CUBA NEWS
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Cuban Hip-Hop Reaches Crossroads
By Vanessa Arrington, Associated
Press Writer. Mon Oct 4.
HABANA DEL ESTE, Cuba - On broiling summer
days more than a decade ago, teenagers here
spent hours watching breakdancing on "Soul
Train" and listening to American rap
floating across the radio waves from Florida.
Then they gathered on street corners,
surrounded by rows of apartment buildings
with chipped paint and laundry hanging out
the windows, and copied what they'd seen
and heard.
Now in their 20s, these men and women have
moved beyond imitation to become the backbone
of Cuban hip-hop, a distinct, explosive
movement of socially conscious rap. And
with success has come a crossroads: continue
developing edgy, socialist lyrics - or aim
to make money with party and gangster rap?
"The biggest issue hip-hop cubano
is facing is not to become a replica of
what happened back home," said Nehanda
Abiodun, an American exile in Cuba who was
given the honorary title "hip-hop godmother"
by local rappers.
"Hip-hop in the United States started
out as a voice of protest, an alternative
voice for urban, inner-city youth to voice
their grievances, to talk about their living
conditions, their hopes and aspirations,"
said Abiodun, a member of the Black Liberation
Party before fleeing to Cuba 14 years ago
as a U.S. fugitive facing racketeering charges.
"But now what we see in terms of rap
in the United States, for the most part,
it's really not talking about anything."
Cuban rappers have tackled global issues
such as racism, war and environmental pollution.
They have even pushed the boundaries of
limited freedom of speech in communist Cuba
to criticize police harassment and economic
hardship - sometimes paying for their rebellion
with sanctions.
But as pressure for commercial success
increases, some Cuban rappers are tempted
to produce lighter, less political music,
particularly in the form of reggaeton, a
mix of rap and reggae with lyrics about
girls, cars and partying.
"There is an element of commercialism
that's creeping in," Abiodun said.
"You cannot blame these young people
for wanting to see the fruits of their labor,
but will they be able to maintain that responsible,
intellectual rap and still get paid?"
There is optimism among a collective of
18 hip-hop artists called The Cartel, a
new movement dedicated to issues-oriented
rap and "keeping it real."
"We started when there existed nothing,
when people thought we were crazy,"
said Cartel member Magyori Martinez, 26,
of the group IPG&B. "Now, we are
still struggling, but no one looks at us
like we're crazy."
"Our mission is to try and maintain
the essence of underground hip-hop,"
added Randeee Akosta, 21, of the duo Los
Paisanos, or The Countrymen. "It is
our way of life, our reason for being."
On a recent afternoon, members of The Cartel
spilled out of Akosta's small Havana home
as they prepared to rehearse for Cuba's
10th annual hip-hop festival in November.
The group's talent has been recognized
by Pablo Herrera, the island's most noted
hip-hop producer. Herrera, 37, is producing
The Cartel's first album, set for release
by the end of the year. He began his career
with the rap group Amenazas, whose members
later moved to Europe and became Orishas,
Cuba's most famous hip-hop group. The group
won a Latin Grammy for Best Rap/Hip-Hop
Album last year.
Back home, feelings about Orishas are mixed.
They started as "a group like us,
from the barrio, with a message," Akosta
said. But then they sold out by leaving
the island and mixing more commercial music
into their rap, he said.
Other rappers say they're disappointed
that Orishas hasn't done more to publicize
Cuban hip-hop - even though their success
has helped expose the world to Cuban rap.
On the island, Orishas' international success
legitimized other rap groups' efforts and
helped prompt the Cuban government to create
a state-run agency for developing hip-hop
talent and exporting the music.
The agency focuses on nine hip-hop groups,
out of the island's estimated 500-plus.
Most of those groups are moving toward reggaeton,
while several try to balance their commitment
to underground rap while still pursuing
commercial success.
Two rappers walking that line - Adeyeme
Umoja, 24, and Sekou Messiah, 30 - comprise
Anonimo Consejo, considered among the island's
best duos and the only group belonging to
both The Cartel and the agency. They have
rapped about their African roots, revolution
and hip-hop culture since the mid-1990s.
Lyrics on a recent demo confront everything
from class divisions - "the plight
of the poor is the fault of the rich"
in the song "American Dream" -
to young Cuban women pursuing foreign tourists
instead - "He could be your grampa!
... If you want me, I want you, but I don't
have any money."
In the last three years, Anonimo Consejo,
or Anonymous Advice, has performed around
Cuba as well as in New York City, Brazil
and Venezuela. The agency pays the rappers
extra when they tour, but they still must
scramble to make ends meet.
"It's very, very difficult to make
a disc in Cuba," said Umoja, known
as "Kokimo." Studio recording
time costs $15 an hour and mixing each song
costs $5, he said - a daunting sum in impoverished
Cuba.
Along with the financial challenges, Cuban
rappers must also think twice about lyrics
overtly critical of the communist state.
Observers accustomed to almost nonexistent
public criticism were shocked at the 2002
hip-hop festival, when performers made direct
jabs at the government. One rapper called
the Cuban police "the worst nightmare"
of the island's youth. Another group complained
of difficulties under the island's economic
system - "I'm tired of this routine,
how much longer will it last?"
Both groups were suspended from performing
for six months.
"Censorship will always exist,"
said Soandres del Rio, 28, of Hermanos de
Causa, or Brothers With a Cause. "I
have to think really hard about the way
to say something, a way that will be well
understood, to avoid getting myself into
possible trouble."
But rappers such as del Rio say they support
Cuba's revolution, and their criticism is
constructive.
"We're not focusing on the problem
with a point of view that's looking to overthrow
the president," said del Rio. "We're
simply saying that such a thing is bad,
such a thing could be better, we're Cuban
too, and we have rights."
And most everyone is united in wanting
Cuba's unique brand of rap to be recognized.
"We're working so hard," said
25-year-old Jessel Saladriga, known as "Mr.
Egg," of Los Paisanos. "Our dream
is that people across the world will know
who we are, and what we stand for."
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