BA:
Last November,
you celebrated
your 90th
birthday. If
someone wanted
to, they could
write the
history of Cuban
music through
the life of
Compay
Segundo.
CS:
The music that I
play and that I
like is
traditional
music, maybe
it's because of
my age. I play
that music
because it's
history. Young
people want to
know their
roots. And there
has to be
somebody who
shows them,
says, "Look
here, this is
the way they
played it in
yesteryear."
I don't let it
go, because this
is the history
of music, that's
what I
represent. It's
also the music
that's been
popular. I've
traveled to
Europe, Italy,
France, Madrid,
the Canary
Islands, all
those places.
Big crowds,
because it's a
music to be
enjoyed,, that's
very important.
I wrote three
numbers in
Spain, a
"bolero-son"
to Madrid, one
to a bull, and
one based on a
poem by
García-Lorca. I
visited his
house. And his
great-granddaughter
sent me the poem
to set it to
music. And I
gave it a
youthful style,
and she liked it
a lot.
García-Lorca,
if he were
alive, would be
an old man like
me, but I
wasn't going to
have the music
be old. So I
made "Ire a
Santiago,"
the poem by
García-Lorca.
The day I played
it, the
great-granddaughter
cried a lot.
I've done a lot
of things away
from my
homeland. Now
I'm here in
Havana and
people know who
Compay Segundo
is. They've
given me all
kinds of honors.
When it comes to
musicians, I'm
like the daddy
of musicians
here in Cuba.
There's isn't a
musician around
older than I am.
I know all the
musicians of
Cuba.
BA:
What styles do
you most like to
compose in?
CS:
I have danzones,
waltzes, sones.
I have some
beautiful
danzones. Why?
Because I've
learned from
those who know
how to preserve
the tradition of
the music. I
play music the
way it was
played in
yesteryear. I
started out
playing the
"son corto"
(short son). As
Miguel Matamoros
used to say,
"The son is
short and
sweet." I
started hearing
that "son
cortico."
Back in the day,
they'd start out
playing son at
seven in the
evening, and
they'd greet the
dawn with it.
"Woman, if
I could
understand your
way of loving If
I could
understand that
for your love I
have to be born
I'd ask God for
death, I'd ask
God for light To
love you and
love you like
you'd like"
BA:
What's your
relationship of
friendship and
work with Ry
Cooder been
like?
CS:
Ry Cooder for me
is a master, a
great master
that has a
wonderful feel
for Cuban music.
He's also paid
tribute my
talent a bit,
even though I
don't know half
of what he
knows. But he's
paid tribute a
bit. I received
some flowers
from him in
Madrid that he
sent from Los
Angeles. I was
surprised. They
knocked on my
hotel room door
and they gave me
these flowers
from Ry Cooder.
And when I
returned to
Havana he sent
some flowers on
my 89th
birthday. I got
an envelope from
Ry Cooder too.
He sent me some
photos where we
appear together,
three or four
photos and some
other things. So
I know that he
knows where I
am. When I was
in Europe, he
told me,
"Don't burn
out, take care
of yourself, I
need you."
Those are his
words. Because
there's a very
beautiful song,
not because it's
mine, but it's
beautiful,
that's called
"The
Pen," that
he liked a lot.
I speak of the
pen without
barely
mentioning it:
"The
distance that
separates us
doesn't
matter
When two heats
feel the same
With my faithful
companion that
also knows how
to speak I'll
tell you that
nothing will
keep me from
loving you We
should be
grateful that
part of our love
is how softly It
traces out our
feelings You are
the paper and I
the pen And
soon you'll
receive a letter
of love."
BA:
What was the
music scene like
in 1930s and 40s
Cuba?
CS:
I remember from
those days the
Septeto Nacional,
el Septeto
Habanero. There
was the Orquesta
de Fernando
Collazo, the
Orquesta
Maravillas del
Siglo, there
were Cachao and
Jesús López. I
also remember
the Conjunto de
Arsenio
Rodríguez. That
was a great one.
That band was
instrumental
because they
were among the
first to put
together that
type of conjunto.
But here in
Havana around
that time there
were the "sociedades."
And at the
beginning when
the septetos
began, the
sociedades
didn't want
anybody
playing
bongos. The
sociedades were
puritanical,
they didn't want
bongos, they
said "those
are for the
black
people."
But as time went
by, that music
gained
popularity, so
they had to
introduce it
into the
sociedades too.
It was
beautiful, happy
music. I'm from
that time of the
septetos. Each
one had its own
style. In those
days, you could
distinguish the
sound of the
different conjuntos, and
the different
orquestas. These
days it's all
more simple.
When you here a
conjunto and you
hear another
conjunto, you
think it's like
a continuation
of the first.
It's all the
same, same,
same. There's no
variety, just
the same music.
Same thing with
dancing. Before,
the couples
danced. The man
felt the heat of
the woman, there
were even kisses
on the
dance floor. But
today it's
different, the
woman jumps this
way and the man
jumps that way.
Before, women
would buy a
dress a the man,
to place his
hand on her back
had to use a
perfumed and
very expensive
handkerchief.
Now, they're
jumping up and
down and on one
night the dress
is dirtied from
all that sweat,
it's a disaster.
Before, people
danced very
class, the party
would end and
the dresses
would still be
clean. That's
the difference
between today
and yesterday.
Back then, a
dance was a
show. Because at
a dance all the
best dancers
would show up.
There'd be
groups of the
best. A
dancer would
come up and say,
"Get out of
there, you don't
know how to do
dance."
There were dance
competitions.
Not today. Today
there's just a
bunch of
jumping,
everyone jumping
and sweating. I
think they're
mistreating art
a bit, because
art is not about
that. I've
visited Italy,
France, England,
with a quartet.
And you can have
an
orquesta of 16
professores, but
when I play
people are going
to hear me. But
why? Because
people are very
interested in my
poetry, in what
I say. But with
a salsa
orchestra, you
can't hear the
poetry. You hear
the trombones,
the trumpet, the
keyboards, you
hear everything,
except what the
singer is
saying. They
should rectify
that, it's a
failure. I say
it's a failure.
One time in
Spain I was
playing and a
trumpeter got up
to accompany my
quartet and
people covered
their ears. They
better rectify
that. Every time
I talk about
this, I say:
when the singer
is singing, he
must be
respected, you
must be able to
hear what he's
saying. You
can't put a
trombone and a
drum up there,
and a microphone
on the drum,
microphones on
everybody. You
can't hear
what he's
saying.
BA:
One of your
best-known
compositions is
"Chan
Chan," a
son that is very
popular in Cuba
and in the
exterior.
CS:
One of my last
songs was
"Chan
Chan,"
which I wrote in
1987. I played
it for the first
time at a club
called Cristino.
It's a number
that has four
notes, and four
chords. There's
very few numbers
that you can
sing the whole
song with four
notes. I've been
to Santa
Clara-Las Villas
province and
everybody up
there knows it;
I've been to
Santiago de Cuba
y and everybody
there knows it
too. I go by a
school and when
a kid sees me,
he says,
"Look, it's
Compay
Segundo,"
and starts
singing,
"I'm going
from Alto Cedro
to Marcané then
from Cueto, I'm
going to Mayarí."
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Credits
Musical artists appear courtesy of World Circuit/Nonesuch
Records.
Film Images appear courtesy of Road Movies.
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