Acosta Leonardo 2005

ESSAYS

On Generic Complexes and OtherTopics in Cuban Popular Music

Leonardo AcostaTranslated by Daniel Whitesell and Ra�l Fernþndez

The author of the article below, Leonardo Acosta, is a distinguished

Cuban musicologist, writer, and literary critic. As a jazz musician, he

played saxophone (tenor, alto, and occasionally baritone) with all the

important jazz groups in Cuba in the 1950s. He also played for popular

dance bands, including a stint with the famed Giant Orchestra of Beny

More. In 1958, Acosta and a few friends, among them Frank Emilio

Flynn, Cachaıto Lopez, Gustavo Mas, and Walfredo de los Reyes, Jr.,

founded the Club Cubano de Jazz. For the next three years, the Club

Cubano de Jazz sponsored jazz concerts in Havana featuring invited US

jazz musicians such as Stan Getz, Philly Jo Jones, and others. In the

1960s and 1970s, Acosta worked indefatigably as a jazz musician, as a

leader of several jazz ensembles, and as a promoter of jazz performances

in Cuba. By the late 1970s, writing occupied most of Acosta’s time. His

articles on music and literature appeared in newspapers, journals, and

anthologies in Cuba, Colombia, Mexico, Argentina, the United States,

Italy, Spain, France, England, and other countries. Acosta has published

more than a dozen books on music and literary criticism as well as his

own fiction and poetry. Internationally, his best-known works include

Musica y Descolonizacion (1982), a theoretical analysis of the relation-

ship between European art music and ‘‘other’’ musics of the world, and

Del Tambor al Sintetizador (1983), a critical account of the evolution of

Cuban music that has been translated into French and Italian and, in

condensed form, into English. More recently, his book Cubano Be,

Cubano Bop (2003), the product of thirty years of research and active

participation in the world of jazz in Havana, was published in English by

Smithsonian Institution Press.

The article ‘‘On Generic Complexes . . .’’ was first published in

Spanish, appearing in Clave (Ano 4, Numero 3/2002) the journal of the

Instituto Cubano de la Musica (released at the end of 2003). In the article,

On Generic Complexes 227

Acosta critiques contemporary Cuban musicologists for their uncritical

adherence to inherited pronouncements of earlier generations. In particular

he calls into question the usefulness of the concept of ‘‘generic com-

plexes’’ in Cuban popular music, a concept that first surfaced in Cuban

academic discourse in the early 1970s. Acosta also questions the emphasis

that musicologists place on the clave rhythm and problematizes the con-

cept of clave itself. For Acosta, the compartmentalization of Cuban pop-

ular music by means of constructs such as ‘‘generic complex’’ and even

‘‘genre’’ tends to obscure the close affinities between all types of Cuban

dance music as well as the pan-Caribbeanist and Afro-religious roots of

many Cuban musical forms.

The article is of great significance not only because it critiques

earlier approaches and calls for fresh thinking, but also because it offers

the broad outlines of a new model for the evolution of Cuban popular

music. In this ‘‘archeology’’ of music proposed by Acosta, the relation-

ships between the Afro-Cuban polyrhythmic ‘‘arsenal’’ and Afro-Cuban

religious and ritual manifestations and Afro-Caribbean rhythmic traditions

are no longer obscured.

Raul Fernandez

In the attempt to develop new approaches in researching the history of

Cuban popular music, we find above all problems of historiographic nature

such as arbitrary dating—or dates that are reinforced arbitrarily in deference

to supposedly ultimate and final authorities—or myths that are very difficult

to overcome such as the one on ‘‘new rhythms’’ and their supposed ‘‘creators’’

(Acosta, ‘‘Los inventores’’). But there are also certain theoretical difficulties

in musicology that—although they seem to be of little importance—in the

long run are not only annoying because unfounded but also constitute a

hindrance to research: one of them is the concept of ‘‘generic complexes’’

that today weighs like a ball and chain on the rumba, the son, and the danzon.1

Son, danzon, and rumba happen to be the three historical pillars of

our popular danceable music, from which arise a number of variants,

subgenres, hybrids, styles, and even ‘‘intergenre’’ tendencies and modalities

such as mambo, danzonete, danzon de nuevo ritmo, guaracha-son, bolero-

son, and even salsa or timba, to mention only a few. The root manifestations

were always considered ‘‘genres’’ or ‘‘modalities’’ of our popular music—

although today some musicologists are beginning to question the very con-

cept of genre, as we shall see. But one fine day somebody began to call them

‘‘complexes’’ (complejos), which at first seemed to be a simple question of

228 Leonardo Acosta

terminology to be accepted or rejected, but harmless just the same.

Nevertheless, what we accepted as a novelty or even a conceptual discovery

has turned into a dogma, and authors from Cuba and other Spanish-speaking

countries use the term repeatedly, without any previous analysis or critical

reflection.2

An unnecessary term can be overlooked, but a dogma can prevent

a clear understanding of the historical process that gives rise to our most

deeply rooted genres and practically all of our popular music, particularly

danceable music. Therefore, it is necessary to analyze dispassionately the

problem of complexes—which in reality is simple enough—and to get rid

of this problem in short order so that we might open the way to a

historiography and a musicology that is at least complex-free.

Among the different meanings found in a relatively reputable

dictionary such as the Diccionario manual e ilustrado de la lengua

espanola, we find: ‘‘Complex (Complejo): adj. Said of what is composed

of diverse elements.//m. Set or union of two or more things.’’ Although it

is not much, considering the fact that the ineffable Academy is just as

lavish in absurdities as it is in arrogance, we will accept in principle these

two definitions, at least in gratitude for their economy and relative mod-

esty, although they do not tell us a lot—for clearly a person ‘‘is composed

of diverse elements,’’ as is a machine in general. But as we shall see, to

qualify as a real complex, these ‘‘diverse elements’’ should come together

under some kind of principle, order, hierarchy, or—more precisely—

organization.

If we observe other bigger and more specialized repertories, we

will see that there are ‘‘industrial complexes,’’ such as our sugar mills (the

sugar plantation is a typical agro-industrial complex), but there are also

‘‘complex numbers’’ in mathematics as well as an alarming number of

complexes in psychology and psychoanalysis. The word is therefore a

catchall for designating many different things that are complicated, as

complex in turn is a synonym for complicated, despite the elemental

simplicity that we have attributed to it.

With a judgment that is perhaps more empiric than bookish, to me

a complex is a set of clearly differentiated factors that assume and carry

out distinct yet complementary functions, i.e., distinct functions that have

a common objective. This would be the case with agro-industrial or tourist

complexes, or with the cultural complexes that are so in vogue and that

may consist of a cinema theater, an art gallery, a bookstore, a conference

room, and more recently a video room or Internet cafe.


With respect to our musical complexes, I believe the term is

sometimes applicable when we refer to a ‘‘rumba complex,’’ as long as

we apply it to the rumba or timba as a fiesta or social activity. Because

what is traditionally designated as a rumba (or timba) fiesta is an activity

that implies diverse functions, including the preparation of food and drink

(even served according to gender) as well as singing, dancing, and playing

the drums, and that also implies the social action of inviting the neighbors

in the solar or barrio and groups of players who participate in the

celebration in fraternal competition with the host group (Blanco, ‘‘La

fiesta cubana’’).

The term is also applied strictly to musical manifestations, and it is

this erroneous application that seems to have created the ‘‘complex

mania.’’ When the ‘‘rumba complex’’ is identified simply or naıvely as

the sum of its principal variants (yambu, columbia, and guaguanco), the

term is being applied inappropriately to designate what constitutes, with-

out further detail, a genre with distinct variants, coming from common

roots and with similar functions (not identical, but also not complementary

nor sufficiently differentiated). The error is greater when the concept is

mechanically applied to genres such as the son, and even worse, to the

danzon.

If the concept of son as a rural celebration existed in the past, it has

not been used that way for some time; today, it is more common to talk of

a guateque, in which you can hear a son montuno or any rural variant of

the son, as well as puntos and tonadas. But the dogma tells us that what

we have here is a ‘‘son complex,’’ which would consist of elements such

as son montuno, changuı, sucu-sucu, son urbano, son pregon, guaracha-

son, etc., although there are those who reduce it to three or four, as they

see fit. In this jumble, regional variants are confused with historical

variants or at least ones that are clearly diachronic, because obviously

the son montuno preceded the son urbano, and the son oriental comes

before the son habanero. The inclusion of certain son hybrids that appear

much later seems to be based more on ‘‘cocktail mixing’’ than it is on

theory or logic itself. That is, temporal simultaneity (synchrony), spatial

and regional diversity (created by spreading, i.e., diachronic), and the

historical evolution and development (diachrony) are all mixed into one

category (a complex). In addition to all this, the concept of genre itself is

being questioned today, and musicologists such as Danilo Orozco suggest

a different, perhaps more complicated terminology—one that is, none-

theless, more accurate.3

230 Leonardo Acosta

The error is even greater when a ‘‘danzon complex’’ is conceived

that would include the ‘‘genres’’ contradanza, danza, habanera, danzon,

danzonete, mambo, and chachacha. The first thing that sticks out is the

inappropriateness of putting two genres (rumba and son) and their variants

in the same category or type, all of the variants having emerged—or better

yet having been discovered—around the same period (more or less devel-

oped), along with a series of supposed genres or subgenres, or whatever

you want to call them, that constitute a long and gradual historical process

spanning a century and a half, in which—as far as we know—each genre

would generally come from the previous. In the case of the rumba and the

son, one tends to establish hypothetical chronological schema, although

tentatively synchronic, while in the case of the danzon, we are not dealing

with a genre and its variants, but rather a genre and its genealogical

predecessors and its descendants or derivations. Here, we have a genetic

and chronological schematic of a historically documented phenomenon

that in addition is not an oral tradition, but rather a written one. Hence,

what we are dealing with is another category or classification. It is there-

fore arbitrary to select the genre name danzon and use it as a title for the

supposed complex, for it is neither a generator of the others nor a final

result. But the basic contradiction here is the matching of two more or less

synchronic phenomena with another that is essentially diachronic. and

there are other contradictions as well.

We might say that there are two fundamental differences between

the danzon phenomenon on the one hand and those of the son and rumba

on the other: the first is that while the latter two genres are born and

develop in Cuba from polyrhythms of African origin (with various

European elements), the danzon is the result of a gradual process of

criollizacion or cubanization of a European musical form (country

dance-contredanse-contradanza). The second difference, obviously, is

that here we have a music that from its origins has been written in

Western notation and therefore should not be arbitrarily matched up

with other music that clearly belongs to an oral tradition, and that was

not written down for the first time until about the 1920s.

We find other inaccuracies as well in the ‘‘genealogy’’ or supposed

filiations of the ‘‘danzon complex,’’ for if on the one hand the family

‘‘contradanza-danza-habanera-danzon-danzonete,’’ for example, does not

present too many problems, the mambo on the other hand does; it comes

from successive grafts of rhythmic patterns of son in the final part of the

danzon, which ends up being called mambo and finally gains


independence as a dance genre and which cannot be considered a variant

nor a ‘‘child’’ (legitimate or illegitimate) of the danzon. To me, it repre-

sents a kind of incredible offspring, unexpected and brilliant, originating

from actual Afro-Cuban music, generated through its own dynamic in the

minds and practice of some of our brightest and most innovative musi-

cians. Said in another way, the mambo is a typical modern fusion genre

that may derive its rhythmic essence from the son, but with a strong rumba

resonance and characteristics of danzon, guajira, and jazz. As for the

chachacha, here we have another hybrid, in this case the combination of

‘‘danzon cantado,’’ ‘‘danzon de ritmo nuevo,’’ and mambo itself, and

capable of incorporating other completely different modalities such as

Cuban bolero and Spanish cuple—another great creation coming from

the alchemy of Cuban musicians.4

Fortunately, the theology of genre complexes has been taken with

skepticism by researchers from different countries, including Cuba, where

quite a few musicologists have oscillated between rejection, incredulity,

and ridicule. If this were not the case, we would probably have to deal

with a complex for ‘‘plena and bomba,’’ another one for ‘‘cumbia and

porro,’’ and yet others for jazz, calypso, and samba. As an example, a nice

Dominican merengue complex would include merengues from the South

and East of the country, as well as from the Northeast Region and of

course the cibaeno (from the northern Cibao region). Other popular dishes

from this Dominican culinary complex would be the bolemengue, the

merecumbe, the perico ripiao, the merengue palo echao, and of course,

the variants found outside the borders of the Dominican Republic such as

the Venezuelan, Colombian, and Puerto Rican versions as well as the

Haitian meringue, which some musicologists believe to be the predecessor

of all the others.

But all joking aside, the problem lies in the fact that the emphasis

on forming complexes, whether it be fad or dogma, has serious negative

consequences for the research of Cuban popular music for the not very

obvious reason that the underlying unity of our danceable music and its

essential African quality based on common Caribbean roots is obscured

when we break up the music and its fundamental pillars into segments or

try to compartmentalize it, producing separate and autonomous worlds,

like ghettos. The research field becomes foggy when we attempt to divide

it up in this way, and as a result, we are left with only the illusion of

having solved a problem. Nothing more. Nominalism? We should remem-

ber that the three ‘‘crucial’’ genres are in turn the result of previous

232 Leonardo Acosta

transformations, part of some other process, a process which is still not very

well understood and which is characterized by empty spaces that we have only

been able to fill with conjecture. When the musicologist Danilo Orozco

(Nexos) refers to ‘‘proto-genres,’’ ‘‘intergenres,’’ ‘‘genre types,’’ ‘‘transition

genres,’’ and practically a whole nomenclature that is new to us, the average

reaction is usually one that ranges from irritation to sarcasm, as if we were

dealing with a case of flatus vocis, when in reality he is providing us a solution

to this historical vacuum that we have not been able to fill due to inertia,5 and it

is precisely this ‘‘empty space’’—thus its transcendence—that connects our

popular danceable music in two fundamental directions: with the liturgical

(and secular) Afro-Cuban music on the one hand and with popular

Afro-Caribbean music on the other.

Collateral Fetishes: the Cinquillo and the ClaveFurthermore, the schema of complexes reinforces other controversial

ideas and misunderstandings with respect to the basic rhythm patterns of our

primary genres, transformed sometimes into pure fetishes: I am referring

particularly to the cinquillo danzonero and the clave sonera, which along

with the guaguanco clave (not that of the rumba in general), have been put

forth as characteristic elements of these three modalities. Here, the problem

consists of separating these rhythm cells or patterns as if they were totally

independent entities, each one within the corresponding ghetto in which they

tend to transform each genre. The musicians themselves, basically the per-

cussionists, show the falsity of this theoretical compartmentalization when

they go from one rhythm to the other and/or combine them with astonishing

speed and subtlety. This is possible because these rhythms come from the

same sources, from common roots, as we have indicated.

The danzon appears with the rhythmic figure of the cinquillo as part of

a gradual and almost natural process. Cuban musicology (Carpentier, La

musica; Gonzalez, Contradanzas) has shown that the cinquillo was present

in Saumell’s contradanzas, along with other rhythm patterns such as the tango

or tango-congo—later also called ‘‘habanera’’—rhythm. We should point out

here that the presence of these patterns in the work of Manuel Saumell proves

that these rhythms, proto-genres etcetera, were already being heard in the

streets of Havana earlier than we have assumed. As for our cinquillo (which of

course, as with everything ‘‘ours,’’ is not really ours), the primary discrepan-

cies stem from the assumption, held by Carpentier among others, that the

contradanza ‘‘criolla’’ came across from Haiti to Santiago, Cuba. Hence, the


commonly held idea that the cinquillo was a rhythmic figure of Haitian origins

invariably associated with the cocoye and the tumba francesa. If this were

true, however, the first news of the danzon would have come to us from

Santiago and not from Matanzas. At least this is what the most elementary

logic would suggest. But the notion that the contradanza (and the cinquillo)

came to Cuba exclusively via Haiti has already been successfully refuted by

Zoila Lapique (‘‘Aportes franco-haitianos’’), among others.

In an important study, and a real milestone in our musical histor-

iography, Lapique convincingly argued that:

. . . in the island’s Eastern Province (Departamento Oriental) the

French-Haitian musical influence remained confined until shortly

after the middle of the nineteenth century, when, with great jubila-

tion, the Haitian cocoye cinquillos, which had become acclimated

in that zone through an extended stay of more than fifty years,

invaded Havana, where they found already fertile ground with that

same rhythmic cell and combination—which we have also seen in

the liturgical music of the Congos and the Yorubas—used simul-

taneously by musicians who were seeking to change the old

rhythm scheme of the contradanza criolla, enriching it with the

cinquillo. (‘‘Aportes franco-haitianos’’ 164)

In the same essay, Zoila Lapique demonstrates, in contrast to the

widely held notion of the arrival of the contradanza solely by way of

French-Haitians, how a Spanish contradanza—which had already been

gallicized due to the preferences of the Bourbon Court in Madrid—had

previously come to Havana and Matanzas, blending quickly with Afro-

Cuban toques (rhythmic patterns or beats) from the western part of the

country. Today, it appears unquestionable that the cinquillo, far from

being a late arrival, comes from the same Afro-Cuban—or better yet

Afro-Caribbean—polyrhythmic framework that is already present on the

island in the first centuries of colonization, and therefore at a much earlier

date than the French-Haitian immigration, which served only to strengthen

some of the stylistic characteristics of our music.6

In other words, the cinquillo goes back to the African polyrhythms,

from which it emerges through a process of selection or decantation (or

random chance)—just like the tango-congo—before assuming its danzo-

nero and ‘‘habaneroso’’ role, as Danilo Orozco (Nexos) would put it. We

should also remember that the Yoruba culture had exercised a significant

234 Leonardo Acosta

influence on the Dahomean culture in Africa, which is reflected in Haitian

voodoo and is easily verified by looking at the respective pantheons of the

voodoo loa and the regla de Ocha orichas. Further similarities and bor-

rowings would show up in an analysis of the respective toques of these

religions and other Afro-Caribbean liturgies that came together to a

greater or lesser degree to form an extensive polyrhythmic arsenal or

framework, the foundation of what we could tentatively call inter-

African, Afro-Caribbean, or Pan Afro-Caribbean, which in turn would

have common ties to music that we might describe as Pan Afro-

Brazilian. But getting back to the cinquillo, and limiting ourselves geo-

graphically to Cuba, we can prove that this rhythmic figure appears in

Yoruba and Bantu music, sometimes as the result of the combinations of

two or three drums, as in the case of a toque in honor of Eleggua in

Yoruba music, or in rumba itself, which is of a secular nature and Bantu in

origin.

Another set of problems arises with respect to son and its typical

clave, which (in my opinion) is closely related to the preceding ones. It is

rare that we stop to analyze the strong link that exists between the

cinquillo and the son clave, perhaps because of our tendency to overlook

what turns out to be quite obvious. The presence of the cinquillo in so

many genres (contradanza, danzon, cocoye, in the East of Cuba), strength-

ened by the French-Haitian contribution, as we have seen, is evident, as is

also the fact that son shows up in this same region, although it is ‘‘dis-

covered’’ decades later and in a different historical context, with emphasis

on its rural and montuno origins. Only a few musicologists—and in

general musicians—from the region emphasize the old sones whose

basic rhythm is precisely the cinquillo with its complementary measure,

but at a faster tempo. It becomes apparent here that the clave sonera is

implicit in the cinquillo; just eliminate the sixteenth notes and the first and

last eighth notes of the complementary measure. (It is no accident that the

omnipresent cinquillo also finds its way to trova and bolero, only in an

opposite sense, i.e., at a much slower tempo and within the melody itself.)

The Myth of the Clave and the Reality of �Being on Clave�Perhaps the most enduring and widespread myth is connected with

the clave and the dogma that ‘‘without clave there is no Cuban music,’’

which is staunchly defended by American and Latin American musicolo-

gists (although not by the majority of Cuban musicologists). But which


clave are we talking about? In general, they mean the clave of the son or

maybe the guaguanco, but they seem unaware that there are more claves:

the campesina, the bembe, the ‘‘coros de clave,’’ and the ones from the

different toques in honor of orichas, among others.7 Of course, Cuban

musicology is partly responsible for this, when, for example, Alejo

Carpentier, who in turn refers to Emilio Grenet (Musica popular), writes:

It is interesting to note, in passing, that the rhythm of the claves, as

Emilio Grenet has keenly suggested, is the only one that always

fits, without variants, every type of Cuban melody: it constitutes,

therefore, a kind of metric constant. (La musica 60, emphasis by

A. Carpentier)

The clave or, worse yet, a rhythm of the claves is spoken of here as

if there were only one, furthermore one that would fit ‘‘without variants’’

any type of Cuban melody. In fact, it is not very clear what either one of

the musicologists wanted to convey, but what they said is confusing, for

there is not just one ‘‘rhythm of the claves,’’ and the reference to ‘‘every

type of Cuban melody’’ is puzzling coming from Carpentier or Grenet; it

constitutes a generalization that is more than debatable and in flagrant

contradiction with the written works of both.

In my opinion, Cuban musicians, particularly those living in the

United States, have spread the myth of the single clave to intimidate and

confuse American musicians and others who become interested in playing our

rhythms. In the beginning, it was probably a defensive strategy to combat the

discriminatory arrogance of American promoters, who would not allow

Cuban musicians to play their music. Confronted with this admonition of

‘‘stick to your own specialty,’’ the Cuban response seems to have been ‘‘don’t

encroach on my turf.’’8 The bad habit of so many musicologists of considering

it unnecessary to consult with popular musicians may make this seem like

mere speculation, but in this case, a number of Cuban percussionists have

endorsed my view and we can verify the quasi-religious fear that musicians

from abroad feel toward the clave. To make matters worse, today Americans

(in magazines, posters, etc.) write ‘‘clave’’ (with an accent), after two centuries

of disregard for proper accentuation in the Spanish language. I do not know

the reasons for this change, and although they must exist, I cannot figure them

out.

For those who understand the variety and richness of Afro-Cuban

polyrhythms and their distinct claves for different toques, equating the

236 Leonardo Acosta

clave of the son (or guaguanco) with the essence of our music is simply

unsustainable. Of course, the clave sonera is essential if what you are

trying to achieve is a genuine son feel: the mistake lies in not recognizing

that what is actually important in all Afro-Cuban music is not the clave

(any clave), but rather the polyrhythm in which the respective clave is

only one part, as is any one voice in a polyphonic group. It is precisely in

the classic son groups (such as the sextet) that there is not a single voice or

instrument that can be left out without affecting the polyrhythmic concep-

tion and the overall melodic-rhythmic discourse, which make the son the

miracle of balance and synthesis (Euro-Afro-Cuban) that gives it its

specific character.

As for American musicologists and other specialists on Afro-

Cuban music, while they often deal with the clave of the guaguanco

(which is only slightly different from the son clave by a minimal shifting

of the third beat), they tend to privilege the son clave, perhaps influenced

by its primacy in the phenomenon of salsa and the debates surrounding

this dance music, and the rise of Afro-Latin (initially Afro-Cuban) jazz

leads them to the false schematization of considering it a combination of

jazz and son. But history shows us that the role of son in the creation of

‘‘Latin jazz’’ was minimal, for even if we take Machito y sus Afrocubanos

as a primary reference, Machito himself had experience in son, but also in

rumba, in mambo, and in Afro-Cuban liturgical music, and Chano Pozo

brought elements of rumba columbia as well as other elements of Yoruba

and Abakua origin to jazz. It is symptomatic—and revealing—that the

leading percussion instrument in Afro-Latin jazz is the tumbadora (conga),

not the bongo. Furthermore, it is obvious today that in Afro-Latin jazz any

clave may be used, or none at all (Acosta, ‘‘El tambor de Cuba’’ and

Cubano Be).

The phrase ‘‘to be on clave’’ or ‘‘to have clave’’ may help us clear

up these misunderstandings (although it can also generate them); we use

this expression in the same sense that jazz musicians speak of ‘‘having

swing’’ or ‘‘playing with swing.’’ In other words, what the Cuban musician

is basically referring to is the ‘‘sense of rhythm,’’ the rhythmic timing

necessary to correctly play our rhythms and genres, with their respective

claves. The best explanation that I have seen on the real concept of ‘‘being

on clave’’ comes from the musicologist and percussionist Lino Neira.

After clarifying that Cubans use the term clave to designate ‘‘basic

metro-rhythmic guides’’ or ‘‘metrorhythms of their national genres,’’ a


term they get from the percussion instrument (idiofono) known as claves

(on which Fernando Ortiz wrote a work that is now classic), Neira states:

It is mistakenly believed that this fundamental instrument of Cuban

music is found in all of the genres and (corresponding) groups that

perform them, but Cuban percussionists and musicians relate the

concept of the clave, and consequently (the idea of) getting or

being on clave, to the ability to handle internal rhythmic codes. For

them, if you don’t have this capability, you can’t play Cuban

rhythms or Cuban rhythmic music. (‘‘La percusion’’ 45)

Another theoretical excursion on the topic of Afro-Cuban rhythms

is that of ‘‘binarization’’ of a supposedly ternary African music; the only

problem with this theory is that African music or music of African origin

has never been ternary, and even when 12/8 time often seems most suited

for this music (a mixed time that is binary and ternary simultaneously, like

6/8), there are toques that—if written out in Western notation—would

require times of 5/4, 6/4, 7/4, 7/8, and so on, if we were to transcribe them

in a way that better reflected their natural ‘‘breathing.’’ Until now, the

most successful notation of African polyrhythms has been achieved

through the use of mathematical formulations known as asymmetric

time-line patterns, applicable to rhythms from Western and Central

Africa, the Caribbean, and Brazil (not to those from Eastern Africa),

whose intrinsically mathematical structure remains intact despite the fre-

quent variations in accentuation, instrumentation, and other parameters

(Kubik, ‘‘Analogies’’).9

Counterpoint of Rumba and SonAnother questionable aspect associated with the ‘‘son complex’’ is

the formulation of a supposed ‘‘extraterritoriality,’’ a mistake that many of

us have made and that in and of itself provides some justification for the

accusations of ‘‘cubanocentrismo’’ and ‘‘arrogance’’ made by the Puerto

Rican sociologist Angel G. Quintero Rivera (Salsa, Sabor y Control)

among others; in reality there is no solid foundation on which to base

the primacy or hegemony of son, lo son or lo sonero, over other genres

and similar rhythms of the Antilles and the continental Caribbean.

Although in the end, Argeliers Leon rejected the term ‘‘complex’’ and

prudently chose to speak of a range of son manifestations (a cancionero

238 Leonardo Acosta

del son), it is in his valuable work that we see the notion of ‘‘extraterri-

toriality’’ more precisely formulated, for example, when he indicates:

Today the range of son manifestations extends through Cartagena

and Yucatan on the continent, to Isla de Pinos and southern Cuban

ports—from La Coloma and the Bay of Cienfuegos to Manzanillo

and Guantanamo, Jamaica and the Cayman Islands, Haiti, Santo

Domingo and Puerto Rico. (Del Canto 126–27)

He then gives examples: types of round-dance from the Cayman

Islands, the tamborito in Panama, the porro in Colombia, sucu-sucu in Isla

de Pinos, son and changuı in the East of Cuba, merengue in Haiti and the

Dominican Republic, and plena in Puerto Rico. Argeliers Leon considers

all of these modalities or types as belonging to the area of lo son (or within

the range of son manifestations). The rest of us have simply repeated this.

Now it seems more precise and prudent to refer to an undeniable cultural

unity in Caribbean music, prior to the formation of genres or types such as

those mentioned above, including the Cuban son and its variants. It seems

to me that Rogelio Martınez Fure’s conception of an ‘‘Antillean civiliza-

tion’’ would be more in accordance with actual history; although consider-

ing the topic we are dealing with, here I prefer to speak of a Caribbean

musical culture. In this context, Martınez Fure avoids ‘‘cubanocentrismo’’

when he states:

Cuban son has its equivalent in the calypsos from Trinidad,

Jamaica and the Bahamas, in the biguın and the lagghia from

Martinique, in the plena from Puerto Rico, in the Haitian and

Dominican merengues, in the round-dances from the Cayman

Islands. The dances of the Cuban tumba francesa and its rhythms

that have had such an influence on our folklore (tahona, cocuye,

etcetera) came to us from Haiti, but are also present in Martinique

and Guadalupe, and one of the most popular rhythms in the so-

called Netherlands Antilles is known as tumba. (Dialogos 78)

All of this forces me to reconsider two statements I made in the

essay ‘‘Afroamerica: sıntesis y reinterpretacion,’’ which I subsequently

included in the book Musica y descolonizacion. First, I would like to

emphasize the ‘‘reservations’’ I expressed then in considering the son

‘‘the most complete expression of our popular music,’’ and second, I


would like to express the same reservations or—better yet—totally reject

my reference to the Caribbean as an ‘‘area of son,’’ comparable with an

‘‘area of jazz’’ in the United States and an ‘‘area of samba’’ in Brazil. This

idea has enjoyed considerable success, has inspired research papers, and

has been repeated so much—even in semiofficial speeches—that it runs

the risk of becoming commonplace, official, or academic dogma, which is

basically all the same. But it is only a schema, and as such somewhat

simplistic: reality is always far more complex. With respect to the first

point, I could not decide between the rumba and the son as the most

emblematic genre of our popular music: Now I look at them as more or

less two sides of the same coin, which is not the only possible coin.

In establishing a certain parallelism between son and rumba, I

would like to point out a few significant factors:

1 Son represents a greater degree of Euro-African transculturation, while

rumba, particularly in its dance and instrumental aspects, maintains a

closer relation with its African roots.

2 Son has shown the necessary strength and flexibility to permeate other

genres: danzon, bolero, mambo, chachacha, and the whole phenomenon

of salsa music. Nevertheless, the elasticity and dynamism of rumba has

allowed it to permeate son since the 1920s (Ignacio Pineiro) and the

1930s (Arsenio Rodrıguez) as well as its more recent tendencies:

mambo, salsa, songo, timba, etc.

3 Son (a dual phenomenon) adds chordophones and at least one metalo-

phone to its African musical heritage, and its rhythmic components

evolve toward an uncommon predominance of syncopation, not found

in African rhythms or in Afro-Cuban liturgical music. Rumba, although

it uses syncopation in certain instances, is not necessarily a ‘‘synco-

pated’’ music, just as jazz is not, with some exceptions.

(Clarification: the metaphysical concept of ‘‘cubanıa’’ is not con-

nected with this revision of genres, styles, and/or roots. Real musicians are

interested in the music itself. The African and European factors are evident.

No popular musician tries to acquire ‘‘cubanıa.’’ They already have it. If this

were not the case, it would make no sense to talk of popular music.)

As for the origins of rumba (and its root ingredients), while they

are more uncertain, they are also more reliable than those of son. Fernando

Ortiz has detected certain antecedents in the yuka and makuta toques and

240 Leonardo Acosta

dances, which are in turn probable descendants of the calinda or caringa

that the slaves danced to. Carpentier (La musica), like Janheinz Jahn

(Muntu) later, refering to the work of travelers such as Father Labat and

Moreau de St. Mery, relate calinda to chica, fandango, zarabanda, bam-

bula, gayumba, zarambeque, chuchumbe, and other danzas from the

‘‘dark’’ colonial centuries.10 The more analytical Argeliers Leon is more

precise when he states that ‘‘in rumba there is no secularization of a dance

in honor of Chango, nor [a secularization of] the palero dance, nor of a

makuta dance, nor of an ıreme abakua’’ dance, but rather it represents ‘‘a

new synthesis’’ (Del Canto 152). This means that rumba has its antece-

dents in the ‘‘plantation folklore’’ that Roger Bastide (African) spoke of in

pointing out the mixture of various African cultures in the Americas. In

other words, as Argeliers Leon suggests, in today’s rumba (we cannot

deny the existence of a ‘‘proto-rumba’’), there are elements of different

ethnicities, and although the Congo or Bantu elements predominate, there

are also Yoruba and Abakua influences, among others.

I should clarify that Argeliers Leon—and I basically agree with

him on this point—never denies the influence of the dances of Chango and

Ochun in the dance aspect of guaguanco, nor that of ıreme abakua in the

columbia—in their modern versions, I should stress—although they are

synthesized with other elements and re-created through the creativeness of

the people, just as he stated. Another precursor to the rumba that Argeliers

Leon puts forth is the toques de palo, which is of a religious nature. It is

not by accident that many famous rumberos are paleros, nor is the popular

saying ‘‘cambiar de palo pa’ rumba’’ without meaning. We could also

speak of the rumba’s close relationship with another very influential

genre, the conga; however, due to length restrictions and the considerable

difference in conga styles—such as the Havana and Santiago variants or

styles—I will limit myself to pointing out that both genres have been

closely linked in Havana, as is shown by the fact that the most popular

comparsas of the Havana carnaval were led by famous rumberos such as

Chano Pozo (Los Dandys), Santos Ramırez (El Alacran), and Silvestre

Mendez (Las Jardineras), among others.

As for son, the illusion of a relatively straightforward historical origin

and evolution still prevails, but this is just an obstinate self-deception

by historiographers who are content to stay within the same old tired

schemes and who in the end have only succeeded in constructing a

convenient ‘‘mythology of son.’’ Because of the central importance of

this particular genre in our music (and not just popular danceable music),


this complacency or conformity not only leads to stagnation in the field of

research but it also represents a threat to the legitimacy of our musicology

and our historiography. Fortunately, a number of ‘‘nonbelievers’’ have

emerged who are questioning the petrified dogmas, just as Fernando

Ortiz did in his day, and the interesting thing is that these are musicolo-

gists from different generations who also differ in terms of education and

fields of interest. Although I in no way intend to establish hierarchies, I

believe that in dealing with son, ‘‘lo son’’ or ‘‘lo sonero,’’ it is the

musicologist Danilo Orozco (Nexos) who has done the best job of

researching this difficult topic and, as a consequence, the one who puts

forth the soundest arguments to demystify simplistic schemas, despite the

inevitable delay in the acceptance of his findings.11

In a recent, relatively extensive essay, Orozco—taking son as the

starting point—offers us a veritable plethora of ideas by presenting a wide

variety of elements necessary for a radical revision, re-evaluation, or re-

dimensioning of our musicology and musical historiography. Here are a

few that I believe to be of particular interest:

1 Orozco indicates what a concrete genre is and what it is not, and

proposes categories such as ‘‘proto-genre,’’ ‘‘intergenre,’’ ‘‘generic

type,’’ ‘‘style,’’ transitional genres or types of music, etc. In other

words, for the first time what constitutes a real genre is being ques-

tioned, and on this point, Orozco is in agreement with many skeptical

musicians and musicologists (myself included) who have been ques-

tioning the generic nature of such diverse (and imprecise) modalities as

guaracha, danzonete, pachanga, and many more.12 But taking these on

would imply a completely new and highly polemic research paper,

something we would not want to burden Danilo Orozco with.

2 Orozco’s assessment coincides with mine—and others—on the point that

everything began much earlier than what our musicology (and of course,

our musicography and historiography) has maintained. For example, son

does not just appear out of nowhere at the end of the nineteenth century in

the eastern mountains, but rather was developing in different places for

decades (or maybe even centuries).13 Of course, what we are talking about

here is not the son that we identify with Miguel Matamoros and certainly

not Ignacio Pineiro’s son, which I will call ‘‘classic,’’ with or without

justification. What existed in those days was what Orozco designates—

with a certain mischievous complacency—protosones, parasones, sonsitos

242 Leonardo Acosta

primigenios, rumbitas, nengones, marchitas, and he uses other terms as

well that reflect the names invented by the creators and/or performers

themselves, names that he has taken from his own field research. In other

cases, he uses the conceptual designations of other researchers as well as his

own.

3 He establishes the existence of two parallel processes in the evolution of

son, one in the eastern part of the country and the other in the central

region, which goes against the common, standardized lineal conception.

He also shows that changuı is a distinct son modality and not at all just

a simple son variant, and he describes son types whose structure does

not reflect a ‘‘simple alternating of strophic parts and refrains, as has

been repeated acritically and almost obsessively.’’

4 Concepts such as those of ‘‘seeds’’ and ‘‘nutrients,’’ whose dispersal

feeds the process of ‘‘sedimentation’’ and ‘‘crystallization,’’ make pos-

sible a less simplistic vision to explain the ubiquity of numerous

musical elements on the island as well as in different regions of the

Antilles and the continental Caribbean, including southern parts of the

United States, and to boot they bring to light the false notion of an

‘‘extraterritoriality’’ of son, which we have already addressed.

5 This same enumeration of different nutrients breaks with the faulty

schema of regarding ‘‘Hispanic and African’’ components as the only

ones of importance in the constitution of our music, a schema that

discards the Italian, French, Central European, Asian, and even indi-

genous contributions.

6 The mention of ‘‘practically unperceived’’ processes, such as the

exchange of musical patterns between nineteenth century ‘‘high society’’

and pianistic danzas (‘‘danzas salonescas’’ y pianısticas) and ‘‘the so-

called protosones and other traditional urban and urban-rural music,’’ as

well as the very presence of a ‘‘hidden,’’ ‘‘rural-urban’’ sector (which has

almost always been overlooked), is, in my opinion, quite important to the

understanding of certain processes of our music. Once again (and fortu-

nately) another overly schematic dichotomy is broken.

As a result, Orozco rejects the dogma of ‘‘complexes,’’ although

from a point of view that is almost the opposite of mine. From my point of

view, the ‘‘complexes’’ conceal the unity of Afro-Caribbean rhythms,

while Orozco insists on a multiplicity arbitrarily reduced to a questionable


common denominator. I do not think that these two theories are contra-

dictory, but rather complementary. Among other things, Orozco says:

In addition, many sones and near sones are so far from the com-

mon stereotype, that it’s not possible to come up with just one

‘‘bag’’ of supposedly super/son or son ‘‘complex’’—representative

in the final instance of the others, as has been said and become the

case—into which you could shove more or less forcefully all of the

supposed sones (as well as lots of additional music that researcher

X might consider on the basis of appearance, or due to a peculiar

or salient external sound, but possibly not as a central character-

istic). (Nexos 17)

Naturally, I have focused on particular ideas expressed in this

article, and I intentionally chose those that reinforce or complement my

own points of view, and of course I have done so free of any complex on

my part. For obvious reasons of space, I have not attempted to summarize

this substantial and controversial study. What I intend to demonstrate is

that there is more than one musicologist in Cuba who distances himself

from the prevalent myths and stereotypes, a tendency that I hope others

will follow in the coming years so that we may go beyond the limitations

that categorization has imposed on us, not to mention the mediocrity,

conceptual simplicity, and sterility so prevalent today in musicological

research and historiography. The researcher Martha Esquenazi is another

example of one who is leading the way in questioning some of the

commonly held ‘‘sacred’’ beliefs, in a recent book that combines field

research with conceptual clarity.

Among other things, she emphasizes the migratory processes and the

geographic distribution of different ethnic groups by areas, as well as ‘‘the

degrees of transculturation that tend to vary according to geographic zones

and the historical, economic, and political aspects of each one of them.’’ From

a more anthropological perspective, she sees the development of son as the

conjugation of different musical and dance elements (‘‘proto-sones,’’ ‘‘para-

sones,’’ etc.) ‘‘that come from diverse social and ethnic sources starting in the

nineteenth century, and [she indicates that son] doesn’t take on its own form or

name until the last decades of that century and the first of the twentieth’’ (Del

areıto 195). Esquenazi also outlines how a culture takes root in a geographic

area after successive waves of migration, forming in this way ‘‘layers of

cultural sedimentation,’’ which would explain why substantial groups of the

244 Leonardo Acosta

same ethnicity or culture have a better chance of conserving their traditions

when they are concentrated in small and/or isolated towns or rural areas.

Using these points as a basis, Esquenazi presents what she calls a

‘‘dynamic of oral transmission,’’ which may reveal complex aspects of

transculturation and help explain the survival of cultural characteristics

from diverse ethnicities that have apparently been weakened or assimi-

lated (as is the case with indigenous ethnicities) or, what is of more

interest to us here, [this dynamic may help explain] the presence of

congo characteristics in son. The remaining presence of indigenous cul-

tural elements in Cuba is not just a theory in Esquenazi’s book, but rather

a proven fact from her field research (Esquenazi, ‘‘Seccion de musica’’).

Getting back to Congo or Bantu characteristics in son, I should

stress that the cultural influence of the Bantu people is possibly the most

important in the Americas, where they arrived in almost uninterrupted

waves beginning in the early phases of conquest and colonization; and

they are the ones who can be found most extensively in the Americas,

from Canada to Mexico to the countries of the Southern Cone. In Cuba,

they compete—and mix—with the Yoruba, but clearly it has been the

musical heritage of the Bantu that has had the strongest influence on

Cuban popular music, particularly on the two deeply rooted genres of

oral tradition, which are parallel and, although related, well differentiated.

I am referring to rumba and son, which by no means constitute mutually

separate worlds—a commonly held misconception.14

All we have to do is look at a traditional son group to detect,

despite the evident Hispanic elements, its essential African quality, even

though this quality remains relatively hidden in comparison to rumba. I am

referring particularly to the polyrhythmic element that is found in the base

of all son music, also present in the hybrids of son with other genres. For

example, the composer and musicologist Jose Loyola points out the

following when he refers to what he correctly calls ‘‘bolero soneado’’:

In the accompaniment, the harmonic base is covered by the tradi-

tional septet, which assumes a harmonic-rhythmic function that is

determined by the particular chord combinations. These combina-

tions are based on son rhythms, and each of the instruments

mentioned plays a different son part, which in the simultaneous

playing of the different parts produces a son polyrhythm, and at the

same time functions as a harmonic filler [the italics are mine].

(En ritmo 16)15


In other words, a son group (particularly a ‘‘classic’’ son format)

behaves in a way similar to that of a drum group such as the ones we find

in Africa and in Afro-Caribbean liturgical music, or in rumba itself. Just as

the American musicologist and composer Gunther Schuller compared and

convincingly proved the similarity of an early jazz group (New Orleans)

with the transcription of African ancestral music, we can make an almost

identical comparison using a son sextet or septet as a reference, and

perhaps with results that are even more convincing.16 This parallelism

can be successfully made in part due to the rhythmic-harmonic and

rhythmic-melodic functions, indicated by Loyola (En ritmo), performed

by the stringed instruments and the voices themselves, and in part because

it maintains what Argeliers Leon (Del Canto) called differentiated sound

bands or planes that project a certain timbre-rhythm, typical of African

and Afro-Caribbean music.

Polyrhythms: Foundational Framework, Repertory, and Rhythmic ArsenalWhat actually underlies our rhythms and our genres (or proto-

genres, subgenres, etc.) is what we could call an Afro-Cuban or, better

yet, Afro-Caribbean polyrhythmic framework or foundation, a kind of

primary magma, which not only holds but also generates a rich repertory

or arsenal of rhythmic patterns. As these patterns are assimilated to a

greater or lesser degree by different groups and communities and in

different areas and historical times, they go on to shape and define all of

our genres. This polyrhythmic framework, common to the entire

Caribbean area—and to a large extent Brazil and other regions of the

Americas—in all probability can be traced back to historical develop-

ments in the earliest stages of European colonization of the Americas.17

My idea of a quasi-utopian ‘‘archeology of music,’’ which I have

mentioned elsewhere (Otra vision), may be useful for understanding these

historical developments in terms of strata or layers.18 In other words, there

is a series of techniques that would allow us to determine what there was

in the past, what preceded a certain style or a particular period for which

we have little information, a problem that archeologists can solve through

the use of carbon-14-dating techniques or stratigraphy. Each stratum

corresponds to a particular historical (or prehistoric) period. In Cuban

popular music, I believe we should consider four or five strata correspond-

ing to different times, which is not a new idea; musicologists such as

Argeliers Leon and ethnologists such as Roger Bastide have used similar

246 Leonardo Acosta

approaches. But Argeliers Leon refers to musical expressions in general,

which he divides into ‘‘areas,’’ equivalent here to what I am calling

‘‘strata,’’ based on the time dimension. My focus is more specific, because

I am referring primarily to just one musical parameter, rhythm, or more

precisely polyrhythm (and its complement, polymeter), which I consider to

be an essential factor in all of our danceable music.

Roger Bastide (African) presents three strata: (1) African folklore

that has remained pure; (2) ‘‘folklore criollo’’ (born in the Americas) or

‘‘plantation folklore,’’ and (3) White folklore that Blacks have made their

own. I would like to express some reservation with respect to Bastide’s

first point; I believe there is no ‘‘pure’’ African folklore that exists in the

Americas, at least not within the last two centuries. As for the third point, I

consider it—in the case of Cuba—a process of ‘‘criollizacion’’ and there-

fore subordinate to the second point (Leon, Notas). Bastide’s concept of

‘‘plantation folklore’’ is accurate because it implies the mixing of different

cultures, which come into mutual contact in the Americas as a result of the

system of plantation slavery. Cuba is a typical example of this system, one

that mixed individuals of different ethnicities, cultures, and languages in

an attempt to limit communication among the slaves and prevent them

from developing a sense of identity.

This was the norm that prevailed in the Americas, although in

countries such as Cuba and Brazil, the so-called cabildos de nacion

(reisados in Brazil) provided some sense of unity through certain periods.

But we should not exaggerate their role, for in the end, they were sub-

ordinate to the will of the slave owner or the colonial government, which

would arbitrarily approve or suppress them to suit the needs of those in

power, and if in some colonies they were able to survive or ‘‘reorganize’’

up to the nineteenth century, it was due to the slaves’ own determination

and perseverance, but never with the ‘‘purity’’ that many researchers

propound. The mixing of different cultures (although many were often

related to each other) had already begun on the African continent with the

changing social and political conditions. Hence, we see these mixtures and

cultural borrowings taking place even before the diaspora occurs.

In Cuba, this ‘‘plantation folklore’’ is manifested as a symbiosis of

rhythms and songs of Bantu, Yoruba, Carabalı, and Arara origin. (There

are other rhythms as well, which come from within the subgroups of each

ethnicity). A more or less inter-African music is created, which we could

also call pan-Afro Caribbean and which has its equivalent in Brazil. This

music has a polyrhythmic framework (or foundation) and a repertory of


toques that are passed down to successive strata; they come from the

varieties of liturgical music that correspond to the different Afro-Cuban

religions and from related secular music. The toques of each ethnic and/or

cultural group or subgroup may be considered the closest manifestations

of a supposedly pure African stratum; they come together in the early days

of colonization to produce what I consider an inter-African music.

Then comes a third stratum of music, which I will call creole (criolla

or mulata). I deliberately chose the French term creole for the meaning it

conveys, as used in Haiti, the French Lesser Antilles, and New Orleans (crio

or krio in Jamaica, Belize, or Trinidad), because it implies a mestizaje

(mixture), with the consequent formation of a metaphorically ‘‘mulata’’

culture. I avoided the Hispanic meaning of criollo or ‘‘born here’’ (in the

Americas, regardless of whether the parents are from Spain or from Africa), a

term that was eventually appropriated by the dominant white classes

throughout Hispanic America. It is difficult to determine with precision

when and where this creole music developed, because its modalities range

from those that have already disappeared to others that could be considered

among our modern differentiated genres and which would make up a fourth

stratum (popular ‘‘classic’’ genres); in other words, creole musical manifes-

tations could be found either in the third or in the fourth strata.

Finally comes the period of expansion of these genres and their

constant evolution. Stimulated in the beginning by comic and variety theater

and then by the dynamic of national and foreign broadcast media, they spawn

new hybrids and fusion genres, which in many cases are watered down in the

world of cosmopolitan music (‘‘rumba de cabaret,’’ for example). On other

occasions, these new hybrids and fusion genres lead to a revitalization of our

danceable music, sometimes by tapping into the Afro-Caribbean rhythmic

arsenal or by ingeniously incorporating elements from other types of music.

Graphically, we can attempt an approximation of this process by presenting

the following rough schema of strata.

1 Differentiated types of African music (different cultures).

2 Inter-African music (‘‘plantation folklore’’)—the polyrhythmic frame-

work (or foundation), from which different rhythmic patterns are taken

that will define subsequent types of music.

3 Creole music (criolla mestizada), with intermediate or transitional genres

that have disappeared or are poorly understood today and that may

represent proto-genres or early forms of subsequent ‘‘classic’’ genres.

248 Leonardo Acosta

4 Popular classic genres that are differentiated and well-defined (rumba,

son, guaracha, calypso, beguin, merengue, plena, cumbia, etc.).

5 Expansion and blending of popular classic genres.

I have not included any dates, which would only be approxima-

tions and extremely vague for the first strata. Generally, some of these

strata exist at the same time or overlap, to the point that all we can really

be sure of now is that the first one has disappeared. Also, I have not

ordered the different strata in a bottom up, chronological fashion with the

roots at the bottom, because in no way have I intended to create a

genealogical chart—or something similar—which would make reading

the information more difficult. In addition, a real family tree would have

to include the European factors in our music, which are not just Hispanic

(as the dictates of dogma with its habitual pseudo-academic ignorance

hold) but also Italian, French, and Central European (and within the

Hispanic, we find Arabic-Andalusian, Maghreb, and Judeo-Sephardic

characteristics, as well as others), not to mention the subsequent and

reciprocal North and Latin American influences.

None of the points I have made are new or original; we can find this

information or infer it from the work of Ortiz, Carpentier, and Argeliers Leon,

among others. But there has not been enough attention given to what I have

called the Afro-Cuban and Afro-Brazilian polyrhythmic ‘‘framework’’ or

‘‘arsenal,’’ which should be looked at from a practical point of view; this

implies a review and an analysis of the toques, beginning with those associated

with the different Afro-Cuban religious and ritual manifestations. It is not a

conceptual problem nor a problem of choosing between false complexes and

some other label, much less a need to resuscitate old controversies on deciding

what is ‘‘African’’ and ‘‘non-African’’ in our music, disputes which are

negatively affected by an anachronistic and intolerant partisanship that we

have been condemned to repeat time and again. It is quite simply a question of

gathering information.

Fortunately, and following the legacy of Fernando Ortiz, important

aspects of our popular folkloric music have been studied more recently: orga-

nology, basic rhythmic patterns, instrumental formats, geographic distribution

of ethnic-cultural groups with their genres or genre types, etc. (Instrumentos). In

other words, conditions are being created that will allow us to go beyond the

generic focus in our popular music, which has been a necessary and funda-

mental step taken by Argeliers Leon but a focus that seems to have exhausted its


possibilities today. Therefore, I believe it is necessary to study—within the

framework of a review and analysis of Afro-Cuban toques and cantos—aspects

of structure, timbre, and melody-harmony, so that we can successfully deter-

mine which antecedents are European (or from elsewhere) and which ones are

African, antecedents that are found not only in rhythms but also in melodic

terms, calls, expressions, refrains, montunos, types of phrasing, dynamics,

agogic, etc. Because at this point it would be ridiculous to maintain the

narrow-minded position of those jazz musicographers and historians who

simply consider rhythms as African and the rest as European.

If we can create and organize a repertory of toques (not just a collection

of songs), undertake an analysis of Cuban popular music scores, put together a

collection of the most extensive discography possible, and organize all of the

bibliography already available, and above all if we can provide younger

musicologists with the necessary time and opportunities to listen to all of this

music (even if they cannot play it, at least they might compare it with scores),

we will then be in a position to write a fairly ‘‘true’’ history of our popular

music, in its multiplicity and unity, and leave generic complexes behind.

Notes1. It appears that musicologist Odilio Urfe was the first to use the

concept, and although Argeliers Leon used it occasionally, he preferred the

term ‘‘cancionero,’’ introduced by the Argentinean Carlos Vega. It seems that

Urfe and Leon discarded the term in their late work, without giving any

explanation.

2. I have seen the term complejo (complex) in works by researchers

from Puerto Rico, Colombia, and other countries, and I have used it myself in a

few articles and in my book Musica y Descolonizacion.

3. Orozco (Nexos) also questions the concept of ‘‘genre’’ in cases where

it is used incorrectly.

4. The musicologist Jesus Gomez Cairo provides an interesting and

very necessary analysis in ‘‘Acerca de la interaccion de generos en la musica

popular.’’

5. In the work of Fernando Ortiz and Alejo Carpentier, Argeliers Leon

(‘‘Continuidad Cultural’’) and others, myself included, have found valuable

indications on how to fill this ‘‘empty space.’’

6. Manifestations such as tumba francesa, cocoye, and conga (santia-

guera) are an indication of the French-Haitian presence in Cuban music. A few

250 Leonardo Acosta

researchers, such as the composer and musicologist Hilario Gonzalez, have even

insisted on the presence of indigenous elements in the eastern region of Cuba, a

point of view that I share and that seems to be supported in studies such as those

of Martha Esquenazi (Del Areıto).

7. The great musician Olu Bata and musicologist Jesus Perez perceived

six basic claves in our music, not including other derivations of lesser importance

(personal communication with the author).

8. Examples of this attitude are narrated by John Storm Roberts in his

The Latin Tinge.

9. Peter Manuel discusses the near perfect fit of 12/8 time in his

Caribbean Currents.

10. Jahn quotes Labat extensively, but he relies more heavily on the

work of Fernando Ortiz (Los instrumentos de la musica afrocubana).

11. Orozco considers his essay a summary of the much larger book that

he is currently working on, and he told me that he rushed to put it together as a

sort of preview or anticipatory synthesis. I should clarify that although I agree

with many of the fundamental points in his essay, I think he tried to cover too

much in a limited time and space and as a result a few problematic aspects have

arisen. There are some premature conclusions, always risky enumerations of

artists that are ‘‘representative’’ of a certain period or style, and other minor

problems that I am sure will be corrected by the time the book is published.

12. To question whether or not guaracha and danzonete are ‘‘real gen-

res,’’ we only have to ask, as the composer Roberto Valera did in a somewhat

sarcastic tone: ‘‘Is there such a thing as a guaracha without text? and also: Can a

genre have only one representative number?’’

13. In summarizing and interpreting some of Danilo Orozco’s formula-

tions, if I happened to draw conclusions that do not represent the author’s intent, I

ask his forgiveness.

14. Robert Farris Thompson discusses the Bantu presence in the

Americas in his Flash of the Spirit.

15. Like Gomez Cairo, Loyola looks at how different Afro-Cuban

rhythms are related, using as a reference point the hybridization and mixing of

these rhythms with the bolero.

16. The example of African music that Schuller (Early Jazz) gives

comes from A. M. Jones’s book Studies in African Music. If we look at the

transcription of an old son from among the examples given by Danilo Orozco in


his conferences, right away it brings to mind those used by A.M. Jones and

Gunther Schuller.

17. Carpentier (La musica) states, with a convincing certainty, that all of

the basic elements of our danceable music were already present in the seven-

teenth century.

18. A useful work in this connection is that of Gloria Antolitia (Cuba:

Dos siglos).

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254 Leonardo Acosta

Acosta Leonardo 2005

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