El Cuban Cowboy

Cuba Journal 7: Dressing the Part

2010-09-07T08:15:00.000-07:00

On my first day in La Habana Vieja, I turned down a side street after noticing a small sign for an antique automobile museum. The museum's wide, open porticoes were shady and cool, so I stood there, peeking inside at some dusty 1930's era cars, but really just getting out of the blistering sun. I was looking around at the colonial-era buildings lining the street when I noticed someone looking at me. The street was wall-to-wall tourists this morning, and a group of six or seven Germans had stopped in front of me, looking over my shoulder at the old cars. The Germans stood between me and the guy who was looking at me. When I met his eyes, he smiled and waved me over.

His name was Ariel. His smile told me he was no angel. He asked me if I needed anything, saying anything in such a way that reminded me to be careful. I said no, that I was all good, and offered him a Camel Light. I could tell that my Cuban Spanish confused him, and that made me happy. It was the same feeling I used to get as a teaching artist working in New York City , watching high schoolers freak out when I started speaking Spanish. "What's he doing speaking Spanish like that?" Ariel had the same look on his face, the same question on his mind. Ariel told me he'd assumed I was with the Germans. I had a small, digital camera dangling from my wrist, a black polo shirt, checkered-madras cargo shorts, ankle socks and running shoes that screamed "tourist!" I told him I didn't blame him for thinking so.

We spent the better part of that morning talking about tourists, Miami-area Cubans, and how most people --- Cubans, Europeans, Americans, etc. -- seem intent at wanting to pass for something: rich, gangsta, pious, beautiful, etc. To Ariel, everybody wanted to be something they weren't. Clothes, money, make-up, and plastic surgery were among the choicest means of achieving this. In Cuba, he said, people found all sorts of ways to front or pass. Ariel pointed to a guy standing near us, whispering to me that the man was Secret Police, there to make sure Cubans didn't harass the tourists. The guy looked like he just walked off the set of a Jay-Z video. He had a South Beach ensemble of designer baggy jeans, ostentatious D n' G sunglasses, chains, spotless K-Swiss, and a Glock discretely holstered along his lower back waistband. Jigga would be proud.

The business of "passing," like the matter of 'The Other,' has always been tricky. There's a measure of duplicity and conceit (and self-loathing, denial?) with passing that goes beyond merely dressing a certain way to impress others. Throughout my trip, I noticed lots of folks like the cop Ariel pointed out. 'Even in Cuba,' I thought, sans rampant capitalism and amid crushing poverty, people want and flaunt distinction or 'membership.' In Cuba & the U.S., as in much of the world, language and skin color are also hard at work herein. One could easily argue that that's been the case for thousands of years, if not more. It's how people roll. Maybe it started with a hominid saying "get the fuck outta my cave," to an large-brow Australopithecus who happened to wander in looking for food; an ancestral version of Charlton Heston screaming "Get your stinking hands off me, you damn bloody ape!" in the first Planet of the Apes movie. Sadly, in-tribe/out-tribe demarcation ain't neither what it used to be nor what I playfully imagine. Just ask the Roma in France. Or a Mexican in Arizona. Or a Honduran trying to travel through Mexico on her way to the U.S.

I grew up Cuban-American in Hialeah, FL. At at school my Cuban classmates called me "gringo" because I was White, and spoke English without an accent, and in my neighborhood, the Americanitos taunted me with "Spic" because my family and I spoke Spanish. I couldn't choose sides because neither really offered me a choice. The American kids had parents who drove cars with bumper stickers saying stuff like "Will the last American to leave Hialeah, please take the flag," while the Cuban kids were more cruel to me. Then, as now, language and the color of my skin marked me. Thirty years later the outfits I wear while performing as the Cuban Cowboy add to the effect. I suspect everyone wears a hat on purpose.

Among Latinos I appear White until I open my mouth. With Whites, there's a perceptible shift when I introduce myself as 'Whore-Hey'. You should know that even the nomenclature is dicey --- White, Latino, Cuban-American, etc. -- as each and every term is under constant debate by cultural theorists, anthropologists, and assorted identity politicians the world over. The duality I'm clumsily trying to get at is also found in my music. Personal experience has informed my writing and prepared me for how The Cuban Cowboys are often perceived: Too Rock for many Latin audiences, and too Latin for many Rock audiences. Sometimes the best I can say is "Come on in! The middle is fine." At other times, and apart from the band experience, I have to smile at the fact that people like me are Tea-Baggers' (or Rush Limbaugh's, or Glenn Beck's, or Jan Brewer's, et. al) worst nightmare: bilingual, highly educated, and, White in appearance. To their mind, I can enter their homes, impress them with great conversation in snappy, folksy English, eat their food, then impregnate their daughters before they even knew that I was one of them thar' La-teen-ohs.

Sometimes, phenotype and things like passing exist on a two-way street, dependent on the direction a person wishes to take in a given situation. For instance, I was asked to leave the hotel lobby on the day after meeting Ariel in Habana. I'd come back from the city, and a doorman mistook me for a Cuban driver, telling me to wait outside for my fare and to move my car while I was at it. It had to be my outfit (see this post's pic: t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops). I had to smile.
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Hialeah, FL 1978 Luis Reveiz was kicking my ass. We were 7th graders at Immaculate Conception School. He was on top of me, swinging away, not really landing any punches but looking pretty convincing. I was pinned underneath him, trying to cover my face while a large circle of classmates shouted "Fight! Fight! Fight!" I remember thinking that there were definite advantages to having big brothers. Luis had two. I only had an older sister. My father wasn't around enough to teach me anything, much less how to fight. I remember staring at my cowboy boots afterward, while the nun gave us both detention. The boots --- burgundy, pointy-toed cockroach killers --- had led Luis and his friends to start picking on me.

At that age, at that school, those boots marked me like red hair and freckles did for some other classmates. I was considered something other than Cubanito. My classmates and I were too young to hyphenate, a la 'Cuban-American' and no one used 'Latino.' Back then, whatever our parents were was good enough for us. That Luis Reviez was Venezuelan did not matter to my mostly Cuban classmates. Ultimately, my boots and attitude made me mas Americano than him, and therefore worthy of a beatdown. No one else wore cowboy boots to school.

I'd begged my mom to buy me those Dingo boots for Christmas that year. I think about them sometimes when I pick out boots for a Cuban Cowboys gig.

I reckon I've been dressing the part for a long time.

Cuba Journal 6: Chinitos

2010-08-16T08:29:00.000-07:00

Los Chinitos was the name of one of my grandfather's favorite Miami restaurants. He knew the owners from Cuba. I'd never seen or even heard of Chinese Cubans until my grandfather started taking me there. It blew my young mind that they looked Chinese, but spoke Spanish. My grandfather pointed out that they cursed almost exclusively in Chinese, but did love using "pinga" & "pingón" whenever possible. Back then, lots of South Florida restaurants owned by Cuban exiles tried to serve the same food and cop the same vibe as they once did in Cuba. Los Chinitos was no different. Also, just as in Cuba, the waiters would let my grandfather spit out food or just spit whenever and wherever he wanted. I'd see him empty his pipe, or put out his cigar out on the floor. The waiters called him Jefe, and darted about with little brooms whenever he came around. My grandfather was something of a big deal back in Cuba. In today's Cuba, however, the Chinese are the latest Jefe.

My group's tour buses left for La Habana Vieja early one morning. A tour guide explained that the sparkling, new buses were gifts from the Chinese government, or, as he put it, los chinitos. He said Chinese tourists are all over Cuba these days because the Cuban government is enjoying Venezuela-like relations with China. As with the U.S., Chinese interests have expanded far beyond that of the Europeans'. The Chinese own sizable amounts of American debt. They may as well own Cuba's along with the strategic position once held by the U.S.S.R. Not too shabby for a people who first got to Cuba in the early 1800s to work like dogs in the cane fields.

I broke away from my group that afternoon and took a taxi toward the Capitolio, looking for a Chinese restaurant recommended by a good friend of mine.

El Barrio Chino de La Habana is the largest Chinatown in Latin America. "That ain't saying much," I thought as I walked along its Calle Dragones. Having lived in New York City, and, now, San Francisco, lent me some perspective on what I was seeing. Those cities' Chinatowns have encroached ever deeper into what were once Italian immigrant enclaves, making the Little Italys considerably 'littler' over the last two decades. Both cities' Chinatowns boast large, and growing Chinese populations. Immigration and assimilation patterns are mostly responsible, of course, just as they're responsible, inversely, for El Barrio Chino's stasis. It's one Chinatown that doesn't seem to be growing anywhere. I saw far more White tourists than Chinos in the Barrio Chino. Hell, I saw more white guys wearing Chinos than I did actual Chinos.

There were once over 130,000 Chinese living in Cuba. They arrived in the early 19th century to work in the sugar cane fields. In a future nod to some of today's immigrant experience, their "brokers" signed them to 8-year indentured servitude deals. Most were men. All replaced slaves and Spanish prisoners whenever death thinned out the labor force. With another sad nod to the future, 5,000 or so Chinese arrived in the later 1800's after the U.S. expelled them due to then-(like now) rising nativist sentiment. We booted them after their backs built our railroad and logging industries. How nice. Today, Cubans of Asian descent comprise less than 1% of Cuba's population. Most left after the revolution. Perhaps that's why what remains of the Chinese in Cuba have seemingly gotten little or no benefit from the new Chinese presence on the island. The only evidence I saw: the Barrio Chino's gateway entrance, or paifang. It was donated by the Chinese government back in 1999. Perhaps the lack of love can be traced to over a century's worth of mixed marriages and progeny, creating a people not Chinese enough for the Chinese. Or maybe the teetering Cuban economy just isn't as attractive to Chinese support as the teetering U.S. economy is. Either way, current economic trends in both Cuba & the U.S. suggest that the Chinese are once again putting the "D" in "Dynastic."

I take a cab back to Miramar after lunch at Tien Tian. Miramar houses Cuba's foreign embassies. I see some of what the darkness kept from me the night we arrived: a sprawling, monolithic Russian embassy, with a giant phallic tower letting the island know who the big boss used to be. Overgrown walls and rusted razor wire only add to the run-down look of a once mighty Soviet presence. A few blocks later, as the cab nears my hotel, I see Chinese flags flying from several compounds along the Calle 24. I can't tell which of the beautiful homes with the manicured lawns houses the actual embassy. My cab driver can't tell me either, as he paraphrases The Who's 'Won't Get Fooled Again,' with a weary look that says "meet-the-new boss-same-as-the-old-boss."

Irony works overtime in Cuba.

Cuba Journal 5: Of CUCs and Culos

2010-08-11T08:32:00.000-07:00

The Hotel Occidental's lobby told me all I needed to know about the disparity between what tourists experience and the lives of most Cubans. Marble floors, high ceilings adorned with modern chandeliers, leather couches placed around glass tables, with some wicker chairs and indoor palms thrown in to remind one that this here's a tropical paradise...with lots of air-conditioning. There were no shirtless men, no women and children with shirts drawn up, exposing their mid-sections trying to keep cool, no one who seemed remotely like the folks I'd glimpsed from the bus along the humid night streets of Miramar.

Music and air-conditioning greeted us as soon as we walked through the doors. A kickass rendition of "Guantanamera" filled the giant lobby space, and we instantly saw that it was being performed by a live band (at 2 something in the morning!). Everyone was handed a mojito and herded toward the back of the lobby, where some of the band members were dancing while the bassist, conguera and pianist held things down. I guess 60 Americans can still merit such a welcome. Or maybe not: it's far more likely that our nationalities did not matter as much as the fact and effects of our being tourists. It seemed that way at the airport as it did when we stood watching an all-woman band move from "Guantanamera" into "El Cuarto de Tula" (the first of what seemed countless renderings I heard in Cuba [played almost exclusively whenever tourists were around] of tunes from the Buena Vista Social Club album).

The people I would later meet along the streets of Habana, Candelaria, and Matanzas would be among the first to tell me that, yes, Cubans working at hotels and in the tourism industry were different, better off than most simply because of their access to tips, mostly in the form of CUCs.

Cuba no longer allows foreigners to use Euros or Canadian dollars. Despite the relatively good relations Cuba enjoys with Canada and the E.U., the global economic meltdown forced the Cuban government to be as inventive as its people. And, believe me, the Mother of Invention spends a considerable amount of time in Cuba. Behold: The Cuban Convertible Currency, or CUC (pronounced "kook").

The CUC has no value outside of Cuba, but wields considerable influence among the Cuban people. Like a ticketing system at an arcade, or tokens at a Native American casino, the CUC affords greater control over markets and people. I learned how it works at the Hotel Occidental. The following account was explained to me by a doorman. I later corroborated the information with other workers as well as assorted staffers at the other hotel I stayed at in Varadero.

The hotel is owned and operated by a Spanish corporation. As they do with the dozens of hotels they "own" in Cuba, the Spaniards pay the Cuban government huge annual lease fees and taxes tied to worker salaries. The Spaniards agree to provide workers @ ten dollars per hour (American/Euro) in pay. That way, the Cuban government gets more from the wage tax they impose on the Spaniards (and, ultimately, the Cuban workers). Although the Spaniards would like to pay the Cuban workers in Euros (which would significantly raise their standard of living), the Cuban government won't allow it. What happens is that the Cuban government takes payment in Euros, which hold higher money market value than either Cuban currency, pockets as much as possible, then pays the hotel workers a minuscule amount in Cuban Pesos. One CUC is worth 25-30 Cuban Pesos. With the average Cuban earning 30-35 pesos a month from their government-issued job, tips and CUCs from tourists make a helluva difference.
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We stood transfixed, mojitos in hand. The all-girl band was killing it. The music came at us heavy like hot bricks, like a bonfire's flames, like great drugs. The singers were dancing and nearly every one of us, men and women, stared, mouths agape at what appeared to be another life form: El Culo Cubano. It moved with precision and certitude, independent of all other body parts. It had its own area code, spoke its own language and made men cry like babies.The Earth and all of its creatures stand still to pay respects. All the singers had it. In all of our exhaustion and musical elation, we could only marvel along with the Mother of Invention, at one of her finest works.

Cuba Journal 4: Aire Cubano

2010-08-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

I got a taste of the humidity when we stepped off our plane and walked across the tarmac for Custom's and immigration processing. It was overwhelming to this San Francisco resident. But I loved it, as it literally bathed me in Cuban air. I'd been waiting all my life to set foot on this island, and felt tempted to kiss the ground like the Pope. As a songwriter, and metaphorically speaking, however, I've been kissing this island for years, so I just gave thanks to God, sent a wink to my grandfather's spirit, and accepted a simple fact: everything I heard, knew, or thought I knew about Cuba was about to change.

Perhaps because it was nearly 2 a.m., and I was exhausted, the bus ride from the airport to the hotel was surreal. The air-conditioning battled the heat to make my view appear as if I were looking through a strange, mist-lined mirror; seeing my tired face looking at Cuba for the first time, the only interference being a physical one (the window), with my parents' memories finally falling out of focus.

As soon as the bus got off the highway and onto the streets of Habana's Miramar neighborhood, people and homes came into view. We rumbled down enough narrow residential streets that I could see how lively things were even at such a late/early hour. There were people everywhere: couples kissing and holding hands along sidewalks, entire families walking around, and young men gathered and laughing at nearly every corner. The streets were dimly lit, mostly by one or two flickering florescent lights in porches every other block or so. The bus lurched and came to several complete stops to allow bicyclists and scooters to make their way across our path.

I saw palms, abandoned storefronts, dilapidated buildings galore along the busy night streets. Plenty of well-maintained homes and apartment buildings also blew by my bus window as I thought: this reminds me of South Florida during an electricity blackout (which, due mostly to hurricanes, happened a lot during my youth. Hell, like many kids, I was conceived during a such a blackout!). In exile, from Miami, my parents' generation has always viewed Cuba as a destitute shell of its former self. My long-held suspicion that that view was somehow flawed began growing with every start and stop of the bus. I would soon be seeing more for myself.

The thought of letting go of my parents' Cuba made me nervous, sending a charge through me as the bus pulled into the Hotel Occidental's circular drive.

Cuba Journal 3: Mucha Velocidad, Pero Poco Movimiento

2010-07-29T13:28:00.001-07:00

José Martí International AIrport

"Don't bring any Cuban Cowboys' CDs to Cuba! They'll confiscate them and arrest you on the spot!" Such was but one of of my mother's warnings. She also strongly reminded me not to ever mention that my father was part of the Brigada, the CIA-sponsored exile battalion that was left to lose face and lives along the shores of the Bay of Pigs. The CIA had dubbed the Cubans they trained for two years prior to the attack "Cuban Cowboys." That's where the band name comes from.

To my mild relief, no one gave a shit about the Cuban Cowboys' CDs. Indeed, no one seemed to give a shit about the entire plane-load of Americans that were lining up to have their passports examined but not stamped. The guy who did my intake hardly looked at me, even as he snapped my picture and asked me how long I'd be staying. He was blond, blue-eyed, maybe pushing 30 and had a Russian surname, but spoke Spanish like a Cuban. He nodded me forward and I walked in to a larger hall to wait on my suitcase.

We were herded in makeshift lines toward the one working carousel. While the wait for luggage was remarkably long, it was filled with incessant chatter from Cuban attendants lining the conveyor belt. It was 1 a.m., but these guys were lively and, clearly, used to hanging out and shooting the shit. With the carousel sending out one suitcase every five minutes or so, one turned to the other, laughing and says: "Mucha velocidad, pero poco movimiento!" (Lots of velocity, but little movement). I had no idea that his clever turn of phrase would lurk beneath much of what I'd soon experience on the streets of Havana and Matanzas.

I was finally in Cuba. Waiting in line for something. I was too tired to recognize the wait for what it was: an induction to Cuban society.

Cuba Journal 2: Of Mountains

2010-07-26T07:19:00.000-07:00

Monterey to La Habana

The plane must make an unexpected stop in Monterey. We need to refuel before going on to La Habana. The stewardesses handed out plenty of free Habana Club rum, so most of my fellow passengers don't seem too upset by the detour; that is, until some extreme turbulence kicks in. The turbulence was so severe that the stewardesses fled back to their seats, leaving one of the carts loose in their service station. Bottles clanked. Overhead bins popped open, and lots of people closed their eyes and clung to their armrests. Am I going to die? Die en route to Cuba -- fitting for the guy who broke a solemn oath by getting on the plane.

I was in high school when I swore to my mom that I'd go to Cuba only after Fidel had died. But that was before so much, not the least of which: re-Cubanizing after leaving Miami for college in Gainesville, FL, finding my voice as the Cuban Cowboy, and learning. along with the rest of the world, that Castro will likely outlive Cher. Maybe I didn't deserve to die, but I suppose my first trip to Cuba ought to be death-defying in some way.

I am on airplane filled with Latino school district leaders. We're going to Cuba under an 'Academic Research' VISA in order to get a first hand look at Cuba's vaunted education system. My day-job is sending me. What a country. "How can I refuse?" I say to my mom. She calmed down only after reeling off several scathing, foreboding emails about Castro, the island's abject poverty, and the fact that her Cuba no longer existed. She's immovable, a mountain of resentment with an ice-cap of bitterness on top.

The plane stabilized and starts a slow descent towards Monterey. I see mountain ranges below. I see why the Spaniards dubbed it the 'Land of Kings'. I wonder how the Spaniards described Cuba's Sierra Maestra when they first saw its ridges. Too bad los conquistadors could not have flown in. Perhaps Hatuey would have caught a break. Perhaps he would have seen them coming.

Mountains have always been difficult…Difficult to scale, traverse, deal with. In mountains, people can die as easily as they can hide out for long periods of time. It was/is as true for Fidel as it was for the rebel troops led by Antonio Maceo in the days of Spanish colonial rule. It's as true for Bin Laden, today, in Pakistan, as it has been for me as a first-generation Cuban-American.

For me, the 'mountain' has been an extension of geography: a cultural divide, an inter-generational distance, the space between my dead, absentee dad and me, the unspoken narrative within all the 'Cuba stories' my grandfather used to tell me, the enduring bitterness of my parents' generation at choosing- or having to leave their homeland in the prime of their lives, the hunger of a country for freedom and true independence, and, most immediately, the dissonance between my life as an American and my very Cuban heart.

The plane lands in Habana's Jose Marti International in less than an hour. We'll be deplaning at Terminal 3 --- not the Quonset hut terminal reserved for flights from Miami, but a world-class facility built by the Canadian government (at Cuba's behest) in preparation for a visit from the Pope a few years back. What a country.

Cuba Journal 1: Tijuana to La Habana

2010-07-05T16:10:00.000-07:00

Tijuana to La Habana

Memory and fantasy --- not necessarily surrealism -- are two pillars of Cuban-American literary tradition. Events and people must all run through Exile, the third pillar. The final pillar is the individual through which a story is being told. I am a very americanizado, first generation Cuban-American. My memories of Cuba come from Miami. I offer no flying carpets, no open wounds that never clot. My memories are not so abstracted, not so fantastic. If forced, and before making this journey, I'd call my memories hand-me-downs, recycled tires, or an old record record collection from which certain 'hits' arise: 'The Bay of Pigs,' 'Che Murdered Hundreds', and the classic 'Perdimos Todo'; tunes whose melodies filled my head as a child growing up in Hialeah, FL, Miami's blue-collar suburb. At best, my memories of Cuba before this trip are refracted, bounced off of others' actual experiences. My father's lost political ambitions, my grandfather's ranch, my grandmother's abandoned piano were like ice-cubes in my early life's glass of water. Later they became the impetus for many a Cuban Cowboy song.

I grew up in a house and city steeped in bittersweet longing for Cuba. The old joke goes: 2 stray dogs, hungry mangy mutts, were walking the streets of Miami. After fighting for a scrap of food left behind by some alley cat, the dog that lost out on the morsel turns to the other and says: "You know, in Cuba I was a Doberman Pinscher!" For many in my family, life was not only better in Cuba, but fundamentally different; it was as if they were entirely different people. The weird part was that those different people co-existed simultaneously within and without the harsher world of post-Revolution Miami --- a world tantalizingly close to their Cuba, a place many of them chose to forever freeze in time, in their hearts and minds. It was as if I lived with and among ghosts: each Cuban-born person had a spectre-double, capable of overtaking them, their lives, their politics at the mere mention of, say, Fidel Castro.

The exile is thus a person divided into concept and condition. In that sense, one can be consumed or adopted by El Exilio Cubano (and vice versa). Any Cuban-American can tell you this, just maybe not in so many words!

Dancing in Circles: El Danzón de Noventa Millas

2010-05-09T19:27:00.000-07:00

I wrote "El Danzón de Noventa Millas" for an upcoming documentary dealing with U.S. -- Cuba politics. The film, entitled "Will the Real Terrorist Please Stand Up?" deals with the Cuba/S. Florida Cuban Exile polemic. It focuses on the plight of the 'Cuban 5' (the Cuban spies, being held in the U.S. [recently denied appeals by the Supreme Court]) while putting U.S. foreign policy in historical, bloody context. "El Danzón de Noventa Millas" (click here for Lyrics, & translation) is the movie's theme song. Director Saul Landau expects the film to be released later this year.

This stylized music video (above) was directed by Bay Area Cuban American, Tomas Hernandez. Tomas is currently working with Saul Landau on the documentary.

Although I'd never written a theme song before, I felt fully prepared to write this one, given my experience as a first-generation Cuban-American who grew up in Hialeah, FL. The lyrics allude to treachery on both sides of el mar que nos divide (the sea that divides us), as they do to the stunning failures of post-revolutionary Cuba's economic structure and Cuban exiles' refusals to deal with the reality of Cuban sovereignty. As with many human relationships, and matters of identity therein, the situation for Cubans everywhere is, well, complicated. I thought it best to capture the nuanced and bittersweet in the form of a highly stylized, classical dance.

The Devil's Dance Lessons

2010-05-07T15:43:00.000-07:00

The next 10 blog posts will be devoted to the stories behind the tunes to be released as a full album later this year. I'll start with one with a helluva back-story, legal and otherwise:"The Devil's Dance." The tune was inspired by my dealings with a record label that nearly derailed The Cuban Cowboys. The battle lasted four years, and 'ended' with a resounding victory. In July, 2009, an Arbitrator awarded the band @ 340K in damages, plus interest and legal fees. In October, 2009, the CA courts approved the judgment. You can CLICK HERE to read los gory details. As the defendants have yet to pay, additional financial penalties were imposed by a Judge, and I'm now about to file against them in NY (where they live and do business. For the sake of search engine fun, two of the principals found by the Arbitrator to have committed fraud are: BJay Schapiro and Derek Edwards). So the tale is not quite over, and I'll def. keep you updated. For now, though, here's the story, morning glory:

Ten years ago, I moved to NYC from Gainesville, FL -- selling everything I could not fit into a small rental car, and moving into a Brooklyn loftspace with 5 other people. For the first six months, I slept on a slab of wood above the bathroom and shower, and had approximately 3 feet of "ceiling" space --- so I could neither stand up nor get dressed in the space where I slept. I strung up a curtain for privacy, but would regularly awake to the sound of someone peeing or showering or cooking in the kitchen area that my 'room' overlooked. Such an arrangement is, I suppose, what any 35 year-old can expect when s/he decides to pursue a passion as folly-laden as 'rock musician.' After countless open-mics, coffee houses, and two versions of TCC, a buzz began to build and the gigs and press started improving.

On August 12, 2005, The Cuban Cowboys signed a record deal with a company called Sound Adventure Records, a subsidiary of Redefined Entertainment. In the months leading up to the deal, I had done what many aspiring professional musicians yearn to do: I quit my day job! Within a month of the signing, it became clear that label had breached the contract. The immediate upshot was that my wife (pregnant) and I had to move to SF, as we'd drained our savings and could no longer afford to live in NYC. We headed west, and moved into my mom in-law's basement....jobless, broke, and with a slew of dashed hopes.

The Devil's Dance is what one does in order to survive and fight back. It is, however, both tricky and dangerous. The more you do it, the more you risk losing. Among potential losses: dignity, self-respect, money, time, etc. In the song, I try to impart my 'dance lessons' learning to my two children, Joaquin and Elena.

In a broader sense, the Devil's Dance refers to how one responds to mistakes, compromises, and difficult choices imposed on all of us by life. Writing and performing the song made me aware of how often I'd danced the Dance, and how good I'd become at doing it. For me, some of the more damaging moves I chose to do throughout the course of my life included lying (to myself and others), cheating (myself and others), and self-obsession. Thankfully, other moves were not so damning. Indeed, there have been many blessings in the five years since signing that record deal, not the least of which: two beautiful children, the opportunity to love and Be for them, 20 months of sobriety & recovery (with more to come, God willing!), a new ass-kicking band, the guidance of a wonderful producer, and something that I'll soon be able to share with you -- a new album with songs borne of survival and surrender.

Bilingual Ed is More Hetero than Bi: Bilingualism & Me Part 3

2009-10-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine from high school commented on the previous installment of ' Bilingualism & Me' by lamenting: Countries all over the world teach their children a second language. In this country we do our best to take it away from kids whose native language is not English and then push it in high school to those kids who don't know a second language.....does it make any sense? This here post is my attempt to respond, because it does indeed make little sense. In brief, the sad fact is that our schools' and society's view on bilingualism has more to do with politics and prejudice than education or human rights.

Language, like the color of one's skin, is how we most easily identify and distinguish ourselves from 'the Other.' Three recent news items suggest language continues to hold symbolic importance for perceptions of national and cultural unity (I'm referring to the Taos hotelier, the cops in Dallas, and some [more] depressing facts about Latino kids in U.S. public schools). It's important to keep in mind that whenever we talk about meeting the social and/or educational needs of folks who speak a language other than English, we're also talking about immigration and immigrant rights. That said, a focus on bilingual education's history provides a good sense of the politically rocky landscape. In the context of public education, bilingual education has been a lightning rod issue from the very beginning.

Despite the passage of laws between 1954 and 1968 establishing the educational and cultural rights of minority groups in America, a big question remains unanswered all these years later: Is it possible to achieve the ideal of the Unum when significant parts of the Pluribus have the right to maintain their linguistic and cultural heritage? Any attempt to respond must be tempered by the consideration that the basis upon which the "melting pot" rests was set a long time ago. For so-called linguistic minorities in this and the previous century, replacing one's first language in the learning of English has seemed not only necessary, but an ideal worth pursuing if one is/was to share in what remains of the "American Dream." In the last forty years, this ideal has remained the de facto norm for English Language Learners in our nation's schools.

Sacrificing your first language skills may or may not necessarily be a bad thing, as many minority groups are strong advocates for their kids' learning English. Their children's academic achievement and access to mainstream classes is truly a worthy goal. Unfortunately, the goal often comes at a steep price: the loss of a linguistic resource that puts our citizenry at a distinct disadvantage compared to people in Europe, China, and a host of other countries with a bi- and/or trilingual population.

The problem begins with the general practice of bilingual education favoring one language over another. It's rooted in an ambiguous, and, at times, contradictory mix of Civil Rights era legislation, federal and state court decisions, and attendant policies. Here in California, for instance, voters approved Proposition 227 several years ago, which was supposed to ban bilingual education. The law (for CA governs by proposition) was pushed through by conservatives focused on mitigating immigrant's impact on public resources (See: current health care debates). Yet the fact that just over 26% of CA school kids are English Language Learners (ELL) meant that all sorts of loopholes cropped up to deal with the reality that serious attention and money must be paid to educate these students. So it's no surprise that much of the literature on bilingual education policy and programming notes that the field's subtractive framework is enabled by vaguely worded laws.

Broadly defined, subtractive bilingualism occurs whenever one language is lost as another is acquired. Additive bilingualism, on the other hand, occurs when two languages are equally valued while being learned simultaneously, thus improving the odds of dual maintenance. Unfortunately, additive bilingual school environments in the United States are as rare as they are difficult to maintain. Since our current economy ain't exactly the best one within which to implement or sustain such efforts, it falls on parents and the home environment to do what some say schools have no business doing. Same ol' same ol? No sé.

The key consequence of bilingual ed's subtractive environment is one that I personally experienced: the documented fact that linguistic minority kids come to view second language learning as an 'either/or' proposition, English or the home language, as the two cannot seemingly coexist or enrich each other. By extension those kids learn to perceive their first language and culture as mutually exclusive from American English and culture, and therefore, inferior. The 'upshot' is below-grade level performance, exceedingly high drop out rates, social, cultural, and familial alienation, and incomplete mastery of English and home language skills.

Proponents and opponents of bilingual education -- groups that include teachers, researchers, and parents -- generally agree on one point: Bilingual ed. as commonly practiced is largely ineffectual and is rarely a truly bilingual endeavor. Neither side is satisfied with the current status of so-called bilingual ed, as the most common programs perennially yield the lowest academic achievement rates. The current trend is to get kids into all-English classrooms as quickly as possible. My own mother agrees with the 'sink or swim' maxim, as do lots of folks from her generation.

In today's environment, where testing and accountability are king, more kids are sinking than swimming. Beyond the questions of fairness and civil rights, who bears the cost of the loss of all that human and cultural capital? Guess.

Jesus Vs. 'Hey Zeus': Bilingualism & Me, Part II

2009-09-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

Back in 2002, I was part of an educational theater company running an Annenberg grant at a Bronx, NY high school. There was a kid in one of my classes whose first name was Jesus. I italicize in order to indicate Spanish pronunciation. As I wrote in my last post, my generation's naming convention typically leaned toward the anglicized (e.g., Alejandro to Alex, Guillermo to Willie, Jorge to George, etc.). So I used to get a big kick out of watching this kid insist that his teachers call him "Jesus." It was funny hearing teachers and police resource officers asking the Son of God to pull up his pants, quiet down, or sit up straight, etc. Of all the Spanish names, native English speakers in this country are loathe to anglicize Jesus. Such a discrepancy and its implications is what I'd like to address with this here posting.

Questions of identity and the role of language therein are muy importante to this Cuban Cowboy. The current public health care debate alone provides ample evidence that a question like "Who is a 'real' American?" matters as much today as it did a century ago. While we at least know a cowboy can be Cuban (heh heh), issues such as immigration and bilingual education remain as contentious as ever. Hell, even the way one pronounces a name can be a bellhop's nightmare -- carrying all sorts of baggage.

Growing up, "Español en la casa, inglés por la calle" (Spanish at home, English on the street [i.e., everywhere else]) was the rule at my house. My mom encouraged my sister and I to learn how to use English effectively. We were translators for our grandparents, and possessed mucho cultural capital around our Spanish-speaking household. When I learned the word "fuck" from a neighbor boy, I shouted it as often as possible for weeks, until my mother finally asked a co-worker what it meant. Even as I got slapped after saying it at dinner for the last time, my six year old mind recognized that knowing English was, if not magical, certainly advantageous.

When my teachers and neighborhood friends anglicized my name to 'George,' it made it easier for me to feel American --- something that my Cuban-exile parents wanted me to be proud of, what most of my classmates felt by birthright and never thought to think about or question. As I grew older, I spoke better English than I did Spanish. La calle, so to speak, had won out, coming into our casa in the Four Trojan Horses of the Linguistic Apocalypse: Gilligan's Island, A Family Affair, Scoobie Doo, and The Flintstones. Upon hearing my marginal Spanish, my grandfather would comment "Vas a perder tu idioma" ("You're going to lose your language."). He said these words with a mix of dismay and regret in his tone. Although I understood Spanish, my command of that language was never such that I could adequately defend myself from his prediction. Indeed, I didn't even want to. My English language dominance seemed to me a natural response to my environment. I was unaware that losing my Spanish and downplaying my Cuban cultural skills were hurting me in any way. Sadly, this lack of awareness is the norm for most so-called 'linguistic minority' children gong to school in America.

Thankfully, through music, I was able to regain my Spanish and then some. As a former classroom teacher and current consultant to 80 school districts (gotta have a day yob, yo), however, I only wish schools had given me the opportunity that music has.

Yo Quiero Taco Bell: Bilignualism & Me (Part 1)

2009-09-01T12:51:00.000-07:00

Almost a decade ago, that little Taco Bell dog did more for foreign language education than hoards of schools were able to do for the hundred years prior. Suddenly, everyone was able to spout a structurally correct, declarative sentence in Spanish. Amazing. Leave it to pop culture, the power of catch phrases and a chihuahua to do for us what educators and, in many cases, even our parents can not: get us comfortable with a language other than English. This here is the first installation in the telling of my bilingual experience --- which also happens to be the Cuban Cowboy's origins.

I spoke only Spanish until I was five years old. Then I went to school. By the third grade, I spoke less and less Spanish. From what I could see, most of my Cuban-American companions underwent a similar experience. By 1976, we Cuban-Americans were rapidly growing in number throughout the Dade County, Florida school system. At school Guillermo became "Billy, " Alejandro became "Alex," and I became "George." In the middle of my third grade year, my mom moved the family to a new section of Hialeah. We were then the only Cubans on the block.

While the American boys in my neighborhood took a liking to my sister, I was not so well received. I heard the work "Spic" for the first time. My mother used to tell me: "Tell them you're as American as they are, that you were born in Florida which makes you a Florida cracker." Although I hadn't a clue as to what, exactly, a "Cracker" was (beyond the Saltine), I did as I was told and got my ass beat. Often.

I used to be able to walk home from school, but only did so after sundown. I would stop at the public library between Immaculate Conception School and my house (JFK on 49th Street, by Milander Park for any Hialeah homies reading this). I would stay there, reading like a fiend until I knew the Americanitos would be inside eating dinner (usually around 6 pm/sundown). Only then would I run home. I transferred to a new school a year later because my mom grew worried about me. My mom and grandmothers didn't like me coming home so late. Also, they felt I needed to be more exposed to Cuban culture, given the 'gringo' neighborhood we'd moved to.

The new school was formerly a highly regarded Catholic institution in Cuba. The school was transplanted to Miami, where its exiled administrators 're-opened' it. My mom felt I would benefit from being around more Cuban kids and teachers. The experience proved to be critical in my life. At the new school, classmates called me Gringo for being too Americanizado. I quickly learned that, in my appearance and use of English, I was "not Cuban enough." Meanwhile, in my neighborhood, I was called Spic for being "more Cuban" than American.

Similar to what my Cuban-exile parents' generation continued to face, the central issues in my life at that time dealt with divisions and distinctions. What was a "real" American? Was I American? Was I Cuban? Why did it feel like I could not be both? While I don't think I ever explicitly asked those questions, I know that I lived them. The Cuban Cowboy exists because I continue living them today.

Stopping the U.S -- Cuba Two-Step

2009-08-04T14:45:00.000-07:00

Last week, the U.S. mission (i.e., embassy) in Havana turned off the "news" billboard it had running along the side of its building since 2000. The ticker-billboard would alternately run news of the world alongside anti-Castro/anti-communist party commentary (e.g., 'Why do party members drive around the island in fancy cars while everybody else can barely get fed?"). The decision to turn the billboard off has been generally seen as another proactive move by the Obama administration, in its attempts to bring about change in U.S.-Cuba relations.

The billboard was one of many moronic, largely symbolic gestures brought to us by George Bush. Perhaps Cheney and Rumsfeld just wanted to take more eyes off of what was (and is) going on in Guantanamo. I, for one, might have supported the billboard had our state department employed popular comics to write the postings. Although I'm not sure how well Chris Rock (or Dave Chappelle or Jon Stewart, et. al) would have translated, there is certainly enough irony and idiocy on both sides to make for good comedy.

As for the overall effect or impact of the billboard going dim: who knows? While I consider it a good move, there are lots of reasons to see Obama's nascent Cuba 'restart' (as in 'starting over'...similar to his recent overtures to Russia [Biden's recent gaffe excepted]) as just one step forward in his diplomatic two-step. It's the 'two-step' part that's most frustrating; particularly since expectations run high after a first step (the one-step) is taken.

This year's big One Step: Obama announces eased travel restrictions (for those with family in Cuba) along with new parameters for some commercial interests (telecommunications, mostly). Then, the Two-Step: Obama says the Embargo remains and we continue issuing challenges to Cuba's sovereignty by insisting on changes when we can't even take care of matters in our own house, so to speak.

While I am certainly a fan of Obama and appreciate the difficult position he's in, discrepancies between his campaign rhetoric and and in-office actions abound. For every 'Sotomayor nomination,' or 'make nice with Cuba moment,' the Obama administration seemingly has a two-step counter. Some go well beyond Cuba: the maintenance of Bush-implemented immigration policies., his continuation of Bush's policy's on wire tapping, the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" crap, highly biased-selective corporate bailouts (Geithner and Summers' backgrounds alone are quite suggestive), etc., etc. That the two-step's 'extensions' are a source of frustration for many is a fact not lost on Fox News bloviators, which helps no one except, maybe, Lou Dobbs.

All of that said, just as Cuba is afforded special status where immigration is concerned --- a Cuban only has to reach land or cross the Mexican or Canadian border to be well on his/her way toward citizenship...is it the same for a Mexican national crossing in to Calexico? Hell no! (see NYTimes article, above) --- Cuba merits a similar, unique consideration where our foreign policy's concerned; the kind of consideration musicologists and historians afford Cuban music.

Geographically and otherwise, Cuba presents our government with an immediate opportunity to right many wrongs and help at least two struggling economies. Let's momentarily set aside travel restrictions ('cuz, for some reason, our State Department sees no benefit in allowing direct travel to/from Cuba for musicians and U.S. citizens alike), the Gitmo morass, Helms-Burton legislation and the sheer waste of cultural capital. Let's instead consider a politically equitable, and beneficial step, one that both humanitarian, business groups and both of our political parties could support:

Opening trade between Havana and New Orleans.

As Ned Sublette and many others correctly note, allowing trade between New Orleans and Havana would both reaffirm a centuries-old, natural trading partnership, and help revive two areas in dire need of recovery. That baby-step alone would be better than the two-stepping we're currently having to sit through.

Why I Mail Out Free CDs

2009-08-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

Why do I send out so much free music? With postage, not to mention production costs (everything from recording to buying blank CD-Rs, envelopes, and labels to the time it takes to write a lil note and autograph each one), "isn't too expensive?" is what I get asked the most. I respond with a "Yes and no." Before I go any further, allow me to say (if you haven't already heard) the music industry ain't what it used to be.

In the August 1st, Op-Ed section of the NYTimes, Charles Blow describes the music industry's deathwatch --- an 'event' whose pace has only accelerated over the last ten years. "The speed at which this industry is coming undone is utterly breathtaking." He goes on to describe a cultural shift where more and more people are streaming their music for free, via the Internet, and downloading single songs far more often than buying physical CDs. In fact, relatively speaking, no one's buying CD's these days...or much of any music for that matter. Why buy when you can stream? Blow calls it a move from "an acquisition model to an access model."

The reasons for plummeting CD sales are myriad. Suffice to say, they're down almost 40% from just two years ago...and dropping. Download revenue hasn't come close to replacing the lost revenue. Indeed, out of 13 million songs available for sale online, all the money came from 52,000 tunes. As Blow points out, "that's less than one percent of the songs." This fact, combined with some other factors (huge overhead, bloated exec. salaries, crappy music/lame acts, etc.), has meant that "major" labels are only major in terms of losses and debt. They're only after quick sales, and can offer nothing to new artists that do not fit the "Brittney" train wreck-ass-cookie cutter' mold.

So where does that leave an indie band like mine? With the task of building an audience, person by person.

My band recently played a music festival in northern California (Worldfest). We were fortunate to have performed for lots of rabid, wonderful music lovers. We played a morning set and another one in the afternoon. We sold out of CDs after the morning set. There were still a dozen folks standing in line, waiting to tell me how much they liked the band. I promised to mail them CDs. During the afternoon set (there were three times as many peeps there to see as there were in the morning), I announced the same thing that I told the people in line: just give me an email or a postal address and I'll send you free music. As of today, I have mailed 375 CDs to the festival goers.

Here's an email from one of them (sender's name omitted), affirming what the NYTimes' Op-Ed piece asserts:

***************************************
Jorge,

I've never met a musician willing to send free music because he sold out at a festival. Many other performers there also sold out much more quickly than they thought. Most of the attendees at the Cal World Fest were middle aged, which means that they probably mostly had money to spend and that they tend to be more interested in actual CDs than downloads, unlike younger people. I put myself in this category. Also, we tend to like to support the musicians. I live in a relatively large urban area (Sacramento), but have to go to places like Grass Valley to experience worthwhile music.

Thank you for your sincerity, honesty, and wonderful music. I hope you will be able to come to World Fest again, or at least come back to this region.
****************************************
I replied to the guy by thanking him and letting him know that I can not afford to lose him as a fan.

These days, a band like The Cuban Cowboys must to everything possible to get its music into as many hands, music devices, and hearts as it can. Sure, mailing free music to hundreds of people can get kinda expensive, but it would be far more costly to just let the music go unheard.

So send me a note with your mailing address, and I'll send you my music. It is, after all, about you, a listener, and your relationship with music and the folks who make it.

Mama Mia

2009-05-21T09:20:00.001-07:00

My mother came into town this week. She's in from Whorelando (Orlando), a city where many Cubans move to when they tire of Miami. Happily, I was able to bring her to the post-production studio where the new music is being mixed. She got to meet my producer Greg Landau and his production company partner, John Greenham (John's mixing and mastering the album). My mom was very impressed that John had won two Grammys for his work with Los Tigres del Norte. In regards to meeting Greg, I sensed some trepidation on her part.

I had told her a bit about Greg's background: that his father, Saul Landau was the award-winning documentarian responsible for, among many other films, an infamous (to her & many other Cuban exiles) documentary entitled Fidel! (1969), that Saul and a young Greg had lived in Cuba while the film was being shot, that Greg had gone to school in Havana for two years, and even attended an 'Escuela de Campo,' that Greg and I started working together after bringing me in to write the theme song for his dad's latest film (about the 5 Cuban spies being held by the U.S. & the Cuban-American polemic in general), and that Greg and I shared similar views on Cuban-U.S. relations.

That my mom had known about my views (anti-Embargo, pro-Cuba, etc.) was one thing, but to watch her interact with a man who had actually been in Cuba after the revolution, known Castro personally, and had spent much more time on the island than she during the last 30 years; well, I was primed for some sort of Agosto Boal-esque theatrical moment, where the actor-audience dynamic is turned on its head. Would she go off? What would she say? Would she start in with talk of food rations, Che personally murdering hundreds, Castro's party members' wealth, etc., etc.? The possibilities kinda excited me, as, well, I do love me some drama!

As it happened, she did talk about such things -- except that she directed her comments to some other producer-guy who happened to be in the room, which was kinda weird, but, I suppose, understandable. Like all of us, I guess, she's gotta represent.

What made me most happy about the afternoon --- despite being denied the drama -- was how much she seemed to enjoy the new music. That she actually got to see it being refined, in a room filled with speakers, monitors, compressors, etc., was a bigger treat for me than it seemed to be for her. I am, after all, Cubano in that I will always be a 'mama's boy.' Also, for such a long time, her Cuba was my Cuba. As the years have to me to understand, however, that is no longer the case. While I am unsure just what my Cuba is these days, I am now quite certain that it is not the Cuba she left in 1961.

That I differ so radically from my mother's generation of Cubans in regard to my politics as well as my take on Cuban music seemed, for once, not to matter very much that afternoon in the studio. The music managed to bridge whatever rifts there were/are between us. This is how it should be.

Sylvio Rodriguez Dances a 90-mile Danzon

2009-05-07T06:36:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, a friend of mine who heads a Cuba-U.S. cultural exchange organization forwarded me a letter from one of Cuba's most beloved musicians-activists-poets, Sylvio Rodriguez (below, in blue). The occasion and incident mark but the latest in the U.S.' contradictory swing in its bassackward policy toward Cuba. Despite President Obama's latest overture easing travel restrictions and opening up some commercial-tel-com possibilities, our State Department acted as if nothing had changed. Our major, political parties' pandering to South Florida's Cuban exile community is nothing new. In that sense, bipartisanship has been evident for forty years or so.

I was raised in Hialeah, FL, the original epicenter of Cuban-American efforts to thwart Castro. My father captained a CIA-funded ship during the Bay of Pigs invasion. I grew up surrounded by a polemic that persists to this day (See some recent Raul Castro action in Granma). Like lots of folks here and there, Cuban, Cuban-American, or otherwise, I'm tired of it. Poverty, hunger, and oppression -- political and cultural --- are the only fruits of the U.S. embargo AND portions of Cuba's official response to it. I'm not anti-Castro or anti-U.S. herein. I'm pro-Cuba, pro-people, pro-human rights and all for an end to the embargo along with the polemic in general.

To that and more, Sylvio Rodriguez wrote a letter. To you, I've written a song. It's called "Danzon de Noventa Millas" (The Ninety Mile Danzon). You'll be able to hear it next week. One of its verses goes:

En la Cuba como en la Souwesera, el compromiso de los bailadores

es un espejo de los deseos, pa' los que bailan con lo que era

[In Cuba as in South West Miami, dancers' commitment (to their dance)

Is a mirror of desires for those who dance with what was]

The coro goes:

El mar que nos divide es un danzon de noventa millas

Donde uno nada mucho pa' morir en la orilla

[The sea that divides us is a ninety-mile danzon

Where one swims so much only to die on the shore]

May it soon change.

Here's Sylvio's letter:

05/03/09-Letter from Silvio Rodríguez to Pete Seeger/Carta de Silvio Rodríguez a Pete SeegerOriginal publicada en español en Cubadebate, más abajohttp://www.cubadebate.cu/index.php?tpl=design/opiniones.tpl.html&newsid_obj_id=14956

HavanaMay 3, 2009
Admired and loved maestro Pete Seeger:At this moment dozens of singers are celebrating the tribute concert you richly deserve. I am thinking of some of the occasions on which I had the privilege of enjoying your talent, capable of seducing large numbers of people. I remember you in Havana, singing in solidarity together with the Grupo de Experimentación Sonora; I remember that tour in various Italian cities, dedicated to Víctor Jara; and I relive that frozen February night in 1980 when, responding to your call, we traveled from New York to Poughkeepsie and heard you sing "Snow, Snow", the masterwork of a man who asked questions of a winter landscape.

I tried to return to be with you today, but, as you well know, it was made impossible by those who do not want the United States and Cuba to come together, sing together, talk together, understand each other. The ones who think the world is divided into the powerful and the weak; who only appreciate those who are rich and strong. The ones who will not forgive that although we are small we have decided to live standing tall. Reality cries that these brutes are becoming ever fewer in number, but somehow this minority still rules and commands. Some of them thought it dangerous that we might see each other, and that a simple act of brotherhood might symbolize two neighboring peoples coinciding in songs and affection.But not only I, dear Pete: all my dignified and certainly improvable country respects you and celebrates your nine honorable decades defending social justice, peace, and culture. Here no one sees you as a threat but as an extraordinary friend whom we are prevented from embracing with the freedom that we would desire. Not only I, but all of Cuba, embargoed as we still are by the abusers, loves you, and we are at your side now singing your prophetic We Shall Overcome and our Martí's Guantanamera.

A kiss to Toshi and a strong embrace for you from

Silvio Rodríguez Domínguez

Un Cowboy in Bloom

2009-05-05T12:05:00.000-07:00

Bueno, queridos, it's been quite some time since I've felt so hopeful and excited as I do now. The new Cuban Cowboys have finished recording a new EP and it's sounding very, very good. The stoke, claro, is tempered by much hope and excitement since moving to San Francisco in the fall of 2005: the birth of two, beautiful, healthy children (Joaquin is 3, Elena is 8 mos.), the release of a well-received debut album, lots of shows along both coasts, two SxSW appearances, and, as of almost 8 months ago, a decision to quit drinking and a few other things that have led to a resurgence of inspiration and song-writing focus.

The new EP reflects los life changes in ways that I could not have imagined. Even after writing and finally releasing "Cuban Candles" in 2007, and spending years performing the material in clubs all over the country, I felt something was missing. While the "rock" was certainly there, the "Cuban" sometimes felt as compromised as my Spanish used to be (while it was my first language, I forsook it during my teens, before returning to fluency in my late 20s). Certainly, the first album's music did, in some ways, represent my state of mind, it also spoke to the tension between the two cultures I live and create within...which is both OK and the way it continues to be. Indeed, in regards to my lyrics and stories, I've been and remain muy comfortable relying on and switching between Spanish and English. At least one Cuban literary scholar would read my lyrics and call me a Cuban-Bred American, while others would (as I do) say I write as a "Cuban-American." Semantics aside, and self-imposed or not, the fact is, I was stuck in a duality I could no longer sustain. Life is far too uncertain. Language and culture, far too slippery and subjective for the absolutes of black and white, either/or, and assumptions made about the Other (particularly when the Other is me!).

Onstage, in between songs, the duality too often took shape in either a faux Spanish accent (I lob joo! I burn for joo!) or an English voice reveling in the parodic elements of my act. Musically and live performance-wise, I lacked the perspective and initiative to push things beyond the constraints I'd placed on the Cuban Cowboy character.

Until now.

I'll be posting the new songs on the band's guebsite, and elsewhere, later this week. May you hear what I hear: A cowboy in bloom.