On the road with Los Van Van

Posted Friday, November 23, 2007

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Last Friday, October 10, a pair of television cameramen impatiently paced the aisles of the crowded first-floor international arrivals lounge at Miami International Airport, cameras ready on their shoulders, as they awaited a plane from Havana. Reporters for local Spanish-language stations had heard through ''radio bemba (loose-lip radio)'' -- the slang term for the Cuban grapevine that stretches from here to the island -- that the members of dance band Los Van Van were on their way to Miami. While a heavy flow of passengers from various flights cleared customs and funneled into the lounge, setting off explosive family reunions, the small group of TV reporters remained subdued. And waited for the musicians who never appeared.
But the 16 members of Los Van Van were in the building. Learning of the media's presence, they'd taken the elevator inside the gate and gone to the second floor. Singer Mayito Rivera stopped to order hot dogs at America's Favorites to Go, and charmed the counter girl in his heavily accented English. Other band members were already outside, boarding the big white bus that on Saturday would take them to Key West, where the following night, Los Van Van would give a free concert for two thousand people at a waterside bar. It would be a landmark event, the first time that a major dance band from Cuba performed in Key West in four decades, echoing pre-revolutionary times, when orchestras played the city every weekend.
The band members, no strangers to Miami, spent Friday night visiting the already familiar homes of relatives and friends. Such layovers have been a regular part of the group's itinerary since they began their frequent concert tours of the United States in 1997, tours that have only once brought them to Miami. Los Van Van played the Miami Arena in 1999, an event that stands out as one of the biggest imbroglios in the city's long, tortured history of intolerance, dividing residents of Miami into concertgoers and concert protestors. The show, though, did go on -- with the Miami Arena surrounded by police in riot gear.
Bassist Juan Formell founded Los Van Van in 1969, bringing Cuban music into the era of Beatlemania by adding electric bass, keyboards, and drum kit to the traditional charanga orchestra format. The band got funkier in the 1970s, appealing to an international audience by adding other Latin rhythms. These days, they'll include an occasional rap from one of the new, younger band members.
While they've enjoyed a cult-like following abroad, Los Van Van have unfailingly played to the Cuban people, creating new dance styles with their deftly orchestrated Caribbean soul and documenting three decades of life on the island through their music. Such is their impact that Los Van Van are frequently referred to by international critics as Cuba's Rolling Stones. And then there's the joke that's gone around Havana for some time: ``100 years from now, what will the encyclopedia entry for Fidel Castro say? President in power in Cuba during the era of Los Van Van.''
But here in Miami, conservative Cuban exiles routinely attack Formell -- whom they regard as an emissary of the Cuban government for his refusal to denounce Fidel Castro -- with a vehemence usually reserved for Castro himself. Most recently, he was the biggest target of exiles who said they would protest if the Latin Grammy-nominated band dared attend the award ceremonies held last month in Miami. The band subsequently received little support from event organizers and, unable to secure U.S. visas in time, stayed home (See ''You Don't Have Mail,'' August 29).
Los Van Van, however, did play in Tampa this past spring, but have made no plans to stage a return concert in Miami. The 61-year-old Formell maintains the band's goal is to play music while avoiding conflict. Thus, their road trip to Key West, and their escape route from MIA. ''If those TV reporters were going to do an interview and ask about music, about what the band is doing, about their next album, that would be great,'' explained the group's road manager, Americo Miranda Ortiz. ``But it's always the same thing with those people. When will they get it that culture is not about politics?''
The Cuban invasion of the Conch Republic began early in the day on Sunday, when the lobby of the Doubletree Grand Key Resort became a meeting point for band members and their friends from Miami, some of whom came with small children or babies in tow. And, of course, there were the girls; one blonde fan strolled through the lobby in tight, white pants totally cut out in the seat to reveal her tan rear. Out at the pool, a blinding glare reflected off of the gold jewelry worn by the Cubans frolicking in the water, and Havana cigar smoke filled the air. Someone with a cell phone fielded calls reporting caravans of cars, motorcycles, and vans headed for the concert. More subdued hotel guests looked up from their lounge chairs at the sound of loud laughter and the periodic shouts of ''¿Que bola? (What's up?)'' that greeted each new arrival.
The musicians remarked on Key West's similarity to Havana. ''And it's so close!'' marveled violinist Pedrito Fajardo. ''I think they're going to hear us in Matanzas,'' he added, referring to the province east of the Cuban capital. Samuel Formell, son of the bandleader and the group's drummer, saw a familiar looking boat docked off the beach road and motioned to it. ''It's like the Granma,'' he said with a laugh, referencing the boat that returned rebel leader Fidel Castro from exile in Mexico to Cuba in 1956.
John Henry Cabañas, a Key West businessman and founder of the Key West--Cuba Heritage Institute, a cultural nonprofit, sat for some time on a rocking chair in the Doubletree's lobby, answering calls on his cell phone. It was Cabañas who had organized the Van Van concert, part of his plan to reinstate the kind of cultural exchange that existed between Cuba and Key West in earlier days.
Cabañas' story is unusual, much different from that of Cubans who came to Miami in the 1960s. His family arrived in Key West from colonial Cuba a century earlier, in 1854. Living in Key West, Cabañas was an early supporter of the revolution; he moved to Cuba in 1961 and lived on the island until 1988.
''Neighbors should get to know each other,'' said Cabañas, referring to Key West's proximity, both geographical and historical, to the island. ``We share a lot of heritage with Cuba in Key West. We had the first major population of Cubans in the U.S. Unfortunately, Miami doesn't have that history, but Key West does, and we're here to celebrate it.''
Cabañas had originally scheduled the concert for Friday, October 10, on the Cuban holiday that marks the beginning of the war for independence from Spain. His idea, in a sense, was to continue a family tradition. His father, Julio, served as president of the San Carlos Institute -- a repository of Cuban culture still housed in a gorgeous building on Duval Street -- from 1951 to 1961. During those years, the Institute presented Cuban orchestras every October.
''It was a very common occurrence here in Key West in the '50s and early '60s, when I was a kid,'' Cabañas recalled. ``We're not inventing something, we're continuing something that was beautiful.''
The October 10 show, though, scheduled for Mallory Square, was canceled by Key West Police after concerns about public safety arose. According to Cabañas, a Cuban exile faction in the city made threatening phone calls in the days leading up to the concert.
''I would like to be able to do this without this confrontation,'' the promoter explained. ''This is a free country. The concert is a peaceful thing. We had no complications with getting the visas (from the U.S. State Department), and there's no reason why we should have. This is a legitimate cultural exchange there's no reason why there should be a problem.'' (Bands who live on the island are legally allowed to play in the United States, since cultural exchange is permitted by the embargo.)
Finally, the owners of Sands Beach Club, a popular place on the water known for its daiquiri contests and volleyball competitions, said they would welcome the Cuban band on Sunday, the 12th. The show had to be put together quickly. While the bar regulars watched football inside on Sunday afternoon, a small stage was set up on the sand, and a sound company from Miami came down.
As a pink and gold sunset descended on Key West, a gold SUV reportedly carrying some ''Cuban ballplayers'' rolled into town. Older couples, sun-weathered hippies, and a group of santeros dressed in white began strolling toward the Sands. Behind the Sands, a bus pulled up, and out poured Los Van Van, fresh from their day around the pool.
As the band began to file out, a reporter from Spanish-language network Univision rushed the door where he scuffled with security. ''Talk to Miami! Talk to Miami!'' he screamed at band members as a camera pointed in their direction. Singer Rivera would later grant the Univision reporter a brief interview, which, according to the next day's Key West Citizen, included a ``Viva Fidel.''
While the musicians warmed up on the rooftop terrace, Juan Formell sat quietly on a chair, occasionally consulting with band members about the stage set-up and set list. Formell had passed on the hotel pool that day and, instead, spent the afternoon with Cabañas, on a tour of historical sights in Key West. ''I think everyone's going to have a good time,'' he said with a smile.
Los Van Van went on stage at exactly 7 p.m., accompanied by security guards, a police escort, and the cheers of the crowd. There were Americans and Key West Cubans there, tourists in town for the Columbus Day weekend, as well as those Cubans who had made the trip from Miami. Like the band, the audience spanned several generations. One couple had come all the way from New York when they found out about the show. The meeting of Parrot Heads and VanVaneros spawned a strange fashion mix -- Birkenstocks and gauze dresses over here, bikini tops, lowrider jeans, and platforms over there. One guy, perhaps a little confused, wore a Mexican hat. A row of middle-age locals sat in rocking chairs near the entrance to the bar, while a tightly packed throng of Cuban fans pressed to the front.
''Remember that a Cuban -- no matter where he is -- is still a Cuban,'' singer Roberto Hernandez shouted in Spanish from the stage, before beginning a roll call of Cuban neighborhoods on both sides of the Florida Straits. ``Anyone from El Cerro? La Vibora? Hialeah? Hands up, people of Key West! We've come to bring you the music of Cuba!''
The crowd grew, and while hardcore fans pressed closer to the stage, tense with emotion, waving their hands and dancing, on the street next to the Sands, a street party formed, where onlookers circled around couples dancing casino. About a half dozen boats pulled up behind the stage. Some passengers jumped off and began dancing in the chest high water. A couple of dogs swam back and forth.
''We're going to show la yuma [Cuban slang for the U.S.] that salsa from Cuba is different,'' said Rivera, before launching into ''Ay Dios, Amparame (Please, God, Give Me Strength)'' a plea to the Santeria gods. ``Where are the troops from Miami? What do you say Miami? Are we, or are we not, Cubans?''
The band played some new songs from their Latin Grammy-nominated live album and old hits, drawing cheers with a medley of songs from the 1970s. The biggest all-around crowd pleaser was a gyrating dance contest among girls who Rivera pulled from the crowd until no more would fit on the stage. All were Cuban, from Miami and Key West. For three hours, the quaint historic district shook with the band's frenetic polyrhythmic fusion and spiraling improvisational song, answered by the shouts from the crowd in rousing call and response choruses.
When the show was over, the band's members greeted fans, then settled at a long table at the Sands for dinner as the sweaty crowd dispersed. By 10 a.m. the next morning, Los Van Van were on the road again, headed toward Miami, where they'd rest for a couple of days before returning to Havana.
''This is a cool place,'' decided Samuel Formell, surveying the palm-dotted landscape that reminded him of Cuba. ``I could see us coming to play here three or four times a year.''