April 7, 2007
The Buena Vista Sisters' Club
This is the extraordinary story of Anacaona, a glamorous all-girl
orchestra which stormed to success in Thirties Cuba and became the toast
of Old Havana. The 11 sisters took their exotic 'son' rhythms across the
world before fading into obscurity after the Cuban Revolution. Here, in
an extract from a new book, saxophonist Alicia Castro, now in her
eighties and one of the surviving four, recounts how it all began
"Rum is a Cuban's life blood," says my sister Ada, and she's right.
Without rum, how would we cope with life – with the daily grind, with
growing older? We three sisters, living here in our parents' house in
Lawton, a district in Havana, have reached that happy age at which one
may, indeed must, relax and enjoy life. Even skinny Ondina, who hardly
eats anything (and at every meal acts as if we're just trying to tease
her by giving her an especially large serving), pushes her glass over
for a top-up. A little glass or two at lunchtime is a must.
I like my rum with a couple of ice cubes. I leave it just long enough to
get nice and cold, then down it quickly before the ice melts in the
midday heat and dilutes it. That would be a shame, even with the
ordinary rum you can get anywhere now, after years when it was hard to
come by. On almost every street there's a family selling it from big
plastic containers. Only Ondina protests that it's not up to standard.
"I'll have a dry martini. And don't forget the olive," she shouts to me
in the kitchen. That's her way of bragging about the fact that she used
to move in the best circles in Paris.
Ada, unlike Ondina, is not at all particular. Rum, as life, she takes as
it comes – with ice or without; a double or, if rum is in short supply,
with lime juice and sugar. She takes everything in good humour. After
all, she's a child of the Twenties, the boom years when Cuba's economy
soared and nobody had to worry about the future.
Lawton is the old tobacco workers' district. It's only a quarter of an
hour by bus along the Calzada 10 de Octubre (the broad shopping street
formerly known as Jesús del Monte) to the heart of Old Havana. From the
hill nearby you get a fantastic view of the turquoise sea and the
Malecon, the famous ocean-front promenade. The shining white dome of the
Capitolio, the former seat of the government, rises up majestically
above the weathered roofs of the surrounding buildings. The aires libres
used to be directly opposite. These open-air cafés were the beating
heart of Havana in the Thirties. It was there that my ten sisters and I
caused a sensation with our Orquesta Anacaona.
The whole family – 11 sisters, two brothers – used to sit together here
at the long mahogany table in the high-ceilinged dining room of our
father and mother's house. Ada, Ondina and I are the only ones still
sitting here. I'm the youngest and I'm over 80 years old now. Ada teases
me because I don't hear so well any more. But we all have our ailments:
Ada is quite forgetful and Ondina can hardly see a thing because of her
cataracts. Never mind – together we make a good team.
By the time I start mixing cocktails in the midday heat, Ada has already
done the basic shopping. We're only waiting for Ondina now, so we can
clink glasses. She's always doing something around the house. When our
morning chores are complete, we have earned a break. I lean back in my
rocking chair with a glass of cool rum and enjoy the fresh breeze coming
through the open door to the courtyard. So why on earth does the
doorbell have to ring now?
Ondina strides down the long hallway. "Who's there?"
"Pardon me, my name is Gutierrez. I'm a journalist and would like to
interview you for an article about the all-female band Anacaona."
Somehow the stranger eloquently succeeds in convincing Ondina that he is
harmless. One by one she unlocks the three deadbolts.
"Come in, young man. Ziomara has to come over right away. I hope she's
home."
Our little sister Ziomara is used to telling our story to the press. She
lives with her husband, Enrique, only two blocks away. Fifteen minutes
later she steps into our living room, impeccably dressed, made-up and
coiffed. "Quiet please! Recording!" As the tape starts rolling, Ziomara
begins.
"It was Cuchito, our second oldest sister, who had the idea of forming
the all-women Orquesta Anacaona. That was in the early Thirties, when
the dictator Machado was tyrannising the people with a bloody fist.
Gradually all 11 sisters joined the band; most of us were still minors
at the time. George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Nat King Cole? all the
great musicians who travelled to Cuba would come to our performances in
the aires libres, the open-air cafés. That's how we were discovered.
"Do you want me to tell you how we girls from Lawton ended up on the
Champs-Elysées in Paris? One day, when we were performing in one of the
aires libres?"
As soon as Ziomara mentions the trip to Europe Ada can no longer keep
quiet. "Señor Reportero, we travelled to France on a luxury liner. There
was every imaginable variety of food on board – vast buffets with eight
kinds of ham, beautifully arranged on silver platters. And the cheese!"
"For God's sake, Ada," Ziomara interrupts her, "do you really think that
Señor Gutierrez has nothing better to tell his readers than what we had
to eat on the ocean liner?"
Ziomara resumes. "When we started out at the open-air cafés, we were
earning a mere pittance. In order to bring more money in for our family,
I had to pitch in at the tender age of seven. I would go from table to
table and offer the tourists, wealthy Americans, promotional postcards
with our picture on it. Those were hard times indeed under the
dictator?" And so she carries on for an hour and a half.
The reporter is barely out of the door before Ondina protests, "Ziomara,
why do you keep saying that? It's just not true. Nobody ever forced you
to work at night in the aires libres when you were a child. It was only
because you harped on and on so much that we finally brought you along
with us and, since you were too small to play an instrument, we sent you
around with the postcards."
Ondina, Ziomara and Ada all start talking at once.
"That's not true!"
"Oh, yes, it is!"
"I should know, I was there!"
I leave them to argue among themselves, although I'm the one with the
best memory. I would have told the reporter that, for me, there was
nothing I enjoyed more than going every evening from humdrum Lawton to
the vibrant nightlife of Old Havana; or that initially father was dead
against us performing in the open-air cafés, saying there was no way his
daughters were going to work at night near the sleazy bars and brothels.
I would also have mentioned that we stood our ground in the face of male
chauvinists, who believed that a woman's place was in the home by the
stove, or working in a brothel. But unfortunately my sisters won't let
me get a word in.
After cocktails and lunch, Ada and Ondina take their siesta. Ondina
above all needs the break, because every other day – during the few
hours that Lawton is supplied with running water – she gets up before
seven and busies herself with our cistern.
Ondina has never been afraid of anything. As a child she would race so
fast on roller skates along the paths in the park across the street that
sparks would fly. And at 13 she took to the stage. Her teacher Lazaro
Herrera, the great trumpet player, had talked her into it. He recognised
her talent and knew that she was ambitious, fearless and self-confident,
all the qualities you need to become one of the best. With only three
months of trumpet lessons under her belt she walked on stage,
unflinching, to join the musicians of the Septeto Nacional – then the
most successful son septet in Cuba – and let rip. Ondina was soon one of
the best trumpet players in Cuba.
While Ada is out tending to her transactions and Ondina is busy
somewhere in the house, I rummage through the little chest in the dining
room where we keep the sheet music. Cuchito transcribed many pieces of
music by hand; as our director she was always on the lookout for the
newest arrangements. The little chest with its treasure trove of musical
inspirations accompanied us everywhere, from Broadway almost as far as
Tierra del Fuego, to Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela, to the Copacabana in
Rio and into the snowy mountains of Chile. Just looking at the yellowing
pages is enough for me to hear the music again.
After lunch, while my sisters are relaxing, I take out one of the songs.
Playing the clarinet or the saxophone, I let the spirit of the music
move me. I like playing in the dining room best; there's always a little
breeze blowing through the courtyard door. Siboney, my favourite piece,
was written by Ernesto Lecuona. In my opinion he is the best composer
Cuba has given to the world. We worked with the maestro many times. I'm
the only one of us sisters who still practises regularly. When Ada
retired, she gave in to the pleading of younger musicians and sold all
her instruments.
But there are still plenty of instruments left in the house to be able
to have a jam session. Just a few days ago there was a knock at the
door. Ondina hurried to get it and let out a yell when she saw Frank
Emilio Flynn and his wife standing there. "We just thought we'd look in
on you muchachas from Anacaona." That's what he always says? They live
just a few blocks away. We're always happy when Frank visits. He's
blind, but refuses to let that stop him, and even today he is the
greatest jazz pianist in Cuba.
As soon as Frank sat down he coaxed perfect melodies from that
out-of-tune instrument, as only a great master can. And Ondina? Instead
of sitting still and listening, she hurried to call Pedrito Soroa, one
of our musician friends who was a member of the Orquesta Riverside. Half
an hour later he and his brother were at the front door, with their
conga drums piled on a wheelbarrow.
Frank Emilio gave his all to one piece after another: bolero, son and
jazz. Pedrito and his brother Yolanda played the drums. At last Ondina
was happy. She ran a wooden spoon up and down a potato grater to
accompany the improvisations. All at once it was like the old days:
passers-by, parents, children and lovers stopped on the street and
peered in at us through the french doors, as if looking across all the
decades we had practised and played in that living room.
Every now and then we're invited to award ceremonies, because our
Orquesta Anacaona, which played together for more than five decades, was
declared part of the "cultural heritage of Cuba" in 1989. I appreciate
the honour, but now I find it too exhausting to travel to Old Havana
just to be lauded. The young musicians who played with us at the end of
our career continue with new colleagues, still using the name Anacaona.
When our successors, the "new" Anacaonas, performed not so long ago on
Cuban TV, Ondina was quite beside herself. "Look at them! They're
running around half-naked," she said indignantly. "I thought it was
about playing music!"
"Ondina, times have changed," I said. Let's be honest, even we started
our career with a scandal.
In the Thirties, son was regarded in Havana's better circles as the
vulgar music of the common people. When, all of a sudden, we young girls
began playing these electrifying songs, with their suggestive lyrics, it
shocked many an upright citizen.
Even though many of us are now single, or were only married for a short
time, we have never lacked for charming companions, even today. It's a
blessing that we've been able to count such excellent musicians and
wonderful people as our friends all these years. I'm thinking of Lazaro
Herrera in particular: the legendary trumpeter visited us every month
until only a year ago. Even at the age of 96 he would still take the
bus, and walk in the midday heat from the bus stop on the Calzada to our
house, and back again after a few cocktails and a couple of hours of
telling stories. Unfortunately he hasn't been well lately and has had to
take to his bed.
That made me think. A short time later our niece Ingrid showed up and
started pestering me with questions, and it seemed to me like a stroke
of fate. Ingrid's mother, Millo, was once the star of the orchestra. She
played percussion, conga and bongos, and she was my favourite sister.
She left the band in 1953, when she got married, and later moved to
Germany, but she visited us whenever she could. Millo came to Havana for
the last time in 1981, when she was very ill. Three days later we
carried her to her grave. After that, Ingrid came to Cuba more often. I
made sure she knew what an exceptional percussionist Millo had been. And
the more I told her, the more she wanted to know.
We would often retreat to one of the rooms upstairs. I sometimes felt as
if I were confessing to a priest. And I know why, too: it's not pleasant
to stir up painful memories. Some things are better left undisturbed. If
I don't speak candidly now, how will anyone understand what we did and
why we did it? That's why I want to tell our story. I want to talk about
how we moved back and forth between simple living and luxury, between
moments of heady success and times when it felt impossible to go on.
About our daily lives and how each of us had to find her own way, on her
own, without any fuss, and prove her mettle. After those long
conversations my niece and I always treated ourselves to a glass of rum:
Havana Club, the seven-year-old king of rums. You drink it neat. Without
ice, lukewarm in the palm.
Now listen to Anacaona, Cuba's forgotten girl band
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article1604105.ece
Print off an exclusive Times Online CD cover for your free Anacanoa tracks
Anacaona by Alicia Castro, as told to Ingrid Kummels, is published by
Atlantic and available from BooksFirst priced £13.49 (RRP £14.99), free
p&p, on 0870 1608080; timesonline.co.uk/booksfirstbuy
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article1604105.ece
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