Ibrahim
Ferrer and Rubén González
Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, Friday, Feb. 25
BVSC guitarist
Eliades Ochoa appears in Portland this
week: Eliades Ochoa y el Cuarteto Patria
Aladdin Theater 3017 SE Milwaukie Ave., 233-1994
8 pm Thursday, March 2 $23.50 advance, $25 at the door.
Ochoa was originally
scheduled to appear in Portland several weeks ago, but the
first few dates of his North American tour had to be scrapped
after the U.S. Government failed to issue his visa
in time. The reason for the delay is unclear, but no Buena
Vista member touring the States has yet been charged with
spying, sabotage or any other act connected to the Communist
conspiracy to destroy the Free World.
Rubén González walks like an arthritic
little bird-man. Hunched over, a smile beaming from beneath
blinding white hair, he needs help to get to his piano bench.
He sits there, his crooked back turned to the spotlight, amid
a crowd of immaculately dressed Cubans on the Schnitzer's
stage.
He's very frail. When he starts to play, though, you forget
about the creaky body, even about his smile. You watch his
fingers: impossibly long, solid mahogany against the white
of the ivories. They move like little blades, dissecting
the 88 keys as González unfurls crescendo pileups
or slams percussive chords with precision and force.
The sell-out crowd jamming the Schnitz to see González,
Ibrahim Ferrer and other stars of the much-hyped
Buena Vista Social Club practically vibrates with
happiness. Everyone's dressed to the nines, filling the
concert hall's wedding-cake balconies, staircases and arcades
with gorgeousness. People are clearly ready for the dose
of pre-Revolution Havana grace the night promises.
In the chaos outside the hall, scalpers try to move tics
for five times their face value of around $30--while civilians
with stray passes offer them for the official rate or less,
regarding the touts with the kind of contempt usually reserved
for child pornographers.
The ruling feeling is that Buena Vista Social Club is something
pure, a chance to drink from uncontaminated musical springs,
and shouldn't be fouled by scam artists.
The evening plays out. González's mostly instrumental
orchestra gives way to Ferrer's love-struck duets with chanteuse
Omara Portuondo. The thousands in the floor and in
the balcony shake and clap along in an endearingly whitebread,
rhythmless way. The musicianship on stage, steeped in time
and craft, is frankly stunning.
Of course, you could wonder. How real is this, really?
There's no question that Ferrer, born at a dance in 1927,
and González, a '30s med student before he committed
to a career in piano surgery, have their credentials in
order. But as American yuppies and music scenesters rush
to embrace Cooder's Buena Vista all-star project, it's tempting
to try to poke holes in the phenomenon, and a few critics
have.
Chief among their complaints is the fact that Hispanic
music fans, by and large, are not part of Buena Vista-mania.
The fanatic anti-Castro wing of Miami's Cuban community,
in fact, has occasionally done its best to derail shows
by the project's artists and other Cuban musicians. Other
Spanish-speaking audiences seem indifferent.
Meanwhile, gringos can't get enough. Buena Vista Social
Club and subsequent solo records by González,
Eliades Ochoa, Compay Segundo and--especially--Ferrer
have sold millions to a mostly white, upscale fan base.
The scene at the Schnitz tells the story well. The bands
on stage include nearly every hue of humanity, but Portland's
burgeoning, music-hungry Hispanic population is largely
absent. You could argue that this is a symptom of bad, bad
things about Buena Vista Social Club: That it's music as
a museum piece, that its origins with an American producer
put it about a baby-step away from outright cultural thievery;
that, without a doubt, it's commercialized to the core.
And you might have a point. But it's really, really hard
to concentrate on stuff like that, what with Ferrer bouncing
across the stage like a child half-crazed with glee.
His face, which looks like an ancient baseball glove, crinkles
into a permanent smile--except when he sings sad songs,
when it could be next to "forlorn" in the dictionary. His
raspy-smooth voice tells of heartbreak with authority. It's
hard to ponder the authenticity of bassist Orlando Lopez's
killer cool and poise. The playful back-and-forth between
Ferrer and Portuondo has such touching, surprising sexiness
(in America, old people seldom get to be sexy), it's hard
to question their bona fides.
Above and beyond the bursts of applause and the cheerfully
dorky dancing, a sense of awe prevails. People seem to hold
their breath a little, astonished to know such beauty can
exist. In this crowd, you wouldn't find one person who'd
call Ry Cooder a white imperialist.
In the middle of his set, Ferrer, bathed in a soft spotlight,
leans out to deliver one of his devastatingly romantic whispers.
A woman who's been translating for her neighbors all night,
takes a second to puzzle it out. "It means, 'Without you,
I'm nothing,'" she says.
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Willamette Week | originally
published March 1,
2000
|
