The hand painted sign says ‘Casa de la
Tradiciones’ but there is nothing else to suggest this house is a bastion of
traditional Cuban music. Clinging to the sharp gradients of the Tivoli district
in Santiago de Cuba, it looks no bigger than any of the other pastel
two-rooms-for-everything constructions surrounding it. An old man sitting at
the top of the houses rickety stairs dismisses our confusion by chuckling, “You
found it.”
The music house consists of just two
rooms and a miniature lean-to bar that serves only four drinks: cuba libres,
mojitos, canned beer and white rum by the bottle. A kitchen, two toilets and a
small courtyard complete the venue. Despite the size, a constant stream of
new people all find space to socialise. This is a Sunday afternoon institution
so they greet each other with the intimacy of a private house party.
A seven-piece female ensemble emerges
from the building’s tardis-like depths touting an orchestra’s worth of
instruments. Each member sports a satin pink corset and black thigh-gripping
Capri pants. Their calves are wrapped in the ribbons that secure wedge sandals
to rainbow pedicures. They are here to sing Son, a tradition form of Cuban
music that combines the rhythms of Africa with the guitars of Spain and draws
it all together with soul.
There are no formalities; the singer’s
voice draws us in. The audience groans knowingly or laughs at bitter ironies; a
master class in storytelling set to music. Some of us don’t even understand
Spanish but we understand body language and the cadence of heartache, revenge,
outrage and a wicked sense of humour. The singer’s voice reverberates in the
small space with such power that everybody sways physically and emotionally in
sync with her ebb.
The audience is never static throughout
the two sets offered. Moaning, laugher, leaning forward for punch lines,
comments to neighbours, comments to the singer (who delivers quick-witted
responses like a comic pro) and a full acrobatic workout of facial features
accompanies the rhythm. If the mood takes them, they dance. Bottles of white
rum are brought and shot down fast to fuel the atmosphere. No age barrier is applied to this
behaviour; lack of participation only makes you a target for rehabilitation.
Everybody is pulled up to dance even if they lack the ability that Cubans seem
to possess for sultry, sexy, syncopated swaying and swivelling.
Somewhere in the afternoon, the pink
ladies give way to other performances. An old man takes the microphone in a way
that suggests it is made of lead and swings the mood to one of contemplation
with a haunting ballad. A great, great grandmother (or so I am told) picks up
the tempo again with powerhouse force and then a duelling duo of guitars pick
out a story. Everybody helps belt out the chorus lyrics.
Another shot
of rum is offered, another beer is emptied. Impromptu salsa lessons are given
because, “You need to move to feel.” Leaving is hard but keeping up is harder.
