That the Buena Vista Social Club's take on "Chan Chan" and Ibrahim Ferrer's cover of "Marieta" are listed as appropriate tunes to play at a reception in the most recent issue of Martha Stewart Weddings is testament to the widespread impact these men have had on music over the past two years. "When Juanika and Chan Chan/Sifted sand together on the beach/How her bottom shook and/Chan Chan was aroused," is a translated sample from the former and "I've got some evil ways/that upset even me/I retire to my bed/but wake up in another's" is from the latter. Nothing says "wedding" quite like a ditty peppered with a little adulterous sex.

Such is the nature of the Buena Vista Social Club's bittersweet success. On one hand, these seventy-, eighty- and ninety-year-old musicians are making a living by performing for the first time in decades; they're international stars now, platinum artists (Thursday night they finally received their gold and platinum records, as well as their Grammy awards, at a honorary dinner at New York's Cuban upstart restaurant Isla). On the other, due the American embargo of Cuban goods, their albums must be licensed from England, limiting the spectrum of Cuban music to which we have access. On one hand, millions of people have discovered magic in the music of Ferrer, Segundo, RubTn Gonzales, Eliades Ochoa, Barbarito Torres and company. On the other, when the Orquesta Ibrahim Ferrer and RubTn Gonzßlez y Su Grupo played some of the most danceable music in the world to a packed house of suited and seated New Yorkers, it seemed as though the soul of the music wasn't quite hitting its target.

Granted, many listeners were not content to sit still and quietly nod their heads in the constrictive Beacon Theater; frequently the music beckoned, and the need arose to stand and shake one's rump and sing along en espa±ol. Ferrer was actually born on a dance floor; his is a music of movement. It is music of dirty labor, dirty dancing and dirty sex; of witchy women and nasty boys. The music frequently sounds ethereal, particularly the boleros, but don't think for a minute it's naive or, God forbid, pretty.

That said, Ferrer is a great equalizer with regards to his audience. Whether or not one knows the songs' translations, Ferrer's voice is a thing of majesty, capable of establishing meaning in either case. As adept at the cool boleros as the shuffling country sons, Ferrer's style and his voice have greater range than a Russian missile. And his voice is a great chameleon, working his inimitable cool velvety croon on the former, and popping out the words to "Marieta" and "Mamf Me Gust=" with an assured snap and crackle reminiscent of the notes that once flew from the trumpet of Quintet-era Miles Davis.

These performances in support of his first solo album were particularly important for Ferrer. After being forced into temporary retirement from singing by younger, hipper Cuban recording artists, Ferrer has done more than just come back. He has fully stepped from the shadow of the leader of the Banda Gigante, his former boss, the legendary Benny MorT. Tonight, Ferrer proved himself every bit as adept at fronting his own big band, weaving in and out of the glorious racket of his sixteen-piece unit with the charisma of an old-school big band-leader sans the bullying self-centeredness of a frontman.

Like Ferrer, pianist RubTn Gonzßlez is also exercising a novel opportunity to lead a band. He has taken on the task with vigor. Strange days have found us when Ruben Gonzßlez y Su Grupo are billed as an opening act, but such was the case, Nevertheless, he walked on stage with the quiet dignity of an elder statesman. Gonzßlez's gait still shows signs of the arthritis that nearly retired him, but there was no such sluggishness in his fingers. Woody Allen once said if he could be reincarnated as anything, it would be Warren Beatty's fingertips. Beatty and his digits got nothing on Gonzßlez. His fingers are full of gleeful menace, capable of tinkling out something imminently danceable one moment, sly and seductive the next. It's a foxlike craftiness that Ry Cooder has described as a fusion between Thelonious Monk and Felix the Cat, the perfect description.

And what is to be made of Ry Cooder's involvement in this phenomenon? Kudos, certainly for the discovery and presentation of these lost legends. Some might find fault with his continuing to perform with these otherwise strictly Cuban groups, but Cooder is diligent in deflecting attention. He sat invisible from the majority of sightlines in the theater, quietly strumming his guitars. Only on rare occasion did he step into the light, notably on the inspired Telecaster duel with Manuel Galbßn on "Herido de Sombras."

Speaking of which, never before has the Neil Young adage, "it's better to burn out than to fade away," felt so inappropriate as when Ferrer struck into "Herido de Sombras." Ferrer invests the song with a lush, youthful sense of heartbreak, indicative of his musical rebirth. His take on the song accentuates the sense of waste and loss connected to Los Zafiros, the Cuban doo-wop unit that popularized the song three decades ago, before sliding into a self-destructive rut that left the quintet with a sole survivor.

Lest one think this Social Club is a stogie-smoking men's club, Omara Purtuondo strutted on and off the stage throughout the evening, adding a good dose of vocal brass to Gonzßlez's mischievous musings as well as tearing through the fiery "Marieta" with Ferrer one moment, and slowing down the proceedings towards evening's end with "Silencio."

For cynics, the Buena Vista Social Club is a convenient target. The misguided recommendations in Ms. Stewart's magazine are a reasonable reason for scoffing, as are $28 BVSC t-shirts and $52 BVSC jerseys (which looked to be the t-shirts split up the front into a button-down cut). Some have chosen to knock Ry Cooder for launching this wave of Cuban-chic, others have criticized him for concentrating on pre-Revolutionary music, rather than the contemporary sounds of Cuba. These are hollow criticisms. To ignore the history and tradition of these musicians is an oversight. To ignore their passion, which burns with a fresh urgency, is inexcusable for any serious music listener.

It was a terrific sight to carry home: the sixteen-piece band plus Ferrer, Portuondo and Gonzßlez reluctantly walking from the stage, waving; one holding a Cuban flag, one saying "Thank you, New York. Thank you, America." The majority of these musicians were finding ways other than music to make a living just three years ago. Their stories have been highly publicized -- particularly that of Ferrer, who was shining shoes. This forgotten generation of masters suffered from the bite of a stringent embargo, left over from a toothless cold war, to the point where most gave up performing. But today Ferrer, Gonzßlez and their respective orquestas y grupos perform with a glee more common in those the age of their grandchildren. So long as their spirits remain young, these performers will continue to be on loan from the gods.

ANDREW DANSBY
(October 25, 1999)