. They give trained dancers something to enjoy, but they also give less experienced listeners a way in. That is part of what makes certain songs so durable. They do not depend on a single effect. They are rich enough to meet people where they are. A DJ begins to respect that more and more with time. Complexity is valuable, but accessibility has its own artistry. What works in one room may fail completely in another. This is where experience becomes more precise and less romantic. DJs sometimes talk as if there were a universal formula, but there really is not. A record that lights up a crowd of veteran salseros may leave a mixed social crowd unmoved. A soulful bachata may feel perfect in one setting and too introspective in another. A hard-driving mambo may be glorious in the right moment, but too demanding in a room that is still gathering itself. What works depends on the people, the sequence, the occasion, the acoustics, the age range, the cultural knowledge in the room, and even the hour. That is why slogans and absolutes tend to fail. The DJ has to keep learning the difference between a good record and a good decision. Momentum is one of the most overlooked reasons a song succeeds. Sometimes a record works not because it is the strongest selection on paper, but because it arrives at exactly the right moment. It inherits the force of what came before it and sends that force forward. In that sense, songs do not work alone. They work in relation to one another. A great transition can make a very good record feel essential. A clumsy one can weaken even a classic. This is one of the quiet crafts of DJing that audiences often sense without fully seeing. The night is being shaped not only song by song, but connection by connection. Momentum is built, protected, redirected, and sometimes rescued. Simplicity often works because it leaves room for people. DJs who love music deeply can sometimes be tempted to overestimate intricacy. There is a natural desire to impress, to surprise, to prove one’s ear. But some of the most effective records are effective precisely because they are open enough for people to inhabit them. Their rhythm is clear. Their structure is inviting. Their emotional message is legible. They do not require too much explanation before the body understands what to do. This does not make them lesser. It makes them useful in a very human way. A room full of people is not a seminar. It is a living social space. Music that leaves room for joy, recognition, and release will often do powerful work. And yet surprise matters too. If the whole night is predictable, it loses voltage. Part of what works is the feeling that something is unfolding rather than merely repeating itself. A song that catches people slightly off guard can wake the room up again. A deeper cut at the right moment can make the dancers who are paying attention feel rewarded. An unexpected pivot can shift the air and prevent the night from flattening into habit. The point is not novelty for its own sake. The point is freshness. Good DJs understand that people want both reassurance and discovery. The craft lies in knowing when to offer one and when to offer the other. Lyrics, memory, and identity often matter more than outsiders realize. Not every connection happens at the level of pure sound. Sometimes what works is bound up with language, memory, and recognition. A lyric may make people smile before they even realize why. A coro may carry a whole cultural atmosphere with it. A certain phrasing, voice, or style may remind listeners of family gatherings, neighborhood parties, old relationships, younger years, or places they no longer live near. DJs ignore this at their peril. Music is never only sonic. It is social and emotional, and often historical. The songs that work best frequently activate something larger than the present moment. What works is not always what lasts, and what lasts is not always obvious at first. There are songs that get a loud reaction but leave no residue. There are others that seem quieter in the moment, yet deepen the character of the night and keep people engaged over time. A seasoned DJ learns to value both impact and durability. Not every record has to detonate. Some have to sustain. Some have to reset. Some have to restore warmth after intensity or sharpen focus after softness. Once a DJ begins thinking this way, programming becomes less about chasing constant peaks and more about shaping a whole experience. That is when the question changes from “Did that song work?” to “What kind of work did it do?” In the end, what works is whatever brings the room more fully to life. That may sound simple, but it contains almost everything. A working song is not merely one that people recognize or one that shows off the DJ’s taste. It is one that helps the room become more itself: more connected, more animated, more trusting, more willing, more alive. Sometimes that happens through a classic everyone loves. Sometimes it happens through a perfectly timed risk. Sometimes it happens through a song that says exactly what the crowd did not know it needed to hear. The deeper a DJ gets into the craft, the more he understands that success is not measured only by noise or numbers. It is measured by response, by continuity, and by the feeling that the night has found its pulse. - El Caobo  What a DJ learns by watching dancers, energy, timing, and the mood of the room
A good dance floor begins speaking long before it fills up. One of the most important things a DJ learns is that the room is always telling you something, even in the early moments. Before the crowd fully settles in, you can already start to notice who came ready to dance, who needs warming up, who is curious but hesitant, and who is listening more carefully than they appear to be. That first read matters. A full floor is not the only sign of success. Sometimes the real signal is attention. Sometimes it is the way people begin to turn toward the music, tap a foot, nod to the beat, or quietly claim a space near the floor as if preparing themselves for what is coming. Energy does not arrive all at once; it has to be recognized and guided. Many people imagine that a DJ simply plays a great song and the room explodes. In reality, it is usually much more subtle than that. Energy often enters in layers. One couple steps out first. Then another. Then a small cluster at the edge decides the moment feels right. The DJ has to notice whether the room is opening up, holding back, or asking for reassurance. Sometimes the crowd needs something familiar. Sometimes it needs something smoother and more inviting. And sometimes it needs a record with just enough authority to say, gently but clearly, now we begin. Dancers reveal more through movement than audiences do through applause. On a dance floor, the truth is visible. You can hear applause at the end of a song, but movement tells you much more than clapping ever will. Are people dancing fully, or only marking time? Are they relaxed, or are they fighting the music a little? Are they smiling at each other, staying out for a second song, pulling friends onto the floor, or drifting back to their tables too soon? These are the details that matter. A DJ learns to watch shoulders, posture, footwork, confidence, and stamina. The floor has its own lenguaje, and if you pay attention, it becomes legible. Different crowds respond to different kinds of invitation. Not every room wants to be approached the same way. A crowd of experienced dancers can sometimes be challenged earlier. They may welcome complexity, stronger arrangements, harder rhythm, or a deeper cut that makes them feel seen. Another room may need warmth before intensity. It may need melodies that embrace people before percussion asks more of them. The mistake is to treat all crowds as if they were the same. Reading the floor means recognizing temperament. Some rooms are eager. Some are cautious. Some are festive from the start. Others must be won over little by little. Timing is not just musical; it is social. A song can be excellent and still be wrong for the moment. That is one of the hardest lessons in DJing. The issue is not always the selection itself, but the timing of it. A powerful salsa record dropped too early may not land. A beautiful bachata played after the room has shifted into a harder groove may interrupt momentum instead of deepening it. Even a favorite classic can feel mistimed if the emotional temperature of the room is somewhere else. Reading the floor means understanding that timing lives not only in beats and phrasing, but in people, mood, appetite, and readiness. The floor often changes before the DJ consciously realizes it. This is where experience begins to matter. Over time, a DJ develops a kind of instinct, but that instinct is really accumulated observation. You start to sense when the room is tiring, when it wants release, when it wants romance, when it wants surprise, and when it wants to be pushed just a little further. The shift may happen in a matter of minutes. A room that felt cautious can suddenly become expansive. A room that looked lively can begin to fracture. Reading the floor requires constant adjustment, because a dance floor is never static. It is a living thing, and its temperament can turn quickly. Humility is part of reading the floor well. A DJ who refuses to listen to the room usually ends up playing for himself. There is, of course, a place for vision, taste, and conviction. A DJ should bring all of that. But there is a difference between guiding a room and ignoring it. The crowd does not always want what the DJ expected it to want. That is not a failure. That is information. The best DJs learn to respond without panic and without ego. They do not abandon their identity, but they do remain attentive. They understand that the room is not there to confirm their assumptions. It is there to be read, understood, and moved. The deepest satisfaction comes when the floor and the DJ begin to trust each other. At a certain point in a good night, something changes. The room starts to feel connected not only to the music, but to the choices behind it. Dancers stay out longer. Reactions become more immediate. Risks become possible. The DJ can go deeper, stretch further, or pivot more boldly because the floor is now listening in return. That mutual confianza is one of the great pleasures of DJing. It cannot be forced. It has to be built song by song, moment by moment, read by read. In the end, reading the floor is less about control than about attention. The DJ is not commanding the room like a machine. He is observing, interpreting, and responding. He is trying to recognize what the room needs, what it is ready for, and what it may become in the next few minutes. That is part craft, part intuition, and part lived experience. Great nights are not built by random selection. They are shaped by attention. And from the booth, one of the most valuable things a DJ can learn is this: if you truly watch the floor, it will often tell you exactly where to go next. - El Caobo  How a once-dismissed Dominican sound became one of the most beloved genres in Latin music
There was a time when bachata was not treated with the respect it now commands. Today, people hear bachata in dance studios, at festivals, on commercial radio, and in polished international productions. But bachata did not begin in elegant spaces. It was born much closer to the ground — in patios, modest gatherings, neighborhood bars, and informal celebrations where guitars, heartbreak, memory, and desire all seemed to live in the same room. That is part of what gives bachata its power. It did not rise from privilege. It rose from feeling. And maybe that is why the music still hits so directly. Even now, after all its evolution, bachata still sounds like somebody telling the truth. Before It Was a Genre, It Was a Gathering Originally, the word bachata did not refer to a musical genre in the strict sense. It referred more broadly to a party, a get-together, an informal social gathering where people ate, drank, sang, played instruments, and spent time together. Over time, the word began attaching itself to the guitar-based music commonly played in those settings. That music grew out of a mixture of influences, especially bolero, but also son, merengue, and other Caribbean currents that shaped Dominican musical life. From early on, bachata carried an unmistakable emotional charge. The instrumentation was intimate rather than grand. The stories were personal rather than decorative. This was not music trying to impress from a distance. It was music trying to reach you up close. A Music of the Working Class To understand bachata, it helps to understand the social world that shaped it. In the Dominican Republic, especially in the years after the death of dictator Rafael Trujillo, large numbers of people moved from rural areas into Santo Domingo and other urban centers. With them came guitar traditions, rural memories, and forms of popular expression that did not necessarily fit elite ideas of culture or refinement. Out of that environment, bachata began taking clearer shape. For many years, it was looked down upon by sectors of Dominican society that associated it with poverty, rough neighborhoods, bars, brothels, and unpolished nightlife. It was often dismissed as low-class music. But that stigma says as much about class prejudice as it does about the music itself. Because the truth is that bachata was speaking for people whose lives, sorrows, humor, disappointments, and desires were often ignored by more respectable cultural gatekeepers. That alone makes its history worth paying attention to. The Sound of Early Bachata Traditional bachata is built on a small but expressive musical foundation. Lead guitar carries much of the melodic identity. Rhythm guitar supports the harmonic flow. The bass grounds the music. Bongos and güira give it its pulse and texture. From those elements came a sound that could be tender, wounded, sly, intimate, or sharp — sometimes all in the same song. Early bachata was often tied to amargura, a kind of bitterness or emotional ache. Love gone wrong. Betrayal. Loneliness. Yearning. Resignation. The genre was never afraid of emotional nakedness. It did not rush to tidy up pain. It sat with it, sang through it, and found groove inside it. That is one of the genre’s deepest gifts: bachata can make sorrow danceable without making it shallow. Traditional Bachata: Earthy, Direct, and Unvarnished When people talk about traditional bachata, they are usually referring to that earlier Dominican style — guitar-centered, emotionally direct, closely connected to working-class life, and often less polished in production than later forms. Traditional bachata tends to feel grounded. Its emotional life is not overly sweetened. Even when the arrangement is elegant, there is usually some grit still left in it. The phrasing, the attack of the guitar, the vocal delivery, and the subject matter often carry the weight of lived experience. This is one reason traditional bachata still resonates so strongly with many listeners. It feels honest. It does not sound like it came from a boardroom. It sounds like it came from somewhere real. The Rise of Bachata Romántica Over time, bachata began changing — not by losing its identity, but by widening its reach. One of the key shifts came when artists helped present bachata in a more polished, lyrically refined, and commercially accessible form. This smoother style became widely known as bachata romántica. The romantic dimension had always existed in bachata, of course, but now it was framed differently. The sound was often cleaner, the emotional tone softer, and the public presentation more acceptable to audiences that had once dismissed the genre altogether. This was a major turning point. Bachata was no longer confined to the social spaces where it had long been marginalized. It began entering the mainstream with new confidence. What had once been considered music from the cultural edges was now moving toward the center. That shift mattered. It did not erase bachata’s roots, but it did help transform how the genre was perceived — both inside and outside the Dominican Republic. Traditional vs. Romántica: The Difference The difference between traditional bachata and bachata romántica is real, even if the line between them is not always rigid. Traditional bachata usually feels closer to the genre’s original social and musical roots. It often carries more of the older guitar phrasing, more roughness around the edges, and more emotional weight tied to heartbreak, hardship, or longing. Romántica, by contrast, usually leans toward smoother production, more polished vocals, and a softer, more openly sentimental presentation of love and desire. It often feels designed to invite a broader audience in. Neither style cancels out the other. Both are part of bachata’s story. In fact, one of the most interesting things about bachata is that it has never stood still. It keeps evolving while still carrying traces of what it was. How the Dance Developed The dance history of bachata follows a similar pattern. Like the music, the dance did not begin in formal studios. It grew in everyday Dominican social life. People danced bachata at family gatherings, neighborhood celebrations, and informal parties. It was a partner dance rooted in connection, feeling, and musical response rather than technical display for its own sake. As bachata spread internationally, the dance became more systematized. Teachers codified steps. Studios developed syllabi. Congresses and festivals helped create recognizable global styles. Along the way, new interpretations emerged, some more grounded in Dominican social dance tradition, others more influenced by performance aesthetics and international trends. Still, at its best, bachata dance remains more than a sequence of steps. It is a conversation between partners and between bodies and music. When it is danced well, it does not just mark time. It breathes with the song. From the Island to the World Once bachata began expanding beyond the Dominican Republic, especially through Dominican communities abroad, the genre entered a new chapter. In diaspora, bachata found new textures, new production ideas, and new audiences. Later artists blended it with R&B, pop, hip-hop, and urban sensibilities, helping it reach listeners who may never have encountered older Dominican bachata firsthand. That global success changed the genre permanently. Some listeners embraced those changes immediately. Others felt protective of the older sound. Both reactions make sense. Whenever a genre with deep roots grows internationally, questions of identity, authenticity, and evolution naturally follow. But what matters most is that bachata endured. More than that, it triumphed. A music once dismissed as too raw, too poor, too vulgar, or too informal eventually became one of the Dominican Republic’s most recognized cultural gifts to the world. That is no small thing. Why Bachata Still Matters Bachata matters because it carries history in its bones. It tells the story of migration, class, longing, reinvention, and cultural dignity. It reminds us that some of the most enduring music does not begin where institutions are already prepared to honor it. Sometimes it begins where people have very little except memory, emotion, rhythm, and the will to turn life into song. And that may be why bachata continues to move people so deeply. You can polish it. You can modernize it. You can fuse it with other sounds. But underneath it all, bachata still carries that human core: intimacy, ache, sweetness, and the stubborn refusal to stop singing through pain. A Final Reflection from the Dance Floor From where I stand, bachata is at its best when people remember that it is not just a trend, not just a playlist category, and certainly not just an excuse for a sensual dance video. It is a living piece of Dominican cultural history. You hear that history in the guitars. You hear it in the phrasing. You hear it in the way a good bachata singer can sound wounded and dignified at the same time. And you see it on the dance floor when the dancers stop trying to decorate every beat and simply listen to what the music is asking for. Because real bachata does ask something of you. It asks for feeling. It asks for patience. It asks for a little elegance, a little ache, and a willingness to stay close to the song. That is why bachata has lasted. And that is why, no matter how many directions it takes, the best bachata still feels like it is coming from somewhere deeper than fashion. - El Caobo  STEPPING: THE MUSIC, THE MOVEMENT, AND THE CULTURE
Walk into a room where stepping is happening, and you’ll notice something immediately. It’s not just dancing. It’s conversation. Two people moving together with intention, style, and a shared understanding of rhythm that goes beyond counts and patterns. Stepping lives in that space — between music and movement, between tradition and personal expression. The Music Behind the Movement Stepping is rooted in soul and R&B, especially the smooth, mid-tempo grooves that invite connection rather than speed. Artists like:
The music typically sits in a pocket:
It’s not about hitting sharp accents or fast breaks. It’s about riding the groove, letting the rhythm guide the movement rather than chasing it. The Dance Itself At its core, stepping is built on:
Unlike many partner dances that emphasize patterns or complexity, stepping is about: how you move, not just what you do The basic structure is simple enough to learn, but what makes stepping stand out is the style each dancer brings:
Two dancers can step to the same song and look completely different — and both be right. Timing and Feel Stepping doesn’t rely on strict counts the way salsa or mambo often does. Instead, it lives in:
Dancers learn to feel:
This creates a look that feels effortless, even though it’s deeply intentional. The Chicago Connection While stepping has roots that connect to earlier forms like the Bop and other regional partner dances, it has become especially associated with Chicago’s dance culture. In Chicago, stepping is more than a dance. It’s:
Dance floors become spaces where people gather not just to move, but to connect — across age groups, backgrounds, and experiences. The Community One of the defining features of stepping is the environment it creates. Unlike some scenes that can feel competitive or performance-driven, stepping spaces often emphasize:
There is an unspoken understanding on the floor: you’re there to enjoy the moment together That connection — between partners, and across the room — is what gives stepping its character. More Than a Dance Stepping is not just about learning steps. It’s about:
It reflects a musical tradition rooted in soul and R&B, but also a broader cultural experience shaped by community, expression, and shared rhythm. Final Thought At its best, stepping feels effortless — like two people moving as one, guided by the music and by each other. Because in the end, stepping isn’t about showing off. It’s about feeling the groove and sharing it. When the music settles into the pocket, stepping is what brings it to life. - El Caobo  Salsa, Mambo, and the Dance Floor: Rhythm, History, and Connection
Walk into any social dance floor today and you’ll hear the word salsa used as a catch-all. But within that word lives a rich history — one that connects Cuba, Puerto Rico, New York, and generations of musicians and dancers who shaped what we now experience as Latin dance culture. To understand salsa, you really have to understand mambo. From Cuba to New York: How the Music Traveled The roots begin in Cuba, where son cubano blended Spanish melodic traditions with African rhythms. Over time, this evolved into larger ensemble formats, eventually giving rise to mambo in the mid-20th century. Mambo didn’t stay in Cuba. When Cuban musicians and orchestras began performing in places like New York City, especially in venues such as the Palladium Ballroom, the music took on new life. Musicians like Machito, Tito Puente, and Tito Rodríguez helped shape what became a distinctly New York sound — powerful, rhythmically complex, and deeply tied to the energy of the dance floor. By the 1960s and 70s, this evolving sound began to be marketed under a new name: Salsa Not as a completely new genre, but as a label — one that brought together Cuban roots, Puerto Rican influence, and the urban experience of Latino communities in New York, building on earlier musical exchanges between Afro-Cuban musicians and African American jazz artists that gave rise to Latin jazz and helped shape what would become a more jazzier flavor of mambo and, later, salsa. Mambo (On2) vs Salsa (On1): What’s the Difference? On the surface, both styles use the same basic step structure. But the timing — and the feeling — is where the difference lives. Salsa On1 Often called “LA style” or simply “salsa,” this timing breaks on the first beat of the music. 1-2-3, 5-6-7 It feels:
Because the break happens right on the downbeat, it aligns naturally with what many people hear first in the music. Mambo On2 (Eddie Torres Style) In the New York mambo style popularized by Eddie Torres, dancers still move through the familiar 1-2-3 / 5-6-7 structure, but the break step shifts to the second beat of the music. That means:
This subtle shift changes the entire feeling of the dance. Instead of breaking on the downbeat, dancers begin to align more closely with the conga and clave, creating a smoother and more grounded connection to the music. The Music Tells You How to Dance One of the most important realizations for dancers is this: The dance didn’t come first — the music did. Mambo phrasing, breaks, and accents are built into the music itself. When dancers shift to On2, they’re not just changing timing — they’re aligning more closely with how the music breathes. That’s why many longtime dancers describe mambo as: “dancing inside the music” More Than Steps — It’s Culture Salsa and mambo are not just techniques. They are the result of migration, cultural exchange, and community. From Cuban son to New York mambo, from Fania-era salsa to today’s global dance scene, this music has always been about:
And on the dance floor, that history is still alive. Final Thoughts Whether you dance On1 or On2, what matters most is not the number — it’s the connection:
Because at its core, salsa — and mambo — were never just about steps. They were always about feeling. If you listen closely enough, the music will always tell you what to do. - El Caobo
Jazz-influenced R&B singer known for her crossover solo work and her vocals for the group Incognito. Born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland, jazz-soul singer/songwriter Maysa Leak embarked on a singing career at an early age. By the age of six, she had already determined that she was going to be a singer, and she spent her elementary and high school days performing in choir and musical theater productions. Maysa majored in classical voice performance at Morgan State University; during her studies there she began writing and recording original material. She also placed second in Baltimore's first annual Billie Holiday Vocal Jazz Contest and auditioned for Stevie Wonder's vocal group Wonderlove. She was accepted into the group but joined only after she had earned her degree from Morgan State.
Upon graduating, Maysa moved to North Hollywood to perform with Wonderlove on the Jungle Fever soundtrack and appeared in live and televised performances to promote the film. To pay her rent, Maysa also recorded jingles on her days off from performing with Wonderlove and worked at local record shops. In 1991, she was recommended to the British funk-jazz group Incognito by producer Steve Harvey, a mutual friend of Maysa's and of the band's leader, Jean-Paul "Bluey" Maunick. Maysa moved to London and joined the band in time to record the 1992 album Scribes, Tribes & Vibes, which included the hit single "Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing." She also recorded the 1993 album Positivity with Incognito before returning to Baltimore in 1994 to record her first solo album, Maysa. "What About Our Love," the album's single, reached number 52 on Billboard's Hot 100. In 1997, Maysa returned to Incognito and recorded Beneath the Surface. During this time she began collaborating with the neo-blues group Grainger, and appeared on their album Phase 1; she also recorded with Rick Braun, Rachel Z, Rhythm Logic, and Pieces of a Dream. Incognito's No Time Like the Future followed in 1999. Throughout the 2000s and early 2010s, Maysa was remarkably productive as a solo artist and continued to be appreciated more in the U.K. than in the U.S. The varied All My Life (2000), Out of the Blue (2002), and Smooth Sailing (2004) featured an array of sophisticated R&B, lush deep house, and crossover jazz, as well as covers of songs originally recorded by Sly & the Family Stone, Gil Scott-Heron, and Earth, Wind & Fire. In 2006, she began a lengthy association with the Shanachie label. Sweet Classic Soul (2006) and Feel the Fire (2007) were highlighted by reinterpretations of the Stylistics, Luther Vandross, Commodores, and Evelyn King, while Metamorphosis (2008), A Woman in Love (2010), and Motions of Love (2011) were dominated by new songs written by and with the likes of longtime associate Rex Rideout, Will Downing, Ledisi, and Chris Davis. Maysa considered Blue Velvet Soul (2013), her tenth solo album, to be her best work. She followed it with a holiday album, A Very Maysa Christmas (2014), and Back to Love (2015), the latter of which featured Phil Perry and Mint Condition's Stokley Williams. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/  Singer and actress best known for her appearance on AMERICAN IDOL and her Academy Award-winning performance in the film DREAMGIRLS. Best known for her role as Effie White in the 2006 film version of the Broadway musical Dreamgirls, vocalist/actress Jennifer Hudson was first brought to the public's attention while a contestant on the third season of American Idol. Born in 1981 in Chicago, Illinois, Hudson sang from a young age, first performing in her church. Various talent shows and school musical productions followed until she eventually secured a role in a local Chicago production of the musical Big River. Prior to auditioning for American Idol, Hudson also sang professionally while working on the Disney Wonder cruise ship.
In 2004, she auditioned for and won a spot on the third season of American Idol along with eventual winner Fantasia Barrino. Though a strong contender and fan favorite from the start, Hudson would eventually become the sixth of the 12 finalists to get voted off the show. Ironically, after the show ended, there was speculation that Barrino would get the coveted role of Effie in the film version of Dreamgirls. However, Hudson won the role and went on to receive not only critical acclaim for her performance, but also both a Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Supporting Role and an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. Her debut album, Jennifer Hudson, was delayed after the shocking murders of her mother, brother, and nephew by her brother-in-law, but finally materialized on Arista in September 2008, led by the Top Ten R&B/Hip-Hop single "Spotlight." The album debuted at number two on the Billboard 200 and eventually went gold. In March 2011, Hudson delivered her second studio album I Remember Me, a relatively upbeat release featuring the R. Kelly-penned single "Where You At." It debuted at number two as well, but didn't sell nearly as well as the debut. Unlike the many pop artists who churned out an album a year, Hudson continued to focus as much on her acting career as on music, appearing in a number of big-budget feature films including Sex & the City, The Secret Life of Bees, Winnie Mandela, The Three Stooges, and Lullaby. As a result, another three years passed between Hudson albums. Her third full-length, the groove-heavy JHUD, was released in September 2014 with contributions from the likes of R. Kelly, Iggy Azalea, Timbaland, Pharrell, and Danja. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/  One of gospel music's best-known family groups, plus a charting soul outfit of the '70s thanks to lead singer Mavis Staple's unique, husky pipes. The Staples' story goes all the way back to 1915 in Winona, Mississippi, when patriarch Roebuck "Pops" Staples entered the world. A contemporary and familiar of Charley Patton's, Roebuck quickly became adept as a solo blues guitarist, entertaining at local dances and picnics. He was also drawn to the church, and by 1937 he was singing and playing guitar with the Golden Trumpets, a spiritual group based out of Drew, Mississippi. Moving to Chicago four years later, he continued playing gospel music with the Windy City's Trumpet Jubilees. A decade later Pops Staples (as he had become known) presented two of his daughters, Cleotha and Mavis, and his one son, Pervis, in front of a church audience, and the Staple Singers were born.
The Staples recorded in an older, slightly archaic, deeply Southern spiritual style first for United and then for Vee-Jay. Pops and Mavis Staples shared lead vocal chores, with most records underpinned by Pops' heavily reverbed Mississippi cotton-patch guitar. In 1960 the Staples signed with Riverside, a label that specialized in jazz and folk. With Riverside and later Epic, the Staples attempted to move into the then-burgeoning white folk boom. Two Epic releases, "Why (Am I Treated So Bad)" and a cover of Stephen Stills' "For What It's Worth," briefly graced the pop charts in 1967. In 1968 the Staples signed with Memphis-based Stax. The first two albums, Soul Folk in Action and We'll Get Over, were produced by Steve Cropper and backed by Booker T. & the MG's. The Staples were now singing entirely contemporary "message" songs such as "Long Walk to D.C." and "When Will We Be Paid." In 1970 Pervis Staples left and was replaced by sister Yvonne Staples. Even more significantly, Al Bell took over production chores. Bell took them down the road to Muscle Shoals, and things got decidedly funky. Starting with "Heavy Makes You Happy (Sha-Na-Boom Boom)" and "I'll Take You There," the Staples counted 12 chart hits at Stax. When Stax encountered financial problems, Curtis Mayfield signed the Staples to his Curtom label and produced a number one hit in "Let's Do It Again." The Staples went on to continued chart success, albeit less spectacularly, with Warner, through 1979. One more album followed on 20th Century Fox in 1981. After a three-year hiatus, they signed a two-album deal with Private I and hit the R&B charts five more times, once with an unlikely cover of Talking Heads' "Slippery People." The Staple Singers found a new audience in 1994 when they teamed with Marty Stuart to perform "The Weight" on the Rhythm, Country & Blues LP for MCA. Sadly, Pops passed away on December 19, 2000, shortly after suffering a concussion due to a fall in his home. Cleotha died in February 2013 after a decade with Alzheimer's disease. Throughout the 2000s and early 2010s, Mavis released excellent solo material for the Alligator and Anti labels. In 2015, Concord released a four-disc Staples box set, Faith and Grace: A Family Journey 1953-1976. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/
The original “Duke of Earl,” who went on to become a solo R&B star in the '60s. Gene Chandler is remembered by the rock & roll audience almost solely for the classic novelty and doo wop-tinged soul ballad "Duke of Earl"; the unforgettable opening chant of the title leading the way, the song was a number one hit in 1962. He's esteemed by soul fans as one of the leading exponents of the '60s Chicago soul scene, along with Curtis Mayfield and Jerry Butler. Born Eugene Dixon, he was a member of the doo wop group the Dukays and "Duke of Earl" was actually a Dukays recording; Dixon was renamed Gene Chandler and the single bore his credit as a solo singer. Chandler never approached the massive pop success of that chart-topper (although he occasionally entered the Top 20), but he was a big star with the R&B audience with straightforward mid-tempo and ballad soul numbers in the mid-'60s, many of which were written by Curtis Mayfield and produced by Carl Davis. Chandler's success became more fitful after Mayfield stopped penning material for him, although he enjoyed some late-'60s hits and had a monster pop and soul smash in 1970 with "Groovy Situation." His last successes were the far less distinguished disco- and dance-influenced R&B hits "Get Down" (1978) and "Does She Have a Friend?" (1980).
"Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/
With the Impressions, and later as a solo artist, one of soul music's greatest singers and most incisive songwriters. Perhaps because he didn't cross over to the pop audience as heavily as Motown's stars, it may be that the scope of Curtis Mayfield's talents and contributions have yet to be fully recognized. Judged merely by his records alone, the man's legacy is enormous. As the leader of the Impressions, he recorded some of the finest soul vocal group music of the 1960s. As a solo artist in the 1970s, he helped pioneer funk and helped introduce hard-hitting urban commentary into soul music. "Gypsy Woman," "It's All Right," "People Get Ready," "Freddie's Dead," and "Super Fly" are merely the most famous of his many hit records.
But Curtis Mayfield wasn't just a singer. He wrote most of his material at a time when that was not the norm for soul performers. He was among the first -- if not the very first -- to speak openly about African-American pride and community struggle in his compositions. As a songwriter and a producer, he was a key architect of Chicago soul, penning material and working on sessions by notable Windy City soulsters like Gene Chandler, Jerry Butler, Major Lance, and Billy Butler. In this sense, he can be compared to Smokey Robinson, who also managed to find time to write and produce many classics for other soul stars. Mayfield was also an excellent guitarist, and his rolling, Latin-influenced lines were highlights of the Impressions' recordings in the '60s. During the next decade, he would toughen up his guitar work and production, incorporating some of the best features of psychedelic rock and funk. Mayfield began his career as an associate of Jerry Butler, with whom he formed the Impressions in the late '50s. After the Impressions had a big hit in 1958 with "For Your Precious Love," Butler, who had sung lead on the record, split to start a solo career. Mayfield, while keeping the Impressions together, continued to write for and tour with Butler before the Impressions got their first Top 20 hit in 1961, "Gypsy Woman." Mayfield was heavily steeped in gospel music before he entered the pop arena, and gospel, as well as doo wop, influences would figure prominently in most of his '60s work. Mayfield wasn't a staunch traditionalist, however. He and the Impressions may have often worked the call-and-response gospel style, but his songs (romantic and otherwise) were often veiled or unveiled messages of black pride, reflecting the increased confidence and self-determination of the African-American community. Musically he was an innovator as well, using arrangements that employed the punchy, blaring horns and Latin-influenced rhythms that came to be trademark flourishes of Chicago soul. As the staff producer for the OKeh label, Mayfield was also instrumental in lending his talents to the work of other Chi-town soul singers who went on to national success. With Mayfield singing lead and playing guitar, the Impressions had 14 Top 40 hits in the 1960s (five made the Top 20 in 1964 alone), and released some above-average albums during that period as well. Given Mayfield's prodigious talents, it was perhaps inevitable that he would eventually leave the Impressions to begin a solo career, as he did in 1970. His first few singles boasted a harder, more funk-driven sound; singles like "(Don't Worry) If There's a Hell Below, We're All Gonna Go" found him confronting ghetto life with a realism that had rarely been heard on record. He really didn't hit his artistic or commercial stride as a solo artist, though, until Super Fly, his soundtrack to a 1972 blaxploitation film. Drug deals, ghetto shootings, the death of young black men before their time: all were described in penetrating detail. Yet Mayfield's irrepressible falsetto vocals, uplifting melodies, and fabulous funk pop arrangements gave the oft-moralizing material a graceful strength that few others could have achieved. For all the glory of his past work, Superfly stands as his crowning achievement, not to mention a much-needed counterpoint to the sensationalistic portrayals of the film itself. At this point Mayfield, along with Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye, was the foremost exponent of a new level of compelling auteurism in soul. His failure to maintain the standards of Super Fly qualifies as one of the great disappointments in the history of black popular music. Perhaps he'd simply reached his peak after a long climb, but the rest of his '70s work didn't match the musical brilliance and lyrical subtleties of Super Fly, although he had a few large R&B hits in a much more conventional vein, such as "Kung Fu," "So in Love," and "Only You Babe." Mayfield had a couple of hits in the early '80s, but the decade generally found his commercial fortunes in a steady downward spiral, despite some intermittent albums. On August 14, 1990, he became paralyzed from the neck down when a lighting rig fell on top of him at a concert in Brooklyn, NY. In the mid-'90s, a couple of tribute albums consisting of Mayfield covers appeared, with contributions by such superstars as Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen, and Gladys Knight. Though no substitute for the man himself, these tributes served as an indication of the enormous regard in which Mayfield was still held by his peers. He died December 26, 1999 at the age of 57. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/
Early pupil of Stevie Wonder, and an acclaimed soul solo act and hitmaker during the 1970s and '80s. Deniece Williams grew up singing in a Pentecostal church, which was strict on the congregation listening only to gospel music. During the late '60s, she was a candy striper in a Chicago hospital. Outside of wanting a 1959 Thunderbird, she had no serious ambitions. Nontheless, she still had interest in listening to music. Her favorites were Carmen McRae for her diction and Nancy Wilson, who, for Williams, exemplified class and elegance. However, her mother, also a singer, was her idol. The Gary, IN, native was also fond of Stevie Wonder, Earth, Wind & Fire, Minnie Riperton, and Patti LaBelle. (The latter two she tried to emulate before her introduction into the music industry.)
In need of employment and with college on the back burner, the fledgling singer was introduced to Wonder by John Harris, her cousin from Detroit, who happened to be on tour as a valet for Wonder (and was also his childhood friend). Her cousin arranged for Williams to meet Wonder backstage at a concert. Six months later, the gifted vocalist was flown into Detroit by Wonder for an audition. Among the 26 who auditioned, Williams, who sang "Teach Me Tonight," was only one of three who was hired by Wonder. The three became known as Wonderlove. Williams being hired by Wonder was a big surprise. Soon after the audition, she toured with Wonder, who was the opening act for the Rolling Stones at the time. Her touring with Wonder lasted for several years. Though her stint with Wonder was a great experience and opportunity, it was also difficult considering Williams had to make many adjustments professionally and personally (she had two sons prior to taking the gig: one 4 months old, the other 18 months). Williams left Wonderlove in 1975 and teamed up with producer Maurice White, the leader of Earth, Wind & Fire. Under White's direction, Williams learned the business of music and was able to unwind and express herself musically. Under the Columbia banner, Williams released her first album entitled This Is Niecey. It featured the Billboard R&B number two single "Free," which also sealed the Top 25 on the pop charts. The song was personal to Williams, who felt restricted while with Wonderlove. The album also featured "Cause You Love Me Baby" and "That's What Friends Are For." In 1977 the album Song Bird was released, and it featured the number 13 single "Baby, Baby My Love's All for You." The following year the dynamic singer scored her first number one song on both the R&B and pop charts with "Too Much, Too Little, Too Late," which was a duet with the legendary Johnny Mathis. The follow-up single, "You're All Need to Get By," was also recorded with Mathis and it was a Top Ten single. Still under White's tutelage, Williams moved over to White's American Recording Company (ARC) and stumbled a few times with several releases before scoring the smash hit "Silly." Written by Williams and produced by famed producer Thom Bell, she sang this song from her own personal experience as well. The single became a Top Ten gem. In 1982 Bell returned the sweet songstress to number one with the single "It's Gonna Take a Miracle." Always writing from her own experience, Williams wrote the Top Ten single "Do What You Feel" based on the ordeals of someone else. (A believer in the song at the time, she no longer employs those beliefs.) In 1984 Williams recorded the number one hit "Let's Hear It for the Boy." Featured on the Footloose soundtrack, the single was produced by music virtuoso George Duke, who initially thought the song was too pop-ish and would not work. However, Duke's production savvy proved to be as paramount as Williams' vocals. In 1984 the sensational singer recorded "Black Butterfly." From a African-American perspective, Williams immediately bonded with the song. The song would become a prelude to the uplifting gospel material Williams would record a few years later. With her label, Columbia, uninterested, Williams released the gospel album From the Beginning on Sparrow Records. The album featured the Grammy Award-winning single "They Say." The same year she also won a Grammy for "I Surrender" and another for "I Believe in You" in 1987.
Jazz and soul singer, known for the 1972 number one hit "Me and Mrs. Jones," who made some of Philadelphia International's most adventurous albums. Billy Paul (born Paul Williams; December 1, 1934 – April 24, 2016) was a Grammy Award-winning American soul singer, most known for his 1972 number-one single, "Me and Mrs. Jones", as well as the 1973 album and single "War of the Gods" which blends his more conventional pop, soul and funk styles with electronic and psychedelic influences.
He was one of the many artists associated with the Philadelphia soul sound created by Kenny Gamble, Leon Huff, and Thom Bell. Paul was identified by his diverse vocal style which ranged from mellow and soulful to low and raspy. Questlove of The Roots equated Paul to Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, calling him "one of the criminally unmentioned proprietors of socially conscious post-revolution '60s civil rights music". Billy Paul had a good run in the '70s as an R&B vocalist, though he'd been recording since the '50s, when he debuted on Jubilee. Paul was featured on radio broadcasts in Philadelphia at age 11 and had an extensive jazz background. He worked with Dinah Washington, Miles Davis, and Roberta Flack, as well as Charlie Parker, before forming a trio and recording for Jubilee. His original 1959 recording of "Ebony Woman" for New Dawn was later re-recorded for Neptune as the title of his 1970 LP. He signed the next year with Philadelphia International and scored his biggest hit with "Me & Mrs. Jones" in 1972, topping both the R&B and pop charts. Paul had one other Top Ten R&B single, "Thanks for Saving My Life," in 1974. He remained on Philadelphia International until the mid-'80s. Paul recorded one LP for Total Experience in 1985, Lately, and another for Ichiban before announcing his retirement in 1989 in London. But he's since done several club dates, both in America and overseas. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/  One of the most singular talents in music, a multi-talented pop/funk/rock performer who showed remarkable stylistic growth and musical diversity. On January 26, 1980, Prince made his TV debut on the US show American Bandstand. When interviewed after his performance the singer froze and struggled to reply to the questions he was being asked. Prince is one of the most singular talents in music, a multi-talented pop/funk/rock performer who showed remarkable stylistic growth and musical diversity.
On April 19, 1986, Prince started a two week run at No.1 on the US singles chart with 'Kiss.' Prince also had the No.2 song 'Manic Monday', by The Bangles, which he wrote under the pseudonym 'Christopher.' On April 16, 1994, Prince had his first UK No.1 with 'The Most Beautiful Girl In The World', (his 37th single release). It was his first release since changing his stage name to an unpronounceable symbol. On April 21, 2016, Prince was found dead is his recording studio in Minnesota, according the an announcement by the Hollywood Reporter. Few artists have created a body of work as rich and varied as Prince. During the '80s, he emerged as one of the most singular talents of the rock & roll era, capable of seamlessly tying together pop, funk, folk, and rock. Not only did he release a series of groundbreaking albums; he toured frequently, produced albums and wrote songs for many other artists, and recorded hundreds of songs that still lie unreleased in his vaults. With each album he released, Prince has shown remarkable stylistic growth and musical diversity, constantly experimenting with different sounds, textures, and genres. Occasionally, his music can be maddeningly inconsistent because of this eclecticism, but his experiments frequently succeed; no other contemporary artist can blend so many diverse styles into a cohesive whole. Prince's first two albums were solid, if unremarkable, late-'70s funk-pop. With 1980's Dirty Mind, he recorded his first masterpiece, a one-man tour de force of sex and music; it was hard funk, catchy Beatlesque melodies, sweet soul ballads, and rocking guitar pop, all at once. The follow-up, Controversy, was more of the same, but 1999 was brilliant. The album was a monster hit, selling over three million copies, but it was nothing compared to 1984's Purple Rain. Purple Rain made Prince a superstar; it eventually sold over ten million copies in the U.S. and spent 24 weeks at number one. Partially recorded with his touring band, the Revolution, the record featured the most pop-oriented music he has ever made. Instead of continuing in this accessible direction, he veered off into the bizarre psycho-psychedelia of Around the World in a Day, which nevertheless sold over two million copies. In 1986, he released the even stranger Parade, which was in its own way as ambitious and intricate as any art rock of the '60s; however, no art rock was ever grounded with a hit as brilliant as the spare funk of "Kiss." By 1987, Prince's ambitions were growing by leaps and bounds, resulting in the sprawling masterpiece Sign 'O' the Times. Prince was set to release the hard funk of The Black Album by the end of the year, yet he withdrew it just before its release, deciding it was too dark and immoral. Instead, he released the confused Lovesexy in 1988, which was a commercial disaster. With the soundtrack to 1989's Batman he returned to the top of the charts, even if the album was essentially a recap of everything he had done before. The following year he released Graffiti Bridge (the sequel to Purple Rain), which turned out to be a considerable commercial disappointment. In 1991, Prince formed the New Power Generation, the best and most versatile and talented band he has ever assembled. With their first album, Diamonds and Pearls, Prince reasserted his mastery of contemporary R&B; it was his biggest hit since 1985. The following year, he released his 12th album, which was titled with a cryptic symbol; in 1993, Prince legally changed his name to the symbol. In 1994, after becoming embroiled in contract disagreements with Warner Bros., he independently released the single "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World," likely to illustrate what he would be capable of on his own; the song became his biggest hit in years. Later that summer, Warner released the somewhat halfhearted Come under the name of Prince; the record was a moderate success, going gold. In November 1994, as part of a contractual obligation, Prince agreed to the official release of The Black Album. In early 1995, he immersed himself in another legal battle with Warner, proclaiming himself a slave and refusing to deliver his new record, The Gold Experience, for release. By the end of the summer, a fed-up Warner had negotiated a compromise that guaranteed the album's release, plus one final record for the label. The Gold Experience was issued in the fall; although it received good reviews and was following a smash single, it failed to catch fire commercially. In the summer of 1996, Prince released Chaos & Disorder, which freed him to become an independent artist. Setting up his own label, NPG (which was distributed by EMI), he resurfaced later that same year with the three-disc Emancipation, which was designed as a magnum opus that would spin off singles for several years and be supported with several tours. However, even his devoted cult following needed considerable time to digest such an enormous compilation of songs. Once it was clear that Emancipation wasn't the commercial blockbuster he hoped it would be, Prince assembled a long-awaited collection of outtakes and unreleased material called Crystal Ball in 1998. With Crystal Ball, Prince discovered that it's much more difficult to get records to an audience than it seems; some fans who pre-ordered their copies through Prince's website (from which a bonus fifth disc was included) didn't receive them until months after the set began appearing in stores. Prince then released a new one-man album, New Power Soul, just three months after Crystal Ball; even though it was his most straightforward album since Diamonds and Pearls, it didn't do well on the charts, partly because many listeners didn't realize it had been released. A year later, with "1999" predictably an end-of-the-millennium anthem, Prince issued the remix collection 1999 (The New Master). A collection of Warner Bros.-era leftovers, Vault: Old Friends 4 Sale, followed that summer, and in the fall Prince returned on Arista with the all-star Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic. In the fall of 2001 he released the controversial Rainbow Children, a jazz-infused circus of sound trumpeting his conversion to the Jehovah's Witnesses that left many longtime fans out in the cold. He further isolated himself with 2003's N.E.W.S., a four-song set of instrumental jams that sounded a lot more fun to play than to listen to. Prince rebounded in 2003 with the chart-topping Musicology, a return to form that found the artist back in the Top Ten, even garnering a Grammy nomination for Best Male Pop Vocal Performance in 2005. In early 2006 he was the musical guest on Saturday Night Live, performing two songs with a new protégée, R&B singer Tamar. A four-song appearance at the Brit Awards with Wendy, Lisa, and Sheila E. followed. Both appearances previewed tracks from 3121, which hit number one on the album charts soon after its release in March 2006. Planet Earth followed in 2007, featuring contributions from Wendy and Lisa. In the U.K., copies were cover-mounted on the July 15 edition of The Mail on Sunday, provoking Columbia -- the worldwide distributor for the release -- to refuse distribution throughout the U.K. In the U.S., the album was issued on July 24. LotusFlow3r, a three-disc set, came in 2009, featuring a trio of distinct albums: LotusFlow3r itself (a guitar showcase), MPLSound (a throwback to his '80s funk output), and Elixer (a smooth contemporary R&B album featuring the breathy vocals of Bria Valente). Despite only being available online and through one big-box retailer, the set debuted at number two on the Billboard 200 chart. A year later, another throwback-flavored effort, 20Ten, became his second U.K. newspaper giveaway. No official online edition of the album was made available. From mid-2010 through the end of 2012, Prince toured throughout Europe, America, Europe again, Canada, and Australia. During 2013, Prince released several singles, starting with "Screwdriver" and continuing with "Breakfast Can Wait" in the summer of that year. Early in 2014, he made a cameo appearance on the Zooey Deschanel sitcom The New Girl, appearing in the episode that aired following the Super Bowl. All this activity was prelude to the spring announcement that he had re-signed to Warner Bros. Records, the label he had feuded with 20 years prior. As part of the deal, he wound up receiving the ownership of his master recordings and the label planned a reissue campaign that would begin with an expanded reissue of Purple Rain roughly timed to celebrate its 30th anniversary. First came two new albums: Art Official Age and PlectrumElectrum, the latter credited to 3rdEyeGirl, the all-female power trio that was his new-millennial backing band. Both records came out on the same September day in 2014. Almost a year to the date, he released HITNRUN Phase One, with contributions from Lianne La Havas, Judith Hill, and Rita Ora. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/  Mississippian soul vocalist who placed nine singles on the R&B chart, including the 1973 number one pop hit "Show and Tell." Best remembered for the number one pop hit "Show and Tell," soul singer Al Wilson was born June 19, 1939 in Meridian, Mississippi. From childhood forward he was singing professionally, and by the age of 12 was leading his own spiritual quartet and singing in the church choir, even performing covers of country & western hits as circumstances dictated. While he was in high school, Wilson and his family relocated to San Bernardino, California, where he worked odd jobs as a mail carrier, a janitor, and an office clerk, in addition to teaching himself to play drums. After graduation he spent four years touring with Johnny Harris & the Statesmen before joining the U.S. Navy and singing with an enlisted men's chorus. After a two-year military stint, Wilson settled in Los Angeles, touring the local nightclub circuit before joining the R&B vocal group the Jewels; from there he landed with the Rollers, followed by a stint with the instrumental combo the Souls.
In 1966, Wilson signed with manager Marc Gordon, who quickly scored his client an a cappella audition for Johnny Rivers. The "Secret Agent Man" singer not only signed Wilson to his Soul City imprint, but also agreed to produce the sessions that yielded the 1968 R&B smash "The Snake." The minor hit "Do What You Gotta Do" appeared that same year, but Wilson then largely disappeared from sight until 1973, when he issued the platinum-selling Weighing In -- the album's success was spurred by the shimmering "Show and Tell," a Johnny Mathis castoff that sold well over a million copies. "The La La Peace Song," released in 1974, proved another major hit, and two years later, "I've Got a Feeling We'll Be Seeing Each Other Again" peaked at number three on the R&B chart. With 1979's "Count the Days" Wilson scored his final chart hit, however, and he spent the next two decades touring clubs and lounges. In 2001 he re-recorded his classic hits for the album Spice of Life. Kidney failure took his life on April 21, 2008. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/  Velvet-smooth singer who rose from session work to become the premier R&B balladeer of the 1980s and '90s, and an accomplished producer as well. Luther Vandross was one of the most successful R&B artists of the 1980s and '90s. Not only did he score a series of multi-million-selling albums containing chart-topping hit singles and perform sold-out tours of the U.S. and around the world, but he also took charge of his music creatively, writing or co-writing most of his songs and arranging and producing his records. He also performed these functions for other artists, providing them with hits as well. He was, however, equally well known for his distinctive interpretations of classic pop and R&B songs, reflecting his knowledge and appreciation of the popular music of his youth. Possessed of a smooth, versatile tenor voice, he charmed millions with his romantic music.
Vandross was born in New York City on April 20, 1951, and grew up in the Alfred E. Smith housing projects in lower Manhattan. Both of his parents, Luther Vandross, Sr., an upholsterer, and Mary Ida Vandross, a nurse, sang, and they encouraged their children to pursue music as a career. Vandross, Sr.'s older sister Patricia Van Dross was an early member of the Crests in the mid-'50s (appearing on their early singles, but leaving before they achieved success with "Sixteen Candles"), and Vandross himself began playing the piano at the age of three and took lessons at five, although he remained a largely self-taught musician. After the death of his father in 1959 when he was eight years old, he was raised by his mother, who moved the family to the Bronx. While attending William Howard Taft High School, he formed a vocal group, Shades of Jade, with friends Carlos Alomar, Robin Clark, Anthony Hinton, Diane Sumler, and Fonzi Thornton. All five, along with 11 other teenage performers, were also part of a musical theater workshop, Listen, My Brother, organized by the Apollo Theater in Harlem that recorded a single, "Listen, My Brother"/"Only Love Can Make a Better World," and appeared on the initial episodes of the children's television series Sesame Street in 1969. After graduating from high school that year, Vandross attended Western Michigan University, but dropped out after a year and returned home. He spent the next few years working at odd jobs while trying to break into the music business. In 1973, Vandross got two of his compositions, "In This Lovely Hour" and "Who's Gonna Make It Easier for Me," recorded by Delores Hall on her album Hall-Mark, singing the latter song with her as a duet. In 1974, though uncredited, he sang background vocals on Maggie Bell's Queen of the Night, and in August of the same year Carlos Alomar, who had become David Bowie's guitarist, invited him to attend a Bowie recording session at Sigma Sound Studios in Philadelphia. He quickly became more than an observer, singing background vocals, serving as a vocal arranger, and co-writing the song "Fascination" with Bowie. The session resulted in the album Young Americans, and Vandross went on tour with Bowie as both backup singer and opening act. Meanwhile, Vandross' composition "Everybody Rejoice (A Brand New Day)" was featured in the Broadway musical The Wiz. Through Bowie, Vandross met Bette Midler, who hired him to arrange vocals for her Broadway revue Bette Midler's Clams on the Half Shell. Midler also introduced him to her record producer, Arif Mardin, at Atlantic Records, and Vandross began to get steady work as a background singer and vocal arranger. In 1976, he appeared on albums by Midler, the Brecker Brothers Band, and Judy Collins. He also put together a vocal quintet called Luther, which signed to Atlantic's Cotillion Records subsidiary. Their self-titled debut album was released in June 1976. The tracks "It's Good for the Soul," "Funky Music (Is a Part of Me)," and "The Second Time Around" reached the R&B Top 40. The title song off the second Luther album, This Close to You (April 1977), reached the R&B chart, but that wasn't enough to keep Cotillion from dropping the group, which then broke up. (Vandross acquired the rights to the Luther recordings and saw to it that they remained out of print.) Meanwhile, Vandross continued doing sessions. In 1977, he appeared on albums by Nils Lofgren, J. Geils Band, the Average White Band and Ben E. King, and Chic, among others. He also entered the lucrative world of writing and singing commercial jingles, and before long was the musical voice of everything from telephones, fast food, and beverages to various branches of the U.S. military on radio and television. In 1978, he appeared on well over a dozen albums, including releases by Carly Simon, Quincy Jones, Roberta Flack, Chic, and Cat Stevens. Vandross gained greater attention in 1979. During the year, he appeared on albums by the likes of Sister Sledge, the Average White Band, Chic, and Evelyn "Champagne" King. Especially on jazz and disco recordings, he was just as likely to be a featured vocalist as a background singer. And he got a prominent credit when he arranged the background vocals for Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer's duet "No More Tears (Enough Is Enough)," which became a number one pop hit in November 1979. He gained even more recognition in 1980, a year in which he appeared on studio albums by Chaka Khan, Melba Moore, and Mtume. But the most important credit for him that year was his work as lead vocalist of the studio group Change. He sang on the band's tracks "Searching," a Top 40 R&B hit, and "The Glow of Love," which also reached the R&B chart. This increased his profile even more, and he began circulating a demo tape to recording companies, seeking a solo deal that would allow him to write and produce his own records. On April 21, 1981, he signed with Epic. Vandross immediately began work on his debut album, although during 1981 he appeared on albums by Bob James, Bernard Wright, Change, Stephanie Mills, and several others. In June 1981 his composition "You Stopped Loving Me" was sung by Roberta Flack, with him arranging and singing background vocals, and it became a Top 40 R&B hit for her. Vandross' own version was included on his debut solo album, Never Too Much, released in August. The LP was a tour de force for him; he produced it and wrote six of its seven songs, the exception being a cover of Burt Bacharach and Hal David's Dionne Warwick hit "A House Is Not a Home." Vandross expressed his musical vision on Never Too Much, and that vision was of a smooth neo-soul style that recalled the pop/R&B of his youth, particularly the music of such predecessors as Warwick, Aretha Franklin, the softer Motown artists, like Smokey Robinson, and some of the girl groups of the early '60s, such as the Shirelles. The title song, "Never Too Much," topped the R&B chart; second single "Don't You Know That?" reached the R&B Top Ten; and third single "Sugar and Spice (I Found Me a Girl)" also charted R&B. The album hit number one R&B in November and was certified gold in December. (It went platinum five years later and double platinum in 1997.) But Vandross encountered more resistance in the pop realm, where the album reached only the Top 20 and the single "Never Too Much" only made the Top 40. Artistically and commercially, these results set a pattern for Vandross' career. Appearing regularly, his albums showed great consistency in style and content, even to the point of featuring a cover of a classic pop/R&B song on each disc. And while they also sold consistently to the R&B audience, they rarely received equal support from pop fans. Vandross still enjoyed working as a background singer. In 1982, for example, he appeared on albums by Michael Franks, Kleeer, and Linda Clifford. At the same time, Vandross' demonstrated abilities as songwriter, producer, and vocal arranger opened up to him the opportunity to work with some of the artists he had grown up idolizing, as well as his contemporaries. He first turned his attention to Cheryl Lynn, producing her R&B Top Ten album Instant Love (June 1982); writing the title song, which became a Top 20 R&B hit, and singing a duet with her on a revival of the 1968 Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell hit "If This World Were Mine," which reached the R&B Top Five. Next, he turned to Aretha Franklin, producing her July 1982 LP Jump to It, and writing or co-writing four of its eight songs, including the title track, an R&B number one. It was her first gold album in six years. Somehow, he found time to make his second solo album, Forever, For Always, For Love, released in September, again serving as his own producer and writing or co-writing all the tracks except for covers of Smokey Robinson's 1965 hit for the Temptations "Since I Lost My Baby" and, in a medley with his own "Bad Boy," Sam Cooke's "Having a Party." Vandross' co-writers on some of the songs were bassist Marcus Miller and keyboard player Nat Adderley, Jr., musical associates who would work with him throughout his career. Forever, For Always, For Love was another R&B chart-topper for Vandross, throwing off three singles, the Top Five "Bad Boy/Having a Party," the Top 20 "Since I Lost My Baby," and the chart entry "Promise Me." The LP was certified gold in two months and platinum in six. Vandross' multiple career tracks continued apace in 1983. He produced Aretha Franklin's next album, Get It Right, composing the title song, which hit number one R&B, with Marcus Miller, and its follow-up, "Every Girl (Wants My Guy)," a Top Ten R&B hit. Then, he turned to another idol of his youth, Dionne Warwick, producing her album How Many Times Can We Say Goodbye. He and Warwick sang the title song as a duet which became her first R&B Top Ten hit in eight years; it also made the pop Top 40. And, although it took until December, Vandross managed to come up with his third solo album, the aptly titled Busy Body. "I'll Let You Slide" and "Superstar/Until You Come Back to Me (That's What I'm Gonna Do)" made the R&B Top Ten, and "Make Me a Believer" was a chart entry; as usual, the album hit number one R&B, but only the Top 40 of the pop chart; and as usual, sales certifications poured in, the album going gold in two months and platinum in January 1985. Vandross finally eased off on his recording schedule during 1984, if only because he was now a major concert attraction and toured in both North America and Europe. His only credit for the year was his composing (with Marcus Miller), arranging, producing, and singing background vocals on the song "You're My Choice Tonight (Choose Me)" for Teddy Pendergrass, a Top 20 R&B hit. Vandross was thus able to lavish more time on his fourth album, The Night I Fell in Love, released in March 1985. The album spent seven weeks atop Billboard's R&B LP list, going gold and platinum simultaneously as soon as it was eligible for certification in May and double platinum in 1990. It also reached number 14 on the pop chart, Vandross' best showing yet. With his own album out of the way, he made some selected appearances on other albums in 1985. Vandross spent much of 1986 working on his own material. The results of his efforts were first heard in June when "Give Me the Reason" was included on the soundtrack to the film Ruthless People and released as a single that went Top Five R&B and reached the pop chart. Vandross' fifth album, also titled Give Me the Reason, followed in September. His fifth consecutive R&B chart-topper, it included additional singles "Stop to Love" (number one R&B and his first Top 20 pop hit); the duet with Gregory Hines "There's Nothing Better Than Love" (also number one R&B and a pop chart entry); "I Really Didn't Mean It" (Top Ten R&B); and "So Amazing." Simultaneous gold and platinum certifications in December were followed by a double-platinum award in 1990. Apart from a handful of outside collaborations, Vandross spent the two-year interval between his fifth and sixth albums doing shows and working on that sixth album, Any Love, which appeared in October 1988. It topped the R&B chart and gave Vandross his first Top Ten pop album, with the usual simultaneous gold and platinum certifications two months after release. The title song topped the R&B list and penetrated the pop chart. Vandross had by now become an international success, and a record-breaking ten-night stand at London's Wembley Arena in March 1989 was commemorated with a home video, Live at Wembley. At the close of an enormously successful decade, Vandross and Epic determined to sum things up, and in October 1989 issued the two-LP greatest-hits compilation The Best of Luther Vandross: The Best of Love, which included two new tracks, "Here and Now" and "Treat You Right." With those additions, the collection didn't just summarize Vandross' career, it finally gave him his long-sought major crossover hit, as "Here and Now" not only topped the R&B chart but also hit the pop Top Ten. It also won Vandross his first Grammy Award for Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male. Between the release of the hits album and his next regular studio album, Power of Love, which appeared in April 1991, Vandross as usual lent his talents to other artists' recordings, including Quincy Jones' Back on the Block. He wrote and produced the song "Who Do You Love" for Whitney Houston's album I'm Your Baby Tonight. Vandross' seventh album, Power of Love, suggested that the pop breakthrough he had achieved with "Here and Now" would be sustained. The advance single, "Power of Love/Love Power," not only topped the R&B chart, but also went Top Five pop, and the LP, Vandross' seventh R&B number one, was his second to penetrate the pop Top Ten. A million seller by June 1991, it went double platinum two years later in the wake of the further singles. "Power of Love/Love Power" was named Best R&B Song at the 1991 Grammys, and the Power of Love album won Vandross another trophy for Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male. One might have supposed that all was well in the world of Luther Vandross, but he filed suit against Sony Music Entertainment (which had acquired CBS Records), citing California Labor Code Section 2855, which limits personal service contracts to seven years. By then, he had been with CBS/Sony for nearly 11 years, fulfilling a ten-album contract that still had three albums to go. Whether he really wanted to void his contract, believing that Epic still hadn't done enough to sell his records to the pop audience, or simply intended to use the suit to induce the record company to renegotiate his deal on more favorable terms, is unclear. The record company in question settled quietly. The terms of the settlement were not reported, but thereafter, Vandross had a vanity label, his records going out under the Epic/LV imprint. As usual, following the release of Power of Love, Vandross found the time to work with other artists. He appeared on 1991 albums by BeBe & CeCe Winans, Patti LaBelle, and Richard Marx. In 1992, he kept his name before the public with special appearances, starting with the soundtrack to the film Mo' Money, released in June, which featured "The Best Things in Life Are Free," which he performed with Janet Jackson, Bell Biv DeVoe, and Ralph Tresvant. It hit number one on the R&B chart and went Top Ten pop. Never Let Me Go, Vandross' eighth album, was released in June 1993. Maybe the promotional staff at Epic was demoralized by the recent lawsuit, or perhaps the rise of hip-hop, was affecting matters, but the commercial response to Vandross' new music was slightly disappointing. The single reached the R&B Top Ten but was only a minor pop chart entry, and Never Let Me Go, despite marking a new pop chart peak for Vandross at number six, was his first new album not to reach number one. For the first time, the singer's momentum was slowing. An idea came from Sony president Tommy Mottola and his then-wife, superstar Mariah Carey. Vandross had put at least one oldie on every one of his albums: why not do an all-covers album? The result was the modestly titled Songs, released in September 1994. The album was prefaced by a cover of the 1981 Lionel Richie/Diana Ross hit "Endless Love," on which Vandross sang a duet with Carey. The single peaked at number two on the pop chart, a new high for Vandross. The album went to number two R&B and number five pop, another crossover high for the singer. It was an immediate million-seller and went double platinum within 18 months. His commercial status restored, Vandross undertook his usual pursuits, singing background vocals on the occasional album and touring. For his next album, he tried another favorite record company concept, the holiday collection. This Is Christmas, released in October 1995, became a perennial seller. Vandross spent most of the year working on Your Secret Love, the album that would complete his Epic Records contract. It was released in October 1996, following the title song, which went on to win Vandross another Grammy for Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male. Simultaneous gold and platinum certifications arrived in December. The following September, Epic/LV released his valedictory collection, One Night with You: The Best of Love, Vol. 2, which began with four new recordings, none of them written or produced by him, but instead contributed by such usually reliable hitmakers as Diane Warren, R. Kelly, and the team of Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis. Understandably, Epic didn't do much of a promotional job on this contractual obligation release, which nevertheless reached the R&B Top 40 and the pop Top 50. One Amazing Night While weighing offers from different record companies, Vandross made more guest appearances. He performed at a Burt Bacharach tribute concert at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York, singing "Windows of the World" and "What the World Needs Now." The show was filmed for television and taped, resulting in a soundtrack album, One Amazing Night. Vandross also paid tribute to Patti LaBelle at the same venue for a PBS special. Deciding on Virgin, he presented a new album, I Know, in August 1998. It was a commercial disappointment, only going gold and generating just one Top 40 R&B hit in "Nights in Harlem." As a result, he left Virgin after only this one release. In 1999 and 2000, Vandross kept his hand in with soundtrack and session work. He eventually ended his search for a new record company affiliation, becoming the first act signed to veteran record executive Clive Davis' new label, J Records. He made his label debut with the track "If I Was the One," included on the soundtrack of Dr. Doolittle 2. The song also appeared on Luther Vandross, which was released two weeks later. Vandross and Davis served as co-album producers, with individual tracks produced by others, and new songwriters were brought in to give Vandross a new, current sound. The makeover was largely successful, as the album made the pop Top Ten and just missed topping the R&B chart, reaching platinum status by November. His career revitalized once again, Vandross toured in early 2002, then began work on a second album for J. He co-wrote the title song for his new album, "Dance with My Father," with Richard Marx, and they combined for a heartfelt tribute to Vandross' father. The album was finished by the spring of 2003, and Vandross was preparing for a round of publicity work when he collapsed in his New York apartment, the victim of a serious stroke. Despite his illness, J released "Dance with My Father," which became an R&B and pop Top 40 hit and a gold record, introducing the album, which hit number one on both charts, a first for him. The album sold over two million copies. Vandross was a sentimental favorite at the 2003 Grammy Awards, and his career total of trophies doubled from four to eight as he won Song of the Year and Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male, for "Dance with My Father," Best R&B Album, and Best R&B Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocals for "The Closer I Get to You." He made an appearance via videotape to accept his awards and promised to return to action soon. Meanwhile, J Records had kept his name before the public by releasing the concert collection Live Radio City Music Hall 2003, in October 2003. By all reports, Vandross continued his recovery in 2004 and into 2005; he even appeared on Oprah Winfrey's television show. But on July 1, 2005, it was announced that he had died, having "never really recovered" from his stroke. It is notable that, in the precarious world of popular music, Vandross sold records in the millions consistently for over two decades. It is even more notable that, although he certainly molded his music to a certain extent to meet the marketplace, he also imposed his own direction on R&B. Vandross, coming along in the wake of disco and while rap/hip-hop was in its infancy, insisted on reverence for the soul music of the then-recent past and deliberately reformulated it in an "old-school" approach. Even as rap dominated the charts in the early years of the 21st century, he maintained his passion for romantic and melodic music, and he drew listeners along with him. His early death at the age of 54 robbed American popular music of one of its more consistent and compelling voices, and it is only a partial comfort that he left behind a substantial body of work. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/
Latin soul singer from the Bronx, a master of the smooth ballad, murdered in the 1970s at a young age.
 Inventive, intelligent, and talented pianist/keyboardist whose distinguished career has covered modern jazz, fusion, hip-hop, and dance. On April 12, 1940, was born Herbie Hancock, keyboard player and composer of film soundtracks. In addition to having an impressive solo career, he also worked with Miles Davis and Chick Corea.
Herbie Hancock will always be one of the most revered and controversial figures in jazz -- just as his employer/mentor Miles Davis was when he was alive. Unlike Miles, who pressed ahead relentlessly and never looked back until near the very end, Hancock has cut a zigzagging forward path, shuttling between almost every development in electronic and acoustic jazz and R&B over the last third of the 20th century and into the 21st. Though grounded in Bill Evans and able to absorb blues, funk, gospel, and even modern classical influences, Hancock's piano and keyboard voices are entirely his own, with their own urbane harmonic and complex, earthy rhythmic signatures -- and young pianists cop his licks constantly. Having studied engineering and professing to love gadgets and buttons, Hancock was perfectly suited for the electronic age; he was one of the earliest champions of the Rhodes electric piano and Hohner clavinet, and would field an ever-growing collection of synthesizers and computers on his electric dates. Yet his love for the grand piano never waned, and despite his peripatetic activities all around the musical map, his piano style continued to evolve into tougher, ever more complex forms. He is as much at home trading riffs with a smoking funk band as he is communing with a world-class post-bop rhythm section -- and that drives purists on both sides of the fence up the wall. Having taken up the piano at age seven, Hancock quickly became known as a prodigy, soloing in the first movement of a Mozart piano concerto with the Chicago Symphony at the age of 11. After studies at Grinnell College, Hancock was invited by Donald Byrd in 1961 to join his group in New York City, and before long, Blue Note offered him a solo contract. His debut album, Takin' Off, took off indeed after Mongo Santamaria covered one of the album's songs, "Watermelon Man." In May 1963, Miles Davis asked him to join his band in time for the Seven Steps to Heaven sessions, and he remained there for five years, greatly influencing Miles' evolving direction, loosening up his own style, and, upon Miles' suggestion, converting to the Rhodes electric piano. In that time span, Hancock's solo career also blossomed on Blue Note, pouring forth increasingly sophisticated compositions like "Maiden Voyage," "Cantaloupe Island," "Goodbye to Childhood," and the exquisite "Speak Like a Child." He also played on many East Coast recording sessions for producer Creed Taylor and provided a groundbreaking score to Michelangelo Antonioni's film Blow Up, which gradually led to further movie assignments. Having left the Davis band in 1968, Hancock recorded an elegant funk album, Fat Albert Rotunda, and in 1969 formed a sextet that evolved into one of the most exciting, forward-looking jazz-rock groups of the era. Now deeply immersed in electronics, Hancock added the synthesizer of Patrick Gleeson to his Echoplexed, fuzz-wah-pedaled electric piano and clavinet, and the recordings became spacier and more complex rhythmically and structurally, creating its own corner of the avant-garde. By 1970, all of the musicians used both English and African names (Herbie's was Mwandishi). Alas, Hancock had to break up the band in 1973 when it ran out of money, and having studied Buddhism, he concluded that his ultimate goal should be to make his audiences happy. The next step, then, was a terrific funk group whose first album, Head Hunters, with its Sly Stone-influenced hit single, "Chameleon," became the biggest-selling jazz LP up to that time. Now handling all of the synthesizers himself, Hancock's heavily rhythmic comping often became part of the rhythm section, leavened by interludes of the old urbane harmonies. Hancock recorded several electric albums of mostly superior quality in the '70s, followed by a wrong turn into disco around the decade's end. In the meantime, Hancock refused to abandon acoustic jazz. After a one-shot reunion of the 1965 Miles Davis Quintet (Hancock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams, Wayne Shorter, with Freddie Hubbard sitting in for Miles) at New York's 1976 Newport Jazz Festival, they went on tour the following year as V.S.O.P. The near-universal acclaim of the reunions proved that Hancock was still a whale of a pianist; that Miles' loose mid-'60s post-bop direction was far from spent; and that the time for a neo-traditional revival was near, finally bearing fruit in the '80s with Wynton Marsalis and his ilk. V.S.O.P. continued to hold sporadic reunions through 1992, though the death of the indispensable Williams in 1997 cast much doubt as to whether these gatherings would continue. Hancock continued his chameleonic ways in the '80s: scoring an MTV hit in 1983 with the scratch-driven, proto-industrial single "Rockit" (accompanied by a striking video); launching an exciting partnership with Gambian kora virtuoso Foday Musa Suso that culminated in the swinging 1986 live album Jazz Africa; doing film scores; and playing festivals and tours with the Marsalis brothers, George Benson, Michael Brecker, and many others. After his 1988 techno-pop album, Perfect Machine, Hancock left Columbia (his label since 1973), signed a contract with Qwest that came to virtually nothing (save for A Tribute to Miles in 1992), and finally made a deal with Polygram in 1994 to record jazz for Verve and release pop albums on Mercury. Well into a youthful middle age, Hancock's curiosity, versatility, and capacity for growth showed no signs of fading, and in 1998 he issued Gershwin's World. His curiosity with the fusion of electronic music and jazz continued with 2001's Future 2 Future, but he also continued to explore the future of straight-ahead contemporary jazz with 2005's Possibilities. An intriguing album of jazz treatments of Joni Mitchell compositions called River: The Joni Letters was released in 2007. In 2010 Hancock released his The Imagine Project album, which was recorded in seven countries and featured a host of collaborators, including Dave Matthews, Anoushka Shankar, Jeff Beck, the Chieftains, John Legend, India.Arie, Seal, P!nk, Juanes, Derek Trucks, Susan Tedeschi, Chaka Khan, K'NAAN, Wayne Shorter, James Morrison, and Lisa Hannigan. He was also named Creative Chair for the New Los Angeles Philharmonic. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/
The definitive funk band of the '70s, one of several outlets for George Clinton's outrageous blend of psycho-funk grooves and twisted story lines. Inspired by Motown's assembly line of sound, George Clinton gradually put together a collective of over 50 musicians and recorded the ensemble during the '70s both as Parliament and Funkadelic. While Funkadelic pursued band-format psychedelic rock, Parliament engaged in a funk free-for-all, blending influences from the godfathers (James Brown and Sly Stone) with freaky costumes and themes inspired by '60s acid culture and science fiction. From its 1970 inception until Clinton's dissolving of Parliament in 1980, the band hit the R&B Top Ten several times but truly excelled in two other areas: large-selling, effective album statements and the most dazzling, extravagant live show in the business. In an era when Philly soul continued the slick sounds of establishment-approved R&B, Parliament scared off more white listeners than it courted.
By the time his on-the-move family settled in New Jersey during the early '50s, George Clinton (b. July 22, 1941, Kannapolis, NC) became interested in doo wop, which was just beginning to explode in the New York-metro area. Basing his group on Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers, Clinton formed the Parliaments in 1955 with a lineup that gradually shifted to include Clarence "Fuzzy" Haskins, Grady Thomas, Raymond Davis, and Calvin Simon. Based out of a barbershop backroom where Clinton straightened hair, the Parliaments released only two singles during the next ten years, but frequent trips to Detroit during the mid-'60s -- where Clinton began working as a songwriter and producer -- eventually paid off their investment. After finding a hit with the 1967 single "(I Wanna) Testify," the Parliaments ran into trouble with Revilot Records and refused to record any new material. Instead of waiting for a settlement, Clinton decided to record the same band under a new name: Funkadelic. Founded in 1968, the group began life as a smoke screen, claiming as its only members the Parliaments' backing band -- guitarist Eddie Hazel, bassist Billy Nelson, rhythm guitarist Lucius "Tawl" Ross, drummer Ramon "Tiki" Fulwood, and organist Mickey Atkins -- but in truth including Clinton and the rest of the former Parliaments lineup. Revilot folded not long after, with the label's existing contracts sold to Atlantic; Clinton, however, decided to abandon the Parliaments name rather than record for the major label. One previously recorded Parliaments single, "A New Day Begins," was licensed to Atco in 1969 and became a number 44 hit that May. By 1970, George Clinton had regained the rights to the Parliaments name: he then signed the entire Funkadelic lineup to Invictus Records as Parliament. The group released one album -- 1970's Osmium -- and scored a number 30 hit, "The Breakdown," on the R&B charts in 1971. With Funkadelic firing on all cylinders, however, Clinton decided to discontinue Parliament (the name, not the band) for the time being. Though keyboard player Bernie Worrell (b. April 19, 1944, Long Beach, NJ) had played on the original Funkadelic album, his first credit with the conglomeration appeared on Funkadelic's second album, 1970's Free Your Mind...And Your Ass Will Follow. Clinton and Worrell had known each other since the New Jersey barbershop days, and Worrell soon became the most crucial cog in the P-Funk machine, working on arrangements and production for virtually all later Parliament/Funkadelic releases. His strict upbringing and classical training (at the New England Conservatory and Juilliard), as well as the boom in synthesizer technology during the early '70s, gave him the tools to create the synth runs and horn arrangements that later trademarked the P-Funk sound. Two years after the addition of Worrell, P-Funk added its second most famed contributor, Bootsy Collins. The muscular, throbbing bass line of Collins (b. October 26, 1951, Cincinnati, OH) had already been featured in James Brown's backing band (the J.B.'s) along with his brother, guitarist Catfish Collins. Bootsy and Catfish were playing in a Detroit band when George Clinton saw and hired them. Funkadelic released five albums from 1970 through early 1974, and consistently hit the lower reaches of the R&B charts, but the collective pulled up stakes later in 1974 and began recording as Parliament. Signing with the Casablanca label, Parliament's "Up for the Down Stroke" (number ten R&B, number 63 pop) appeared in mid-1974 and reflected a more mainstream approach than Funkadelic, with funky horn arrangements reminiscent of James Brown and a live feel that recalls contemporary work by Kool & the Gang. It became the biggest hit yet for the Parliament/Funkadelic congregation. "Testify," a revamped version of the Parliaments' 1967 hit, also charted in 1974. One year later, Chocolate City continued Parliament's success: the title track reached number 24 R&B, and "Ride On" also charted. Clinton & co. ushered in 1976 with the April release of the third Parliament LP in as many years: Mothership Connection. Arguably the peak of Parliament's power, the album made number 13 on the pop charts and went platinum, sparked by three hit singles: "P. Funk (Wants to Get Funked Up)" (number 33 R&B), "Tear the Roof Off the Sucker (Give Up the Funk)" (number five R&B, number 15 pop), and "Star Child" (number 26 R&B). In addition to Bootsy Collins, the album featured two other James Brown refugees: horn legends Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley. Just six months after the release of Mothership Connection, Clinton had another Parliament album in the can, The Clones of Doctor Funkenstein. Though it only reached gold status, the LP spawned the number 22 R&B hit "Do That Stuff" and the number 43 "Dr. Funkenstein." Several internal squabbles during 1977 apparently didn't phase Clinton at all; the following year proved to be the most successful in Parliament's history. In January, "Flash Light" -- from the Parliament album Funkentelechy Vs. the Placebo Syndrome -- became the collective's first number one hit. It topped the R&B charts for three weeks, and was followed by the number 27 single, "Funkentelechy." The LP reached number 13 on the pop charts and became Parliament's second platinum album. Early in 1979, Parliament hit number one yet again with "Aqua Boogie," from its eighth album, Motor-Booty Affair. The LP, which stalled at number 23, nevertheless became the group's fifth consecutive album to go gold or better. Parliament's ninth album, Gloryhallastoopid (Or Pin the Tale on the Funky), was released later in 1979 and showed a bit of a slip in the previously unstoppable Clinton machine. The group charted in the R&B Top Ten twice during 1980 ("Theme From 'The Black Hole'" and "Agony of Defeet"), but Clinton began to be weighed down that year by legal difficulties arising from Polygram's acquisition of Casablanca. Jettisoning both the Parliament and Funkadelic names (but not the musicians), Clinton began his solo career with 1982's Computer Games. He and many former Parliament/Funkadelic members continued to tour and record during the '80s as the P-Funk All Stars, but the decade's disdain of everything to do with the '70s resulted in the neglect of critical and commercial opinion for the world's biggest funk band, especially one which in part had spawned the sound of disco. During the early '90s, the rise of funk-inspired rap (courtesy of Digital Underground, Dr. Dre, and Warren G.) and funk rock (Primus and Red Hot Chili Peppers) re-established the status of Clinton & co., one of the most important forces in the recent history of black music. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/
Pop-soul trio from Los Angeles, best remembered for their number one hit "Rock the Boat" in 1974. The Hues Corporation's name was a pun on the Howard Hughes Corporation, with the 'hue' (a synonym of 'color'), being a nod to the group members' African-American heritage. The band's members were St. Clair Lee (born Bernard St. Clair Lee, April 24, 1944, San Francisco, California; died 2011), Fleming Williams (born 1943, Flint, Michigan; died 1992) and Hubert Ann Kelley (born 24 April 1947, Fairfield, Alabama). The original choice for the group's name was The Children of Howard Hughes, which their record label turned down.
A Los Angeles vocal trio, the Hues Corporation enjoyed two big hits in the mid-'70s, notably "Rock the Boat" in 1974 for RCA. While it was lightweight, mainly pop work, it did take The Hues Corporation to number two on the R&B charts and get them their lone pop chart topper. The next single, "Rockin' Soul," peaked at number six on the R&B charts and number 18 on the pop charts. They had their final R&B hit the next year with "Love Corporation," which reached number 15, but it was evident that the audience was losing interest in their material. "I Caught Your Act" was the last release in 1977. H. Ann Kelley, Flemming Williams, and Bernard "St. Clair Lee" Henderson were the original lineup. Tom Brown replaced Williams in the wake of "Rock the Boat's" success. He was then replaced by Karl Russell in 1975. Before achieving mainstream success they were the opening act for a list of headliners that included Frank Sinatra, Milton Berle, Nancy Sinatra, and Glen Campbell. The original band had a lineup of three singers and three sidemen. The sidemen were Joey Rivera from the Checkmates; Monti Lawston; and Bob "Bullet" Bailey, formerly of the Leaves. Bailey, Rivera, and Lawston left the band to form Goodstuff. The group was formed in 1969. Songwriter Wally Holmes founded the group with his friend Bernard St. Clair Lee. Female singer H. Ann Kelly was found at a talent show in Los Angeles. As a result of notices placed in southern California record stores, Karl Russell turned up. Not long afterwards he was replaced by Fleming Williams. They recorded a single "Goodfootin'" / "We're Keepin' Our Business" that was released on the Liberty label in 1970. It did not make an impact on the charts.] The group's first big break came in 1972, when they were invited to appear in the blaxploitation film, Blacula, starring William Marshall. They were also asked to record three songs for the film's soundtrack: "There He Is Again", "What The World Knows," and "I'm Gonna Catch You." Shortly thereafter, RCA signed the group; their first single for the label, "Freedom For The Stallion", from the album of the same name, became a moderate hit, reaching #63 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. The follow-up single, "Rock the Boat," became a #1 hit on the Billboard chart and the group's signature song. "Rock the Boat" was written by Holmes, who also wrote the Blacula songs, and was released in the U.S. in February 1974 and in the UK in July of that year. It went to #1 for one week in the U.S. and #6 for two weeks in the UK, staying for 20 weeks in the U.S. chart with a gold disc awarded by the RIAA on 24 June 1974. The track sold well over two million copies. The song is considered one of the earliest disco songs. Some authorities proclaim it to be the first disco song to hit #1, while others give that distinction to "Love's Theme" by the Love Unlimited Orchestra, a chart-topper from earlier in 1974. After the success of "Rock the Boat," the Hues Corporation's other charted singles on the Billboard Hot 100 included "Rockin' Soul" (1974, #18), "Love Corporation" (1975, #62), and "I Caught Your Act" (1977, #92). The group was unable to duplicate the success of their earlier hits and disbanded in 1978. With the renewed popularity of disco music in the 1990s, the group reunited for tour dates and special events, including the PBS special Get Down Tonight: The Disco Explosion. "Honor the past, don't just remember it." Dizzie Gillespie https://www.facebook.com/groups/DukeofEarlGroup/ |
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