On the Road Again

Toronto & Havana Travelling with Colston and Essjay It’s November, the weather conditions on the west coast unpredictable with frequent storms presenting the possibility of being stranded even before beginning, making it necessary to start the journey a day earlier than had been planned. I promised myself I would not do this any more, this travelling about the planet in search of music, it’s like a disease, a brain impregnated wanderlust, but here I am, still curious, still longing for pleasurable possibilities. Aging brings about the unwanted deterioration of body parts, in this case an attack of Bursitis seemingly acquired at the previous day’s hanging of my photographic show of Jerry Pethick’s Time Top journey; a show running throughout December at Joe King Clubhouse back on the island. This painful condition (a fluid swelling above the knee cap) that induces hobbling, is a malady commonly called Housemaid’s Knee but is being jokingly referred to by intimates as Curator’s Knee. The journey is a multi-functional affair, the first destination being Toronto for a family visit and to attend a book launch which includes David Lee’s The BATTLE of the FIVE SPOT - Ornette Coleman and the New York Jazz Field, a Master’s thesis dissertation, and Mark Miller’s collection of selected writings from 1980-2005 titled A Certain Respect for Tradition. And then on to the 23rd Edition of the Havana Jazz Festival. Since GeoDubya introduction of colour coded paranoia and the country-wide undemocratic smoking ban, airports have taken on a tedious self righteous attitude, removing for me any joy that may have previously existed. By chance we meet songstress Jackie Zbirun, an old island friend, at the entrance to the Comox Airport, who is also travelling the first stage of our journey to Calgary where we will change aeroplanes and she will disembark. The purpose of her trip, it seems, is to sell, to a prospective customer, her daughter’s quarter-size violin — now of a certain value as it has been autographed by a famous personality — to be replaced by a size more suitable for her growing offspring. There is a kerfuffle at the security check, the officials confused by what could well be a weapon of mass destruction in the bottom of her bag. The suspicious object she is transporting is a pitch pipe, which seemingly none of the officials had ever seen before. “Let me demonstrate its purpose” sez Jackie. The officials step back, warily observing, as Jackie toots a simple tune, accompanying herself as she does with a lively little jig. Once through the security check the traveller is confronted with a bare bones waiting room decorated in the style of a McDonald’s; bland, lifeless, devoid of any personality, and serviced entirely by corporate mediocrity. The 50¢ bottle of water that has been confiscated can now be replaced, purchased from the Coca Cola sponsored coin operated machine for a mere $2.00. Hope you have the correct change. The wait in Cowtown’s terminal is minimal, just time for a glass of wine and a cigarette. Ah, yes, in Calgary airport, unlike elsewhere in Canada, there are numerous lounges where it is possible to enjoy a relaxing smoke. How civilized. Even the cowhide decor of the bar, echoing imagined sympathy for my slowly rotting gamey leg, seems friendly. Perhaps it’s true that Alberta is an independent state and should be recognized as such. On to Hog Town. Such nicknames our cities have. Animals being led to slaughter. We have double-packed our bags, two sets of attire, knowing as we do that Toronto will be at the beginning of its remembered winter and Havana balmy at the very least. Surprise! Surprise! The following day we awake to a temperature in Toronto of 15°C. The mail man, whistling away a happy tune, is sporting a cotton shirt and shorts. Quite unseasonable. We are ensconced in the house of an old friend on Brunswick Avenue just a few blocks north of the venue in Kensington Market where the Mercury Press book launch will take place; a hip, and to us new club named the Supermarket which in recollection was a Portuguese pool room where gentlemen of sundry generations could be observed lounging about its front porch; socialising, enjoying a cigarette, gossiping neighbourhood stories, or daydreaming villages back home. Circumstances have concocted what could be considered a dream band from a past history: I have travelled, as noted, from the west coast with my sopranino saxophone, David Lee has travelled in from Hamilton to promote his new book and brought a bass, Arthur Bull journeying west from Digby Neck — here on some mysterious government business — has brought his guitar, and violinist David Prentice with previous knowledge of this unlikely gathering has come down from Flesherton to join the party. Shazam! — as Billy Batson would shout when he wanted to be transformed into Captain Marvel — and we have the resurrection of the Bill Smith Ensemble. And as if this were not enough we are joined by Stuart Broomer enlarging the ensemble with a second guitar. The out-of-towners congregate, with my two daughters, across the street from the club at a small Mexican family restaurant where we satisfy our hunger with a variety of fine spicy food and a couple of beers (each) and catch up on old times. The Supermarket turns out to be a large venue with its back-half secluded from the main space by a set of sliding doors, creating an intimate room complete with a small stage, possibly suitable for fifty listeners. Perfect for a book launch. Each of the writers (six in all) are allocated seven minutes to promote their work, and when David Lee’s turn arrives he relinquishes his chat so that the band can perform a brief (seven minute) version of Ornette’s Beauty Is A Rare Thing. In keeping with his learned tome. The audience, for the most part, are overjoyed with the addition of this unexpected music; an acoustic old fashioned avant garde music rarely heard in these parts anymore, its practitioners having fled this metropolis over the past twenty years for more rural climes. The story, the whole evening, is a much bigger affair, so I’ll just stick with the musical interludes. Mark chose to read a piece on John Zorn entitled Shivers - John Zorn’s Naked City (1989): “Note #5. To mix things that don’t traditionally match. The bass line of Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman, for example, running under an atypically fractious version of Ornette Coleman’s usually serene Lonely Woman. Zorn dresses in that manner, too. His footwear comes in singles, not pairs. One white running shoe, one black. One red sock, one green.” An inspiration for this rare gathering of musicians to conclude the evening with another Ornette tune. The sliding doors were then parted, opening up the whole space for the ensuing six hip-hop DJs to strut their stuff for the ever increasing younger crowd coming to dance. ‘Round midnight — time for us oldsters to retire. The weather remains clement throughout our stay, no need to unpack our Eddie Bauer thermal long-johns or thick socks, a chance to wander about our home town, participate in lunch and dinner with family and friends, check out the used book shops, and casually prepare for the journey south to the Havana festival. For the past half-century I have attended hundreds of jazz festivals, including almost every edition of the Vancouver event since its inception in 1986, so many that the novelty (is that the word?) or excitement is wearing thin. The repetition of the venues, traipsing every day from one to the other, and even to a certain extent the music, far too much to digest, is not so interesting as it all once seemed. Time for a change. With the assistance of Ginny Harrison, our travel consultant at White Rock Travel, we have discovered what is purported to be an all inclusive package to the Havana Jazz Festival where we expect to hear a variety of Latin-based music not usually a part of our auditory spectrum. The package includes transport on Cubana Air, all the transfers, airport taxes, accommodation, which includes a buffet breakfast, in the five star Hotel Nacional de Cuba, and a pass and transport to all the festival events. However we soon discover that once we leave the orderly uncluttered world of Canada and change to Cuban time all is not as it seems. Perhaps the makings of an absurd, mostly humorous Marx Brothers film produced by Karl and directed by Groucho, with us participating as bit-part players. Hola Sun of Richmond Hill, “THE CUBA SPECIALISTS”, through whom we have booked this package, turn out to be an inefficient organisation. The aeroplane journey is long-winded, landing as it does first in Camagüey in central Cuba where the majority of passengers disembark, and after an hour stop-over continuing on to Havana. We are met at the Jose Marti International Airport by a representative of Havanatur, the official Cuban travel agency, to be shuttled into the city. As the bus trundles through the darkness, the guide — compulsory on every package tour — delivers his welcome speech, explains such details as the currency, safety, hustlers etc., and it soon becomes obvious that he has no idea that a jazz festival is taking place, even though this is the reason that all the passengers on the bus are visiting his city. By the time we arrive at our hotel it is 10 o’clock at night, too late to attend the Gala de Inaugaracion del Festival, and there is no representative in the lobby to supply us with our “included” festival passes anyway. No matter, the Nacional is a grand affair, built in 1930 and since rejuvenated to its former glory, the ghosts of its fascist history still wandering the passageways, from a time when it was linked to Italian American mobsters, the likes of Lucky Luciano, Santos Traficante, Frank Costello and Meyer Lansky, the chosen accommodation of the rich and famous including Hollywood legends Marlon Brando, Errol Flynn, Johnny Weissmuller, Buster Keaton, Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner, the writer Ernest Hemmingway, the Duke & Duchess of Windsor. Even my old nemesis Winston Churchill could be imagined waddling about the tropical gardens sucking on a fat pungent cigar. Dump the bags in our spacious room and investigate the sumptuous facilities, flop down in a comfy couch and relax our first night away sipping a mojito while listening to a trio of Cuban musicians at the outdoor Bar Galeria which looks out over the beautiful tropical gardens complete with strutting peacocks. Here we meet an English representative of Cubana Air who describes the Nacional as being a ***** hotel with *** star accommodation. Out there, past the edge of the gardens is the Malecón, the joyous sounds of singers could be clearly heard, and upon investigation we find that thousands of people are enjoying the opening celebrations of Fidel’s 80th birthday and the 50th anniversary of the arrival of the revolutionaries from Mexico to begin the overthrow of the American controlled puppet dictator Fulgnecio Batista. The stage at the Plaza de la Dignidad with its 138 flags crackingly flapping, honouring Cubans that have been incarcerated and murdered by the American’s, hosts a variety of artists giving us our first taste of the plethora of music yet to come. Friday: The information package supplied by Hola Sun provides two contact numbers, both of which are discontinued, but with a little detective work we locate our Havanatur hostess — whose cell phone it seems is also out of commission — and by mid-afternoon manage to procure the elusive passes. At last we are set to attend our first concert at Teatro Amadeo Roldan. Or so its seems. The starting time is advertised as 5:30pm, and as we are running a little behind schedule we jump into one of the taxis that constantly pull up to the entrance of the hotel. After being driven around for about 15 minutes, up and down unknown streets, the driver purportedly receives a call over his radio informing him that he has to return to the hotel as our papers appear not to be in order. We are now late for the concert. Suspecting that the cab driver, in co-operation with the hotel door attendant, is into some tourist scam we exit his vehicle without paying, walk down to the main street and procure a cocotaxi, a small three-wheeled, two-stroke powered scooter that has the look of a large scooped out orange. For the rest of our stay we will use these taxis on a regular basis, as the near to the ground experience, the up-close intimate view of kerbside culture adds to the thrill of being in this magnificent, albeit somewhat dilapidated, city. The driver is a chatty fellow, who informs us that the Opus Bar, one of the most popular bars in the city, is on the top floor of our destination. A disgruntled crowd is gathered outside of the theatre and we soon discover that the concert has been cancelled due to a power grid failure. Strike two. Never mind, we aren’t in a hurry, the temperature is a balmy 28°C, and the next concert, beginning at 8:30pm is just a few blocks away at Teatro Mella. Time to sample one of the legendary pizzas in the restaurant of the luxurious modern Hotel Meliá Cohiba. What a grand old theatre Teatro Mella turns out to be, much like the remembered theatres of my youth, its Gaudí-esque interior complete with a meringue-shaped wrapped around balcony, the 1500 comfortable seats all but full of expectant fans. Unfortunately, although enamoured by its suitably seedy character, the smell of decay and the stench of the toilets wafting through the lobby soon become apparent. Plus we appear to have been followed on our journey by yet another deaf soundman whose intention, it appears, is to erase the subtle complexity inherent in this naturally rhythmic music. The names of the artists are unfamiliar as I have little or no knowledge of Cuban musicians, but judging by the opening band of Orlando Sánchez we are in for a treat, his brawny tenor saxophone overpowering the inadequate sound system, introducing us to the excitement that is generated by Cuban music, extending into daring forays often missing from the current batch of “schooled” retro-jazz players. The second treat was provided by bassist Jorge Reyes whose prodigious technique has been utilised by Arturo Sandoval, the Afro Cuban All Stars, Irakere, Roy Hargrove & David Murray. The third combination features a boring female singer. Time to head outside for a self-imposed intermission. The transport (guaranteed as part of our package) to return us to our hotel is waiting, engine running, even though it is only 10:30pm and the show is but half-way through. The driver is unwilling to wait. Oh well — it’s been a long day so let’s go “home” and once more lounge in the hotel garden with another mojito. Saturday: We have awakened too late to attend the celebrations at the Plaza de la Revolution that have begun at an early hour to avoid the heat of the mid-day sun, and anyway the ailing Fidel has been replaced by his brother Raúl. So after a sumptuous breakfast we set off on foot to investigate the city. Beginning our journey with a casual stroll along the Malecón, a sea wall stretching the entire length of the city’s north side, protecting the coast from the occasional fury of the Straits of Florida, we head in the general direction of La Habana Vieja (Old Havana) which in 1982 was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, and could be thought of as a 500 year old history lesson into Cuba’s glorious past, with its buildings and passageways, hotels and cafes, renovated to their former splendour, an illusion for the tourist trade. Just a step to the left into the surrounding dilapidated streets reveals the decay and squalor of the crumbling collapse of this once magnificent city, the disintegrating rutted and pocked streets, the facades and balconies of once grand dwellings, the homes of the hoi polloi, sadly in need of repair. It must be said though that these friendly people have a joyful air about them, healthy and happy, their smiles shining bright, clothing clean, neat and tidy, and unlike most Canadian cities, there is not a panhandler or bum in sight. Music is just about everywhere, not only in bars and cafes but in the street where groups of young people gather to sing, dance and accompany themselves with complex hand-clapped rhythm patterns. It is slowly beginning to become apparent that it is not necessary to search out the music at the jazz festival, that it is not a precious isolated commodity but the indigenous voice of the people. There is still the curiosity of the pre-revolution American cars that abound, some in barely usable condition commandeered by locals as people’s taxis, and others called Gran Cars which are renovated and beautifully maintained for the pleasure of tourists. The city abounds in the noise and smell of automobiles, the left-over Ladas of the abandoned Russian occupation readily apparent, rattly old vehicles of every description, their honking horns the most apparent sound next to the plentiful music. 24 hours a day they sound, timed on an average of nine-second intervals, warning the lackadaisical wandering pedestrians walking about unconcerned, or when creeping from the side streets sidling into the constant stream of traffic; any excuse to participate in this cacophonous symphony. The La Mina restaurant (which boasts more — although unseen — wandering peacocks) is situated on the edge of the charming park of Plaza de Armas, and has been recommended by a previous visitor. After we enjoy a delicious tuna salad and are entertained by yet one more superb band with the unlikely line-up of violin, flute accompanied by the customary Latin rhythm section, we return once again to the Teatro Amadeo Roldan for that evening’s concert. This venue, the home of the National Symphony, is of a much higher quality than Teatro Mella, the decor modern and the sound system no longer an intrusion. First up is the spectacular Costa Rican quartet of pianist Luis Monge featuring the technical wizardry of clarinetist Vinicio Meza, repeatedly bringing the enthusiastic audience to their feet. “Swing en 4”, as the group was called, utilised a mixture of classical, folkloric and jazz forms to great effect, and could be conveniently described as a most energetic Latin chamber music ensemble. A palpable tremor of excitement was apparent as the brilliant pianist Hilario Durán was introduced, and although he has been a Canadian resident for the past decade, performing and recording with our very own Jane Bunnett, who in many ways is responsible for our awareness of Cuban music, his return to his homeland is obviously a special event. His importance, alongside Chucho Valdés and Gonzálo Rubalcaba, as one of Cuba’s most spectacular musicians, became immediately apparent as his trio launched into the first evidence of bebop with a composition by one of his old bosses — Dizzy Gillespie — with the appropriately titled jazz standard Hot House. Attired in a radiant white suit he led the energetic trio through a series of delightful compositions, the bassist and drummer joined at the hip, their collective ideology and joyful exuberance perhaps inspired by the socialist doctrine from which they evolved, contradicting the conditions observed in our walk-about earlier that day. Three strikes and you’re out would be a fair description of the Swiss band that followed, akin to suddenly falling down an open manhole, dull and predictable after the vibrant vivaciousness that had preceded them. Time to join the exiting audience for a beer in the roof-top Opus Bar. Sunday: A change of pace is needed, time to participate in an action that takes us among the Cuban people, away from the tourist rigmarole, and what better way than to attend the opening game of the baseball season. Our five-star concierge is not a baseball fan, perhaps the only person in Cuba not interested in their national sport: “Ask a bellhop” she suggests. It’s like a code-word —­ baseball, even though we are unable to speak more than a few words in Spanish just uttering this word will open the door to all the information we need, the multi-lingual bellhop immediately informing us of the starting time and directing us to the Estadio Latinoamericano the 55,000 seat stadium known locally as El Latino. It a simple enough 45 minute walk south down Calzada de Infanta (Avenue of the Children), introducing us as we go to a number of neighbourhoods, skirting the University area, passing a bakery, a library, numerous local shops and cafes, and soon the huge stadium becomes apparent as we join the crowds streaming toward it. There are thousands of expectant fans, forty thousand in all, queuing up at the main entrance and before we can join them we are approached by an elderly gentlemen who accompanies us to one of the numerous policemen in evidence. After a short conversation — ah if we only understood Spanish — he then takes us to a tiny ticket wicket, almost invisible in the gigantic wall of the stadium, where foreigners can acquire a ticket for the measly price of 3 CUC’s (suitably pronounced coup). We are then directed to another less crowded entrance where another elderly gentleman takes over and leads us to our seats in the enclosure directly behind home plate. There are more foreign visitors among the chosen few, one sporting a tee-shirt with the logo of the Burnaby Fire Department. As with all opening games there is a grand show, young people bearing flags of the different provinces stretching from one base to the next, and then a mighty roar welcomes the two teams, the Havana Industriales attired in their blue shirts and Santiago de Cuba in red. The home team of “Los Azules” have a reputation similar to that of the New York Yankees in that they have fans from all over the country, and every one of their actions is greeted by raucous cheering and the sounding of horns. Such a grand spectacle with patriotic songs, revolutionary speeches, a minute’s silence for an unknown hero (if only we could understand Spanish), two dance troupes and the teams’ warm-up exercises accompanied by boisterous Latin music booming out from the stadium’s speaker system. Halfway through the fourth inning a flu bug caught from one of my grandchildren back in Toronto begins to overpower my energy, forcing us to leave, but all is not lost as we speed back to the hotel in one of the ever available taxis and watch the rest of the game on television. The Havana Industriales lost 6-2. That evening’s concert is the closing event of the jazz festival (Gala de Clausura del Festival) once again at Teatro Amadeo Roldan, but as I am unwell Essjay sets off, with unwarranted optimism, on her own as transport to the event is guaranteed. She waits for an hour in the hotel lobby but the bus once again does not show. In spite of all the chaos I cannot remember ever being at a “jazz” festival which generated so much genuine excitement, and for the second half of our stay we simply wandered about the city, visited art galleries, museums and parks, relaxed with a cool drink on one of the numerous patios of the grander hotels, and enjoyed the local music that was in abundance throughout Havana.