THE PARK PLAZA CHRONICLES OF VINCENT LIVELLI
Introduction by Robert Farris Thompson
Park Plaza essay by Vincent Livelli
Postscript by Pablo E. Yglesias
Edited by Robert Farris Thompson and Pablo E. Yglesias
Introduction
Historians of mambo have established the cultural importance of the Park Plaza dancehall. The late and great New York Puerto Rican bandleader, Tito Puente, immortalized its very Harlem address, 110th St. and 5th Avenue, as the title of a bop-flavored mambo with a dramatic riff. The passion and imagination of Afro-Cuban, Puerto Rican, and Dominican dancers animated and confirmed the prestige of the address, as they later would propel to world fame a downtown counterpart, the Palladium.
But the early mambos and classic rumbas of the Park Plaza were more than music, more than dancing. They were theatres of cultural self-assertion, even de facto desegregation: there blacks danced with and among Italian, Jewish, and Irish-American dancers nearly a decade before the Supreme Court decision of 1954. Not only that but when Park Plaza regular Frank “Machito” Grillo performed a mambo composed by René Hernández bearing the name of Great God Almighty in creole Ki-Kongo, Zambia, or cited the Abakuá term for buddy or comrade, nagüe, or chanted the phrase Chango ta veni [in lucumí: “the spirit of the Yoruba thunder-god be coming down”], he not only alluded to the presence of three African faiths in Cuba but in effect argued their addition to the roster of world religions.
Enter, in 1938, a handsome, dapper American of Sicilian and Genoese descent named Vincent Livelli. He was attracted to the Park Plaza by the beauty of its Afro-Cuban dancing and the rephrasing of that beauty in the bodies of young Latinas. In this first floor venue, great music met Spartan surroundings: “No tables, no bar, no balcony” these would come later in the period of Anatole Broyard’s famous visits in the 40’s. But without Livelli bringing his friend to the uptown ballroom there would be no Broyard testaments of Park Plaza life and art (see Kafka Was The Rage). Livelli taught him the protocols of rumba, down to and including junking his brogans in favor of more practical shoes. Livelli himself wore the two-tone shoes that proclaimed his role and pride as rumbero.
The dancer’s experiences include several Afro-Cuban sites of creative happening. He was at the New York La Conga nightclub in 1941 when Graciela Pérez “broke up the propriety of the night” by singing “Sí, Sí – No, No” [Yes, Yes – No, No]. As Vince recalls: “The band fell silent, the waiters froze, the dancing stopped” as Graciela engagingly performed a song about a self-possessed woman fighting off the sexual advances of a hot and determined male.
Livelli, in short, seized and made permanent strong moments in the history of Latino dance in the city of New York. Take for example his first nights at the Park Plaza. He did not dance. Like aspirant tangueros he stayed stag on the sidelines and watched and absorbed. By the second night a woman came up to him and asked him to dance. He politely refused. Then René, the black rumba master, approached him the third night and asked, “Why don’t you dance?” and when he answered, “I don’t know how”, Rene signaled his partner, Estela, and told her to teach him. It was like having Derek Jeter commissioned to teach you how to play baseball or Venus Williams to teach you how to play tennis. Few of us have such luck but then Livelli was a live-wire, good-looking paisan who attracted attention whether he wanted it or not. But let him continue the story.
– Robert Farris Thompson
The Park Plaza
When one steps outside the circle of the family and by doing so, encounters the true world for the first time, knowledge gained that way shapes the course of one’s life. 19th Century Americans taking le grand tour of Europe returned home with a concept of higher cultural values. Thus, we became a society interested in learning.
Next to visiting a foreign country there is the familiarization gained through immersion in that country’s literature and music. When it comes to the Caribbean, it is the music in particular that has the power to influence and formulate the direction of one’s life forever.
Without the movements that music inspires, there would be no life to express the inexpressible. There is a mobile connection that is essential to put events into actuality between motive and accomplishment. Life dies without movement, and each move we make is unique. It is this quality that allows an amateur to outperform a professional. By displaying the amateur facet of ourselves we are closer to life, since life makes us all contestants and unequal competitors. Dancing exposes the essence of a person. We quit dancing when nature obliges us, not before. The older we become, the more we miss it, as it is identified with our youth and gaiety.
What’s all this have to do with the Park Plaza? Like a first-time encounter with a foreign country, the Park Plaza dance hall in 1937-’38 helped to fashion a more salutary individual, thanks to the musical education found there. I traveled to the Park Plaza searching for music of a certain flavor – Afro-Cuban. I couldn’t dance a step, I didn’t know a soul, couldn’t understand a word, couldn’t play a note, nor could I really spare during the Great Depression the carfare and the admission. At a time when there was little joy in the world, the music gave me the reason I needed to set off from Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn up to Harlem, when it could be dangerous to do so.
I found what I was searching for the moment I heard the Happy Boys Orchestra as I paid my 25 cents admission. The ticket window was grilled like a Bronx bodega cashier’s. The bandstand was a lighted area as I sought a chair near an exit sign. The ladies, young and old, were lined up facing their complement of men, all sitting on rows of chairs that lined the walls. For the first few numbers that the band played, I felt no need to do other than sit and listen, watch and luxuriate, filled with the satisfaction of having found what I needed. I was not destined to remain a mere observer for long, for after my second visit I was approached by a girl who came and asked me to dance, something unheard of at the time. I wisely declined, feeling foolish. But better to feel foolish than look foolish on the dance floor. What I needed now was the ability to dance the rumba [not the folkloric form referred to as rumba, but the Cuban son, which was erroneously referred to as “rhumba” at the time – Ed.].
On my third visit, a tall, thin black fellow came up to me. “I see you sitting. Why don’t you dance?”
“I don’t know how,” I answered him.
“Show him how,” he said to his partner. She was tall too, but also solid and strong, displaying a dignity combined with femininity that did not distract from René, a bit motherly-looking because of her ample appearance.
And so it was that René and Estela, arguably the top Afro-Cuban dance team of all time, got me dancing. That brief encounter was the first step that led me around the world on cruise ships, hotels, nightclubs, dance studios, and lectures, carrying the sacred fire of Afro-Cuban rumba with me for others to learn. To popularize it was what now was needed, to send its joyous content on to others.
When I met first René and Estela, they had just performed the dramatic tornillo [cork screw] routine in the Hollywood film Another Thin Man. I saw them perform it live in 1940 at the Havana Madrid nightclub downtown, but the night I met them at the Park Plaza, they were there to dance, not perform, so they did not do any fancy moves then.
What they performed at the Havana Madrid was almost acrobatic, with a tremendous response from the patrons, who had never seen a routine like that, especially dancing done with a magically balanced glass of water. René first balanced it on his head, while slowly turning on one foot like a cork-screw, then he put the glass on his other extended foot, and then also on his inverted out-stretched hand, all without spilling a drop. The whole time his body was as rigid as a 2 x 4 pine board. Estela, being a very strong support, provided steady hip movements as she gracefully strolled around his well-balanced frame, turning him like a screw, as he slowly bent one leg, lowering himself, spinning down impossibly to the floor. Then, with her quiet power pulling him upwards, he spun rapidly back up-right like a top, moving in very close to maximize velocity as a flashy finish. The music was at a very slow tempo so that the furiously spinning upright return was made all the more dramatic. He followed this with his handkerchief dance display, which also had never before been seen in New York. Picking it up off the floor with his teeth while doing a summersault in an all white suit was a high-class finale for an act full of quality and invention, elaborate as well as authentic. Meanwhile, Estela was a picture of poise, grace, and nobility – in fact, they were both Afro-Cuban royalty!
At the Park Plaza, the dance floor resembled a rush hour A train, except that the dancers were not stepping on toes. They were the very best dncers in that winter of 1938-39. The dancers named “Eléctrico”, “Midnight” and “Chino” (and even an anonymous mulata lady who was on crutches) were competing during continuous applause from the onlookers’ nonstop encouragement. Normally, though, there were no formal dance competitions back then at the Park Plaza, as there would be later at the Palladium.
The sweet scent of the tobacco of the tropics came up from the basement lounges, blending with the cologne in vogue, called Tabú. Most of the dancers were from the area around 116th Street (the main street before 125th Street became known as such), and from 114th Street. They were frenetic and exuberant under the spell of a band that brought them “home,” to the islands of their enchantment, unlike the latter day Studio 54 club that set dancers adrift, lost in space. What attracted me to the Park Plaza was its unassuming simplicity, the atmosphere set by its hardcore dancers and crowded, scuffed floor. It felt authentic, there was no “glitz” at this venue, which seemed closer to the heart, soul, and sound of the music. There was a much fancier ballroom upstairs, with a separate entrance to the left, called the Park Palace, but that did not interest me as it was far too big, well lit, with deluxe décor and a shiny floor. At the Plaza, unlike the Palladium – which came later, was a giant room, and seemed such a self-conscious scene – everyone was more satisfied with themselves; the young danced with the old, in more of a neighborhood family environment, so people were better behaved there. The young Latinos of El Barrio during the Depression could not afford to go in the more expensive downtown clubs (nor would they be admitted), so the dancing at the Plaza was more conservative because they were dancing among their elders. The young girls were so shapely in their homemade, well-fitted dresses; the sharp guys sporting their black and white shoes, the mark of an accomplished rumbero. Heavily slicked-back hair managed to overcome the huge fan that was intended to cool off overheated dancers who possessed the stamina of prizefighters. There were two bouncer alarms (one in the front, the other back of the dance floor) that were heard in response to occasional trouble among the patrons.
As one of the sole sources of gaiety during thirty-percent unemployment in America, the Park Plaza’s rumba world was vital. At a time when you would be asked to “please leave the dance floor” if your dancing was indiscreet elsewhere, here at the Plaza the behavior was encouraged as an ingredient of joyful exuberance. The “piropo” — that flattering display of titillating, sexy innuendo — manifested itself in the physical activity on the floor, like intimate painted vignettes that sprang to life, animated by the music.
When the seemingly inexhaustible band gave signs of taking a break, the dancers were seen to prostrate themselves, pounding their fists on the floor in mock protest in the five beat clave pattern. Some dancers fell to their knees, pleading and supplicating the exhausted band. All this would be skillfully ended by the piano ever so casually, softly resuming the melody, followed by the full band, released like wild horses. The entire company, dancers and musicians, ended in a joyful victory that defeated the gloom of the world outside. The Happy Boys Band, with vocalist Doroteo Santiago, did not take long breaks. The two-minute numbers allowed frequent change of partners. Particularly favorite pieces would be repeated. To tease dancers, the band employed a mock break, resulting in chairs being thrown into the middle of the floor, in jest, not in anger. (This display of bogus protest was inspired by cowboy-movie barroom fights popular in the Thirties.) The music resumed, with the once prostrate supplicants rising up off the floor to continue dancing.
Eléctrico was a live wire. He was greased lightning, with his spasmodic quebradas(breaks), razor-sharp style, top speed, deadpan face (known as ‘carafea’ among tangueros), and showmanship. His solos were the highlight of an evening of highlights. Every part of his body was in complete synchronization with the music. Perhaps it helps to imagine the more familiar “Killer Joe” Piro at the Palladium, except that Eléctrico was closer to the male solo style of rumba called colúmbia, which was more akin to true Afro-Cuban ritual, with some break moves involving hitting the floor with the flat of the palms and the feet off the ground. For some patrons, this would be the first time they would have been exposed to elements of the authentic street rumba as it was danced by Afro-Cubans in Havana at the time.
Midnight, negro como el teléfono, black as a 1930s telephone, was the only dancer who challenged Eléctrico, one of the main dance masters of the Park Plaza scene. He would hurry out onto the floor while applause for Eléctrico was still resounding, so as to cut into his rival’s performance appraisal. Midnight dressed entirely in black, including a rare vest, an encumbrance giving him a fuller, more solid contrast to Eléctrico’s string-bean frame. Midnight had a down-and-dirty, solid-man quality that contrasted with the latter’s height advantage (a four-inch difference). Where Eléctrico flew high, Midnight glued himself deep into the music — heavy man! Eléctrico on the other hand was far-out; he had the whole place stunned, shocked. Like two road-runners, their movements risked stress fractures. Amazingly, neither seemed to be out of breath off the floor. It was the audience that was left breathless.
Meanwhile, the trumpets of the Happy Boys brought down the walls of the Great Depression. They were the pipers we followed to recovery. From a low-key romantic locale hidden away in El Barrio, they raised the level of intensity in their choice of more cheerful melodies, such as “Ahora serémos felices” (“Now We Will Be Happy”). The most dramatic part of their repertoire was the steamy bolero, with the slow build, featuring the repeating montuno riff which replicas the act of lovemaking, gradually increasing in intensity until reaching a climax ending in a crescendo utilizing the full band. Couples would dance very close, seemingly conjoined at the hips like Siamese twins, only to untangle as the last note cut out.
There was no set closing time. An evening at the Park Plaza ended when the last couple went for their coats. Once outside, some would cross the street into Central Park to play out their deep arousals. The rowboats lining the lake served to cradle the partners under a cold grey sky. Here, far from palm trees, they shared mankind’s most heavenly encore as the dawn arrived at last. For the few who walked home alone, they could still hear Doroteo singing “Tu no comprendes” like a surrogate lover. Many patrons did not own a radio, and after a night of fancy footwork that was sometimes a form of amorous foreplay, they would return home singing along dark streets a music that sweetened the dreams of their sleeping neighbors. Quite soon, they too would be nestled in the arms of Morpheus. Tomorrow, Sunday, normally a day of rest, there would be another dance, bigger, always better than the last.
—Vincent Livelli
Postscript
Vincent Livelli at 90 is a fascinating gentleman. Storyteller, raconteur, teacher, adventurer, professional dancer, lover of women and la música Latina: he has made his life his art. His story is at once a piece of the Greenwich Village bohemian saga and a global chronicle of wanderlust encompassing an insatiable search for the knowledge of other cultures and places. Livelli is full of humor and has strong opinions that can make him seem outspoken, but he always backs up his points of argument with thoughtful thoroughness based on a wealth of experience and deeply held convictions.
Though his seemingly endless treasure trove of “historietas” is as varied and multi-leveled as the most incredible of libraries, he does have a lion’s share of stories about music, dance, and his love affair with all things Afro-Cuban. This is where I first encountered him, in the part of his overstuffed brain that knew the “rhumba”, in the time before mambo, salsa, and hip-hop. I was fascinated hearing about Vince’s experiences in the Village with intellectuals like Anatole Broyard (and their social gatherings in bars and at the bookstore Broyard ran), and curious to hear of New York Latin dance culture before it hit the Palladium, before I Love Lucy was on in everyone’s living room. Livelli had been there, dancing in the 30s and 40s at clubs like The Park Plaza uptown in Spanish Harlem or La Conga in Midtown, blazing trails. He humorously tells of witnessing a teenaged Tito Puente practicing bongos off-stage during a period when the Noro Morales Orchestra was regularly engaged at La Conga. The corpulent Morales had to sit sideways at the piano as the stage was quite small, and when the young Puente would show up hopefully toting his drums, Noro would just barely tolerate his presence, directing Tito back stage to bang his bongos safely out of sight. Livelli also testifies to the fact that back in the early 40s, the sultry chanteuse Graciela Peréz’s double entendre vocals were truly revolutionary, calling her “La libertadora” as her actions proved her to be a genuine Afro-Latina precursor to women’s lib. Through Vince I learned the little known fact that there was an important connection between New York Chinese restaurants and the support of Latin music (through Cuban-Chinese restaurant owners and their Jewish customers), and to hear him tell of setting up a Latin dance club in war-torn Tokyo is a revelation nothing short of thrilling.
What makes Livelli doubly valuable to historians is the fact that he is a living link with a bygone era, experiencing firsthand the sublime yet little-known dance moves of Afro-Cubans like René and Estela and making the acquaintance of a young Miguelito Valdés, the great talent who brought African language into the popular consciousness through popular Cuban song. In 1937, Livelli befriended the seminal Afro-Puerto Rican bongoceroJosé “Buyú” Mangual, but perhaps most importantly, he made the friendship of Mangual’s compatriot, bassist Julio Andino, best known for his work with Frank “Machito” Grillo’s orchestra, The Afro-Cubans. Before any one else, Andino had wanted to form a big brass band to take his beautiful Afro-Cuban music from the Latino ghettos of NYC and make the move to Broadway, transgressing the segregated Anglo world downtown, where he felt sure whites would love it. A few years later, he and Machito, along with Graciela, Mario Bauzá, and others, would change Latin music forever with their super-charged orchestral New York style mambo, making it popular all over the world, but especially in midtown Manhattan among Blacks, Italians, and the Jewish population. Andino and his contemporaries had brought Afro-Latin culture to Broadway and the social changes this move incurred would reverberate down the decades. Mambo was in effect introducing Afro-Cuban culture through the back door, infiltrating popular music with subliminal Africanisms that helped convert an entire mambo-mad populace without their really being cognizant of the significance of what was taking place.
In Cuba in 1941 Livelli received a divine assignment in the form of a prophecy from ababalawo, Juan Bessón, a priest of divination in the Yoruba-Cuban religion known as La Regla de Ocha. Bessón directed him to spread the music, and hence an appreciation of the culture, to all corners of the globe. Vince began to fulfill that mission when he became entertainment director for several international cruise ships. In his way, he was carrying Afro-Cuban music around the world – just like Machito, Pérez Prado, Tito Puente, and so many others – but through the medium of dance, teaching everyone he met to rumba across the waves. And bless him, through his lectures, writings, devoted support of live Latin music events, and salon-like social gatherings, Vince has kept on spreading the gospel of Afro-Cuban music ever since.
— Pablo E. Yglesias