Tigers of a Different Stripe: Performing Gender in Dominican Music 9780226405636

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Tigers of a Different Stripe

C h i c ago Studie s i n Ethnomu sic ol o g y

A series edited by Philip V. Bohlman, Ronald Radano, and Timothy Rommen

Editorial Board Margaret J. Kartomi Bruno Nettl Anthony Seeger Kay Kaufman Shelemay Martin H. Stokes Bonnie C. Wade

Tigers of a Different Stripe Performing Gender in Dominican Music Sy dn ey Hu tc hins on

The University of Chicago Press Chicago and London

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2016 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2016. Printed in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16    1 2 3 4 5 isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­40532-­2    (cloth) isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­40546-­9    (paper) isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­40563-­6    (e-­book) doi: 10.7208/chicago/978-­0-­226-­40563-­6.001.0001 Publication of this book has been supported by the Manfred Bukofzer Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hutchinson, Sydney, 1975- author. Title: Tigers of a different stripe : performing gender in Dominican music /   Sydney Hutchinson. Other titles: Chicago studies in ethnomusicology. Description: Chicago ; London : The University of Chicago Press, 2016. |   Series: Chicago studies in ethnomusicology | Includes bibliographical   references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016015754 | ISBN 9780226405322 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN   9780226405469 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780226405636 (e-book) Subjects: LCSH: Popular music—Dominican Republic—History and criticism. |   Gender identity in music. Classification: LCC ML3487.D66 H88 2016 | DDC 781.64097293—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016015754 ∞ This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-­1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Para todos y todas los merengueros y merengueras, seguidores y seguidoras, viejetes y viejetas que me han acompañado tan gentilmente en este largo viaje.

Contents

List of Illustrations  ix Acknowledgments  xi

1 Introduction  1 2  A Gendered History  26 3  Tatico Forever  54 4  Fefita the Great  83 5  Filosofía de Calle: Transnational Tigueraje  113 6  Temporary Transvestites: Cross-­Dressing Merengue, Bachata, and Reggaetón  149 7  Listening Sideways: The Transgenre Work of Rita Indiana  173 8  Dispatch from an Imaginary Island  211 Appendix A: Dominican Musics Mentioned in This Book  219 Appendix B: A Comparison of Two Accordionists’ Botaos  225 Appendix C: Movement and Gesture Analysis of Fefita la Grande Performing “La chiflera”  237 Notes  243 Works Cited  253 Index  269

Illustrations

Figures 1.1 Tresillo rhythm  2 2.1 Concho Primo  31 2.2 Julián Ramírez, “El Viejo Tíguere”  35 2.3 La India Canela  47 3.1 Tatico Henríquez  55 3.2 Bust of Tatico in Nagua  58 3.3 La muerte del merengue: Homenaje a Tatico Henríquez, painting by Raúl Recio  60 3.4 Tatico’s botao for “La mamajuana”  65 3.5 Gaspar Rodríguez at home with portrait of Tatico  80 4.1 Fefita la Grande  85 4.2 Santa Fefa divirtiendo a unos chivos sin ley, painting by Chiqui Mendoza  92 5.1 Flyer for La Organización Típica  119 5.2 Comparison of tambora rhythms for merengue derecho and maco  120 5.3 Comparison of forms for merengue derecho and merengue con mambo  121 5.4 Shino Aguakate  133 5.5 Geniswing  139 6.1 Tulile  159 6.2 Mala Fe  166 7.1 Rita Indiana with tambora  175 7.2 El Juidero  185 7.3 Logo for Los Misterios  186

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7.4 Rita Indiana with güira  190 a.1 Palos ensemble  221 a.2 Gagá ensemble  223 b.1 Botao on “Chicha” as performed by Fefita la Grande  227–231 b.2 Two botaos on “Chicha” as performed by Siano Arias  232–236 Tables 2.1 Antonio De Moya’s Typology of Dominican Masculinities (paraphrased)  34 5.1 Movement and Gesture Analysis of Raquel Arias Performing the Third Verse of “Raquel”  124 5.2 Movement and Gesture Analysis of T-­Urban Performing the Beginning of “Hay Party”  141 6.1 Structure of “Chacarrón” as Performed by Tulile  160 7.1 Video Analysis of a Portion of “El blue del Ping-­Pong”  200 c.1 Movement and Gesture Analysis of Fefita la Grande Performing “La chiflera”  237

Acknowledgments

This book was written with the financial support of an American Association for University Women American Fellowship. In addition, some portions were drafted earlier with the support of a postdoctoral fellowship of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. My initial field research on merengue típico was supported by New York University’s MacCracken Fellowship, and hosted by the Centro León in Santiago, while field research on carnival was undertaken with the help of the Society for Ethnomusicology’s Nydia and Nicholas Nahumck Fellowship. I am grateful to each of these organizations for their confidence in my work. However, none of the research would have been possible without the many musicians, artists, and fans who helped me along the way. Most important in this regard is my accordion teacher Rafaelito Román, an outstanding musician and human being, and indeed his whole family, particularly his wife Carmen and his son Raúl. I am also grateful to Rita Indiana, Fefita la Grande, El Prodigio, Eddy Núñez, David David, Rafaelito Polanco, Radhamés Polanco, Belarminio Liriano, Luis Ureña, Ray “Chino” Díaz, and the many other musicians who took the time to talk and to teach me. Freddy Peña, José “Peligro” Mateo, Abelardo Martínez, and Américo Mejía also deserve special thanks for always being willing to talk típico with me. Thank you also to the visual artists Chiqui Mendoza and Raúl Recio for always being willing to answer my questions and for the permission to use their artwork, as well as to Shino Aguakate for graciously allowing me to reprint so many of his lyrics. I appreciate the feedback and assistance of numerous colleagues including Tes Slominski, Angelina Tallaj, Rossy Díaz, Lois Wilcken, Martha Ellen Davis, Paul Austerlitz, Darío Tejeda, and Marti Cuevas (owner of Mayimba Music); Rafael Emilio Yunén, Carlos Zapata, and all the staff

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Acknowledgments

of the Centro León; and, most of all, Maurice Mengel, always my first and best reader. Thanks also to those who helped with transcriptions along the way—­Altagracia Pérez Almánzar, Adelajda Merchán-­Drazkowska, Victor Hernández Sang, and Anabelle Grullón—­as well as to my graduate assistant Gorda Stan, who assisted with various aspects of preparing this manuscript for publication. Finally, my dissertation advisor, Gage Averill, and committee members Peter Manuel, Ana María Ochoa, Martin Daughtry, and Suzanne Cusick offered important feedback on my early work that helped shape its later development, as the amazing editor Elizabeth Branch Dyson and two anonymous readers did for its more recent incarnations. To all these friends and colleagues go my eternal gratitude.

1

Introduction

Maluca Mala, a Dominican American performer whose stage name roughly translates to Crazy Bad Girl, emerges from a salon into the daylight with her hair still in four-­inch rollers. She struts down the streets of Upper Manhattan in a rose-­print motorcycle jacket and red leather bustier over sequined hot pants, red-­fringed fishnets, and stiletto heels the color of her cherry-­red lipstick. An amped-­up bass outlining tonic and dominant chords in E minor joins electronic handclaps at 168 beats per minute as she rhythmically speaks a boast beginning “Lo tengo todo, Papi” (I’ve got it all, baby). Maluca begins to tell her story—­“I went to 182nd and Audubon just the other day”—­as she passes a series of men who are counting money, playing congas and maracas, talking on cell phones, or just watching her go by. Continuing “Papi, you keep blowing all that tiguerazo in the air . . . / Durango boots and all / Bacano walking tall,” Maluca ditches her heels in favor of a pair of rubber sandals and takes off on a bicycle. But she soon finds herself surrounded by a circle of these street-­corner men, each putting on a flirtatious look. With exaggerated eye rolls and expressions of disgust, she taunts them in Spanish: “No, no, I don’t have a phone number.” Maluca enters an apartment building and emerges again at night, her outfit changed but her hair still in rollers. As she visits a bodega to buy a cigarette, we see a montage of Dominican New York’s nighttime scenery: the corner store; a “Spanish” restaurant;1 men playing cards, dominos, or pool; a group of dancers at a club, one of them wearing those rubber sandals over socks. Maluca—­her hair now rolled around beer cans—­is performing with an all-­woman back-­up band on keyboards, bass, and accordion, saying, “A mí me gusta el tiguerazo porque tú tienes la calle unlocked” (I like the tiguerazo because you have the street unlocked). As she and her bandmates continue

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Chapter one

chanting “el tíguere,” the audience looks on and dances, one man stroking an inflatable leopard.2

* Maluca’s real name is Natalie Yépez. Her music reflects the experiences of many Dominican Yorks, island Dominicans’ sometimes admiring, sometimes disrespectful name for those who grew up abroad. Yépez calls her sound “experimental tropical punk, ghetto tech, and hip-­house” (MTV 2014), and indeed this song produced by the well-­known DJ Diplo3 sounds only distantly “Latin.” Auditory references to her latinidad (Latina/o identity) include the use of Dominican Spanish mixed with English, an occasional rustling sound like maracas or a güira scraper, the up-­tempo 2/4 beat recalling Dominican merengue, and the nearly constant presence of the claves, wooden sticks used to tap out Caribbean timelines. Here the rhythm they play (along with the electronic bass) is a 3 + 3 + 2, or tresillo (see Fig. 1.1), an Afro-­Caribbean rhythm found in everything from salsa—­where it forms the “3” side of the timeline known as son, or salsa clave—­to New Orleans jazz, Bo Diddley, Trinidadian soca, or the music of the Afro-­Dominican congos brotherhood. “El tigeraso” (sic; tiguerazo in Spanish orthography) was Maluca’s first single, released in 2009. As this example shows, the music refers on the one hand to a sort of global Afro-­Caribbeanness in its use of the widely dispersed tresillo, familiar far beyond the region through the travels of popular Caribbean sounds, as it reaches out to a broader audience through its electronic danceability. On the other hand, the lyrics and imagery are far more local in their references and meanings: they derive directly from New York Dominican life, even though women in many locations can empathize with the protagonist’s half-­amused, half-­exasperated dealings with the men around her. The song’s title refers to a specifically Dominican kind of masculine figure: the tíguere or street-­corner tiger, a principal figure in this book, which in the video is embodied in both the male flirts and the plastic leopard. The tíguere is known for (among other things) his amorous successes, at least according to his own estimation; his mastery of the urban environment; and his tricksterish ability to come out on top of any situation, whatever it takes. The -­azo is an augmentative suffix indicating that the song’s subject is the maximal tíguere, with a twist of irony. Indeed, the rest of the song lyrics, and especially

F i g u r e 1 . 1 . Tresillo rhythm. Transcription by author.

Introduction

3

Maluca’s appearance and actions in the video, show that she is poking fun at Dominican gender stereotypes for both men and women: the men flirting ineptly and posturing as they try to appear to be suave bacanos (see Chapter 2), the women wearing curlers and flip-­flops all day long. Maluca’s exaggerated grimaces are a wink that lets us know she is taking none of this too seriously, and that she is the true master of this particular street. These clues show that Maluca’s performance of gender is a local one. Yet it has a broader resonance for non-­Dominican viewers, and these resonances suggest that the cases my book discusses have a significance beyond their Dominican home context. Her avant-­garde fashion and exaggerated bodily performances have been termed “drag queeny” and compared to Lady Gaga. Gaga is also known for experimenting with various forms of drag, including hyperfeminine performances as a form of “bio-­drag” (Davisson 2013, 55), but instead of Maluca drawing from Gaga, the influence may have traveled the other way: Maluca’s look appears to have inspired Gaga’s use of beer can rollers in her nine-­and-­a-­half-­minute 2010 video, “Telephone,” also featuring Beyoncé. Some Latino viewers slammed this as a white, “first-­world” appropriation of an unknown Latina’s creativity, though Maluca has refused to assign blame. Whatever the case, Maluca’s unusual performance of gender—­ hyperfeminine in appearance, but with an assertiveness more typically coded as masculine—­may draw on historical Caribbean models more than on contemporary Northern pop stars. One could easily draw parallels to the 1960s Cuban bolero and salsa diva La Lupe, particularly when viewing Maluca’s live performances, where she may lie down and writhe on stage as if taken over by the music—­much as La Lupe once did (see Chapters 4 and 7, this book; Maluca 2011a and 2011b). Yet there are precursors even closer to home. In response to a New York Times interviewer’s question about what was Dominican about her music, Maluca responded, “I think Dominicans don’t hold back. We’re very vocal, we’re loud, passionate and I think that comes out not only on stage, but also in my everyday life. I’m very honest and I say what I feel. We’re very feisty people” (Chang 2011). In claiming her feistiness, this Dominican American woman is not only creating a stage persona that can further her music career but also contesting gender stereotypes that circulate widely among the general public and even in academia—­those that present “normal” Latin American men as excessively “macho” and women, conversely, as subservient. More than that, she is claiming for herself a deeply rooted Dominican femininity that by its very existence demonstrates the limits of such a depiction: the tíguera,4 the assertive, sensual, and often surprising female tiger. The Dominicanness of Maluca’s music thus comes through clearly, but only to an audience already in the know: those who have hung

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Chapter one

with the tígueres, responded to their catcalls (or tiger calls), or been tígueres or tígueras themselves. My book’s title pays homage to these tigers, both male and female. This opening scene is a brief example of what I seek to demonstrate in this book. As a whole, Tigers of a Different Stripe is about how gender is performed through music: not only by playing on stage but also through dancing, listening, viewing, and discussing. While my findings should have relevance beyond the specific cases I describe, I limit my discussion to a particular cultural context, that of the Dominican Republic and its diasporic outposts in New York. I look at a variety of Dominican musical genres—­and beyond them to dance, music video, literature, and the visual arts—­relating these examples to forms of expressive and gendered culture elsewhere in the Caribbean and Latin America. My focus on gender also leads me to explore how that facet of identity is linked to musical genre, movement, migration, race, class, and notions of tradition and modernity. All these concepts are brought together by the principal musical style I discuss: merengue típico, a traditional, accordion-­based genre that has undergone great change since the 1960s as a result of the rapid urbanization and migration that occurred after dictator Rafael Trujillo’s assassination in 1961. This musical culture has constituted the main focus of my fieldwork for the past fourteen years. Merengue típico is close to the heart of many Dominicans, particularly those from the northern Cibao region. It is constantly linked to ideas about national and regional identity, and through them Dominican ideas about race, class, and gender also come to the fore. Even Maluca’s video refers to this musical genre, in spite of the fact that the sound of “El tigeraso” is quite distant from that of traditional merengue: one of the men on the street pulls on a child’s toy accordion near the beginning, and in the final scene, set in a nightclub, one of her backup musicians is depicted playing a button accordion. Although the accordion is never heard in this song, its silent presence in the video serves to remind knowledgeable viewers of merengue típico and all it stands for.5 I first became fascinated with merengue típico after hearing it performed live at the Smithsonian Festival of American Folklife in 2001, and soon thereafter I began regularly attending típico gigs all over Brooklyn, my home at the time. From the beginning, my intention was to learn to play this music on accordion as well, so I began visiting accordionists at their homes to pick up tunes; I also incorporated my new interest into my job as staff ethnomusicologist at Long Island Traditions, a nonprofit folklore organization, for instance, by organizing a merengue típico concert and workshop series. My project therefore began as a diasporic one, looking at merengue típico in New York, but soon expanded to include the music’s homeland, beginning

Introduction

5

with my first trip to Santiago de los Caballeros, the Cibao’s largest city, in 2004. There, I studied accordion under master musician Rafaelito Román; attended numerous live performances of típico and other musics; initiated research, education, and preservation projects with the Centro León, a museum and cultural center; and even conducted research on carnival while participating in the barrio masquerade group Los Confraternos de Pueblo Nuevo. While I no longer live in either of my field sites, I continue to be in touch with my fellow típico fans in New York City through email, Facebook, and the occasional visit, and with musicians, culture workers, and other friends in Santiago through visits, occasional telephone calls, and, in some cases, social media. As this personal history suggests, it was my interest in típico as a musical style that led me to research gender, rather than the other way around. As with many other researchers, my first attempts to analyze the topic of gender centered on a study of women in music. Contrary to my initial expectations, I found a number of other women playing típico soon after becoming involved in the music myself. Their presence and general acceptance in this scene surprised me because academic literature, media portrayals, and popular perceptions had led me to believe that Dominicans were quite machista—­sexist and patriarchal. While such a view was not wholly inaccurate, the general mismatch between mainstream perceptions and my experience in the típico world inspired me to investigate women musicians and their experiences further. My exploration of women’s roles in Dominican music eventually led me to look more broadly at how gender is performed in the Dominican Republic, since I realized I could not understand Dominican femininities, or consider the possibility of a Dominican feminism, without also grasping Dominican constructions of masculinity and other gender categories. On a more personal level, my research helped me to engage with questions I had long had about gender identity in general, and my own in particular. Why, for instance, did I detest all things pink from early childhood? Why had I performed mainly male roles in high school plays and insisted upon singing tenor in college, even though I had never doubted my own femininity or heterosexuality? Upon reflection, I realized that these had been gut reactions to societal expectations of women in the United States and meanings of the “feminine” with which I did not identify. I identified with many of the Dominican female musicians I met precisely because of how they performed critiques I felt to be similar to my own early efforts, principally through tigueraje or the domain of the tíguere (tiger), a key concept in this work that I explain further below. In this book, I aim to explore new ways of analyzing gender and music, dance and movement without engaging in academic wordplay. I do employ

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Chapter one

some social sciences terms whose meanings are explained in this introduction. I hope this approach to style makes my work accessible to a broader audience, including Dominican music fans and the musicians who appear in these pages. I also believe it better fits my topic: gender is an everyday fact of life that all of us have and perform, all the time; we should thus be able to analyze it using everyday language. Even more broadly, this approach fits with my most basic assumption in studying culture, which is that everything is connected: gender, genre, sexuality, race, nation, tradition, modernity, music, movement, ethnography, biography, research, and writing all feed off and influence one another in all of our lives. I hope to reveal a bit of that complexity in this book. Gender and Performance Gender is a topic that affects every person, all the time, everywhere: attached as it is to our bodies, it is fundamental to our identities and our interactions with society. One of the most basic assumptions on which this book is based is that gender is performed, not inborn. This viewpoint is frequently encountered in the social sciences today, but perhaps requires further explanation for an interdisciplinary audience. To say that gender is a performance means that the categories we use to describe this facet of an individual’s identity are created through the repetition of acts: behaviors, habits, words of proscription or approval. Another way of saying this is that we become “female” by imitating how “feminine” people walk, act, talk, sing, dance; as “women” we eventually learn to do what is considered “feminine” based on what we see other women doing and how others react to what we do. Fundamentally, gender is an exchange between the individual and society aimed at creating societal order. If we feel uncomfortable with what is required of us in this exchange, at the very least we run the risk of feeling ostracized; at worst we may become victims of violence. Far from being “natural,” or based on laws largely outside of human control, gender is cultural, created by people to regulate individuals’ places in society. This is true even though we attach gender categories like female and male to what we call “biological sex,” the particular anatomical features of a given person. Thus, this book is not simply about bodies performing music but also about their representation in music, as well as music’s contribution to and influence on a broader discourse about gender, the lives of particular musicians, and how fans deal with all of these things. This shift in perspective—­viewing gender as something that we learn to enact according to the demands of the culture into which we are born, rather

Introduction

7

than as something we are born with—­has been quite influential in the social sciences, including ethnomusicology, and is generally attributed to the work of philosopher Judith Butler, even though her work drew heavily on precursors like anthropologist Esther Newton. In her study of female impersonators, Newton found that drag’s theatricality was important for how it brought into question the “naturalness” of the entire system of gender and sex roles, thus showing that these were superficial and manipulable (see Rubin 2002, 48). Further focusing on the analysis of gender as performance, Butler proposed that what we think of as “female” does not automatically follow from the particularities of the bodies we describe as “female”: “I think for a woman to identify as a woman is a culturally enforced effect. I don’t think that it’s a given that on the basis of a given anatomy, an identification will follow. I think that ‘coherent identification’ has to be cultivated, policed, and enforced; and that the violation of that has to be punished, usually through shame” (in Kotz 1992, 88). The diversity of femininities (ways of being female) in history and other cultures is one piece of evidence suggesting the rather arbitrary relationship between anatomy, masculinities, and femininities. Butler even suggests that so-­called biological sex is itself cultural, because it does not exist apart from discourse about it: sex categories are ideals that few material bodies can live up to (Butler 1993, 1–­2). This view of gender is also connected to a feminist turn in the social sciences, upon which my work builds. Feminist thinkers from the global South, like Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1987) and Gloria Anzaldúa (1987), criticized Northern feminists for presuming to speak for women everywhere and assuming that women in every culture were interested in following an agenda set mainly by white, heterosexual women from the global North. They showed that women’s experiences, even definitions of “women,” varied widely from place to place, so that trying to speak for women as a unitary group was presumptuous. Butler’s Gender Trouble was in part a reaction against the kind of feminist thought that presupposed “women” as a monolithic category and, in presupposing the global North as the originating source of feminism (and modernity) and hence of all progress in gender relations, unwittingly devalued the efforts of women in the global South (Butler [1990] 2006, 5) like those I describe here. Instead of examining feminism as a woman’s concern, in that book Butler pointed to the wider-­reaching problems created by defining gender as inborn and always binary, of presuming to decide, for instance, who is or is not a woman based on some criteria external to the subject being thus defined. In addition, if feminist theory is always centered only on “women,” it is already exclusionary and cannot represent everyone (not only men are excluded but so, for instance, are transgender or intersex

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Chapter one

persons who identify as women or as female); for this reason, even trying to define “woman” as a category may actually be an “unwitting regulation and reification of gender relations” (7). How can those who do not identify with mainstream, binary gender categories make sense of themselves and become valued members of society in the system Butler, Newton, and others describe? Is feminism salvageable in the face of these problems? I believe it is, particularly if we accept the way forward offered by Butler: to understand and accept what she terms the performativity of gender. Performativity does not simply mean performance-­like but refers rather to the creative property of a speech or corporeal act—­the capacity of a performance, broadly understood, to bring something like gender into being through its repetition (see Butler [1990] 2006, xiv–­xv; 1993, 2). Accepting that gender is performed means accepting that gender does not exist on its own. Even the “interiority” of gender—­what one feels and experiences as one’s gender—­is created through “acts and gestures, articulated and enacted desires” rather than existing a priori ([1990] 2006, 185). We need some rules and norms to live together in a society, Butler says, but at the same time we need to distance ourselves from them or suspend them in order to consider and articulate other versions of those norms that enable minorities (including gender minorities) to have an identity and a voice in society (2004, 3). Music is one way of doing just that, as I will show, but it is one that Butler did not investigate. Instead, much as Newton had done earlier (though in different terms), Butler examined drag as a particularly important, potentially transformative kind of gender performance precisely because of how it reveals gender’s performativity. In Gender Trouble, she showed that drag was not simply copying an “original” gender, because there was no original to turn to; drag made clear that all genders were equally performed. In a later book, Undoing Gender, she further explained: “Through performativity, dominant and nondominant gender norms are equalized. But some of those performative accomplishments claim the place of nature or claim the place of symbolic necessity, and they do this only by occluding the ways in which they are performatively established” (2004, 209). In other words, drag shows that all genders are created equal, because they are all created in the same way—­ through performative acts. The fact that some genders, and usually only two of them—­the normative “male” and “female” ones—­are considered natural is fairly arbitrary, and they are only accepted as natural because of how they hide their origins. For example, as adults at least, we do not normally consider the way a seated woman crosses her legs at the knee to be a performance, much less one that actually creates what we construe as feminine. But

Introduction

9

when a person with a “male” body sits in that feminine way, we see that that is just what it is. Butler’s views on gender, from which my own derive, clearly draw from performance studies. This field grew out of theater studies and anthropology, and it helps us to focus on process rather than product. In the words of Richard Schechner, one of the founders of performance studies, “whatever is being studied is regarded as practices, events, and behaviors, not as ‘objects’ or ‘things’” (2013, 2). My book fits with this perspective: it asks how Dominican musical performance contributes to the stability, variation, or transformation of Dominican gender identities in national and transnational contexts. Many of the performers I analyze in this book, particularly in Chapter 6, are engaged in processes of empowerment by reconstructing or reconfiguring meaning out of preexisting messages in performance. José Esteban Muñoz termed these processes “disidentifications” in his 1999 book of the same title, a study of queer Latino and Latin American performance artists of color. Disidentification, Muñoz says, is a way of rereading and reinterpreting pop culture in a political way precisely because one does not identify with its images or the relations they portray, even if those items are otherwise appealing. It is a “survival strategy that works within and outside the dominant public sphere simultaneously” (1999, 5).6 More specifically, disidentification is a process through which queer subjects engage in oppositional reading, breaking down dominant codes and transforming meanings. However, as I show, disidentification is not for queer subjects only: many Dominicans of all sorts disidentify with the Dominican national project, musically symbolized by mainstream (i.e., orquesta or popular) merengue, and that disidentification can result in adherence to other musical genres that better encapsulate nonmainstream gender, racial, or regional identities, including merengue típico, palos, Afro-­ Dominican fusions, and merengue de calle, to mention just a few (see Appendix A for descriptions of these genres, and Díaz 2013 for an example of how salsa fans build an alternative Dominican identity). I deal with cross-­dressing in just one chapter (Chapter 6), but both Butler’s and Muñoz’s ideas about drag nonetheless influence my analyses throughout the book. Muñoz too sees drag as a transformative performance, one that disidentifies with the “a priori relationship of woman and femininity that is a tenet of gender-­normative thinking” (Muñoz 1999, 108). In other words, drag shows how queer performers are unable or unwilling to identify with the usual binary gender categories and thus offers a critique of the “truths” of binary gender categories. Questioning these categories lays the foundations for a wider public to see the constructed nature of those supposed truths and possibly oppose them; in this way, drag performances can actually change the

10

Chapter one

world (195–­96). While neither Butler nor Muñoz deal with music or dance specifically, I believe they would agree with the importance I assign to these expressions as spaces of imaginative play. For Muñoz, fiction is a “technology of the self ” in that it brings a self into being, blurring lines between the real and the fictional—­it is itself a “contested field of self-­production” (20). For Butler, fantasy allows us to move “beyond what is merely actual and present into a realm of possibility,” thus laying the groundwork for future change (2004, 28–­29). The potential of creative work to change our ideas about what is possible can actually place artistic performance at the forefront of cultural change.7 Feminist ethnomusicology also has a role to play here. For instance, I work to mainstream the analysis of women’s musicking by discussing it as an integral part of a system that also includes other genders. And particularly given the location of my study, I additionally aim to organize my work around local ways of thinking about gender and to value the critiques made locally as a kind of indigenous feminism, different from but just as valuable as mainstream, Northern, or academic feminisms. In fact, I believe ethnomusicology is ideally positioned to counteract some of the problems of feminist thought precisely because of its commitment to hearing and analyzing the voices of Others.8 My book both converges and diverges from prior scholarship in ethnomusicology and musicology, in which the lion’s share of research on gender has been written by and about women, often from a feminist perspective. While I too am a woman writing about gender and drawing from feminism, men are also a focus of this book, because my aim is to consider gender as a whole system. Feminist theory began to impact music studies in the 1980s, so that by 1990 gender was a topic of interest for many researchers, both ethnomusicologists and historical musicologists. In historical musicology, the work of Susan McClary (especially [1991] 2002), Suzanne Cusick (1999), and others have been broadly influential. In ethnomusicology, gender has appeared as the focus of several important edited collections (Koskoff 1987; Herndon and Ziegler 1990; Moisala and Diamond 2000; Magrini 2003), though mainly in the form of documenting women’s musical activities in various musical cultures. Only a few book-­length musical ethnographies have dealt with gender as a primary topic. The most influential is likely Jane Sugarman’s 1997 Engendering Song: Singing and Subjectivity at Prespa Albanian Weddings, which showed how differential singing styles helped not only to reinforce but actually to create Prespa notions of masculinity and femininity. Other ethnographies have followed the lead of the early edited collections and focused on women’s musical activities (e.g., Gilman 2011; Chuse 2013); monographs on music and masculinity are much rarer (a notable exception is Spiller 2010).

Introduction

11

Very few ethnographies have considered gender more broadly as an identity, performance, or a meaningful system of cultural organization; it is still unusual to analyze gender in music relationally, placing the performances of those identified as male, female, or another gender side by side.9 Two exceptions are Sarah Weiss’s (2006) study of female and male ways of playing Indonesian gamelan music and Sylvia Nannyonga-­Tamusuza’s (2005) look at the array of varied gender identities performed in Ugandan music and dance. While it is now common to include a section or chapter dealing with gender in musical ethnographies, in-­depth studies that consider gender as a principal foundation for all music making (not just that of women) remain rare. Clearly, I also draw from performance studies in my analysis, and I hope that in doing so I can contribute a somewhat unique example of how we can understand gender to be built through music. While music might seem to be an obvious topic of study for performance theorists, and indeed musical research into performance long predates the birth of performance studies as a discipline, music researchers have typically viewed performance differently and studies of music that draw from performance theory have not been numerous; similarly, surprisingly little research on music has emerged from directly within performance studies. As Philip Auslander points out, in popular music studies cultural studies approaches have privileged audience reception over musicians’ performances, while performance studies scholars have tended to ignore musical performance (2006, 2). As for ethnomusicology, Alejandro Madrid (2009) writes, scholarship on performance typically “focused on the actions and practices surrounding music performance within specific cultural contexts. Ethnomusicology’s [study of] performance practice was clearly rooted in a different epistemological paradigm than musicology’s logocentric performance practice; it was an anthropological one. . . . Nevertheless, ethnomusicology’s study of performance still focused on music-­making actions and took them as sort of musical texts to be understood.  .  .  . Both musicology and ethnomusicology’s early interest in performance stemmed from an attempt to understand sound, its production, organization, and meaning, within specific historical or cultural circumstances.” Taking a Schechnerian or Butlerian perspective of performance in ethnomusicology means analyzing performance not simply as a text that can be read but rather as an act or complex of actions intimately related to their cultural and historical contexts and with real effects in the world. By extension, taking a performative view of gender in ethnomusicology means analyzing how musical performance actually brings cultural norms and notions of gender—­really, gender itself—­into being. The performances I analyze in this book—­the movements, gestures, and musical sounds Dominican artists

12

Chapter one

produce at particular moments and in particular places—­are creative not just in the sense that they are artistic but also in the sense that they bring particular identities into being. They therefore have the potential to change those identities that are currently dominant. Given the critiques of Crenshaw, Anzaldúa, Spivak, and others, it is nevertheless impossible to look at gender alone. I will therefore also take race, class, and postcolonial relationships into account in this book. Not to do so would present analytical and political risks; for instance, a gender-­only study might suggest that masculinities and femininities are everywhere alike. Even in a single context, like that of the Dominican Republic, such is clearly not the case; expectations for masculine and feminine comportment differ greatly according to one’s class or racial position in society, while ideas about gender, feminism, and gay rights are strongly colored by the neocolonial relationship between the Dominican Republic and the United States. I try to keep such intersections at the forefront of my analyses throughout this book. As Ellen Koskoff explained in a recent interview, isolating gender as a topic of study is useful for gaining depth, but focusing on it carries the risk of erasing the fact that in everyday life it is “mixed up” with many other markers of identity, like age, race, religion, and much more (Kyker 2014). While this study is specific to one country, the insights I hope it will yield should be applicable to other places with related histories. The study of the intersections between musical performance, gender, and race is particularly pertinent in the Black Atlantic, Paul Gilroy’s widely used term for the transnational cultural region formed as a result of the Atlantic slave trade. Gilroy himself pointed the way to the need for more research on performance, explaining that its focus on “the pivotal ethical relationship between performer and crowd, participant and community” and the “oral character” of many African diasporic societies make performance central to Black Atlantic cultures (Gilroy 1993, 203) like that of the Dominican Republic. He sees the process of performance rather than its content as primary in the Black Atlantic (Gilroy 1993, 200) and therefore suggests turning away from a focus on textuality and narrative and toward “dramaturgy, enunciation, and gesture—­ the pre-­and anti-­discursive constituents of black metacommunication” (75). Gilroy thus seems to concur with Butler, Schechner, and others that we need more research on the “hows” of performance—­the specific corporeal acts that create both culture-­specific notions of gender and Black Atlantic sociality more generally. Among these acts, I include singing and the playing of musical instruments alongside dance and other bodily movements. While neither Butler nor Gilroy analyzed music or movement in detail,10 I have tried to take them up on the challenge in this book as well as to go beyond what they

Introduction

13

suggested by using an interdisciplinary set of tools: participant observation, ethnographic interviews, musical analysis, movement and gesture analysis, and textual and video analyses. With these tools, I want to describe not only how gender interacts with music and is performed through the body but also to explain how musical performances of gender (or gendered performances of music) interact with ideas about race, nation, transnationalism, tradition, and modernity in the Caribbean. Tradition, Transnationalism, and Tigueraje in Típico The case on which I focus here, that of merengue típico, is typically Latin American or Caribbean in the way it blends the traditional and the modern, the global and the local, manifesting what García Canclini (2005) terms hybridity, but it is also representative of what has happened to many traditional musics worldwide. Ethnomusicologists—­many of them working in Latin America and/or the Caribbean—­have changed our perspectives on the relationship between music and place through studies of transnational populations’ use of music in establishing identities or maintaining links (e.g., Averill 1994, Austerlitz 1997, Simonett 2001) and the transnational flows of music through media (Garofalo 1993, García 2006). While traditional musics were typically thought of as rooted in a single place, community, or region, this is no longer the case for many or most musics classified as such today. Transnational traditions like típico are more the rule than the exception. In spite of the fact that these styles are now transmitted, consumed, even learned through mass media like recordings, videos, television, radio, and the Internet, those who make típico and other transnational traditional musics still consider themselves part of a tradition, and the idea of tradition and rootedness is a large part of what makes these musics relevant for their practitioners and listeners—­even when they are also drawing from internationally popular styles like hip-­hop, salsa, R & B, or reggaetón. Such a concept of tradition seems to be problematic only for academics who wish to maintain the opposition between categories of “traditional” or “folk” and “popular” music; those who love the music have no such compunctions. In addition, as I have noted elsewhere (Hutchinson 2012c), the Spanish term música popular simply means “music of the people” and thus already includes both folkloric and mass-­mediated genres. Canclinian hybridity is thus a useful way to think about the relationship between traditional music and modernity in Latin America, but this concept has relevance for my broader topic—­gender—­as well. Writing about Middle Eastern women, anthropologist Lila Abu-­Lughod explains that the very idea

14

Chapter one

of modernity has been produced in the West, always through contrast with a “primitive” or “traditional” other, and indeed is based on a foundation of slavery and colonialism; thus, when Western modernity is imposed on non-­ Western cultures, it may bring women both emancipation and new forms of domination (1998, 7–­8). Butler finds that feminists like Abu-­Lughod who write from outside of white Northern feminism have shown that Westerners “do not know our own modernity, the conditions of its own emergence and preservation. . . . Or rather, we are showing that what we call ‘modernity’ is a form of forgetfulness and cultural erasure” that positions white Northerners at the center, or even as the only ones making progress (Butler 2004, 230–­31). “Modernity” is itself a product of the unequal relations between North and South and the histories of colonialism, slavery, and other ways the supposedly modern nations exploited those considered traditional or backward (and this occurred not only between nation-­states but also within them, where indigenous people or other minorities often played the “backward” role). In looking at the insubordinate or progressive actions of Dominican women like Maluca, I want to contribute to a feminism that values such women and their actions. In considering how traditional music aids in such acts, I also want to disrupt the value-­laden polarity between traditional and modern as well as an equally contested correlate, the First World–­Third World binary. For these reasons, típico’s hybrid status as both traditional/local and modern/transnational is a significant factor in how gender is thought about and performed in this scene and in the Dominican Republic more broadly. In Chapter 2, I introduce an array of terms used to discuss gender performance in the broader Dominican Republic. The one most central to this book and pertinent to the current discussion is that of tigueraje. Tigueraje is the realm or behavior of the tíguere or tíguera, the tiger or tigress, the tough, streetwise, sensual gender identity with something of the trickster thrown in, which Maluca so masterfully performed at the opening of this chapter. If placed in a binary similar to those just mentioned, a tíguere would form the opposite to the hombre serio or hombre manso, the serious or tame man, and likewise the female tíguera and the mujer seria (serious woman) are seen as opposing roles, although I intend to complicate these binaries. As I show in later chapters, particularly 5 and 6, these masculinities and femininities correspond to differing Dominican ideas about tradition and modernity, particularly with respect to musical style, and they are easily discerned by Dominican viewers and listeners.11 Since the 1960s, tigueraje has come to dominate all forms of Dominican popular music as a model of both male and female behavior, a change that I argue relates to the country’s simultaneously transforming economic and social landscapes and to key performers

Introduction

15

that emerged during the tumultuous post-­Trujillo years. In Chapters 2 and 4, I analyze feminine tigueraje, a forceful, even aggressive role that somewhat resembles what Judith Halberstam (1998) has described as “female masculinities,” or constructions of maleness that can also be performed by women. While the tigueraje I examine is performed mainly by heterosexual Dominican women, unlike the queer subjects of Halberstam’s study, it nonetheless similarly affords “a glimpse of how masculinity is constructed as masculinity” (Halberstam 1998, 1). In more recent times, as I show in Chapters 6 and 7, the spectrum of gender performance in the Dominican Republic has expanded even further so that nonnormative masculinities and femininities can also be seen on the popular music stage. The expansion in gender possibilities has occurred together with (though not, I think, because of) an increasing acceptance of and even promotion of Dominican music’s historic roots in and contemporary ties to the broader Black Atlantic. Intriguingly, much of the impetus for this growing inclusivity seems to have come from traditional musics—­via both traditional musicians and those “schooled” musicians who have become involved with them. Genre in Dominican Music In my view, “genre” in music entails not only features of a style’s musical sound—­like instrumental and vocal timbres, rhythms, melodies, forms, and structures—­but also particular social meanings, like class, ethnic, or racial connotations, places of performance, and especially gender performances. In other words, I believe that most if not all musical genres encode and enact specific ways of performing gender that make sense according to the values of their particular musical scene or music world. This view actually dovetails with the terms’ etymologies: both gender and genre derive from the Latin genus, meaning birth, family, nation, or a type or class (for example, of a noun), and indeed just one term still contains both senses in Romance languages like Spanish, where both are termed género. In introducing my topic, then, I will need to describe musical genres as well as the types of gender performance each brings to life. At its most basic level, merengue típico is defined by its instruments and principal rhythms, as well as by contrast to related styles like orquesta or big-­ band merengue (see Appendix A). The two-­headed tambora drum, the metal güira scraper, and the diatonic button accordion12 are required components, and no típico group is without this basic trio. More specifically, the tambora in merengue típico is larger and heavier than those used in merengue de orquesta, and the güira is likewise wider. Típico musicians vastly prefer

16

Chapter one

handmade instruments to factory-­produced ones, so the típico tambora is made of a single hollowed-­out log when possible (less often from barrel staves), its skins stretched around rims of bent wood and tied with rope, rather than fastened and tightened with metal fittings. The sound-­producing bumps in the metal of the güira are also punched by hand, and típico musicians disdain those that are rolled by machine. The preferred accordion is the two-­row Hohner Erica, although some play the two-­row Weltmeister Mayimba; occasionally, very old one-­row models are trotted out by elderly or rural musicians. Before the 1960s, a saxophone and/or a bass lamellaphone called marimba were occasionally added to the group; in recent decades, congas, timbales, keyboards, and even guitars have become optional additions, while electric basses and saxophones are found in most groups. In traditional típico, two principal rhythms were used,13 defined by two-­bar patterns on the tambora: merengue derecho (straight-­ahead merengue, often with a two-­ part form) and pambiche, a more syncopated groove (typically in a one-­part song). These rhythms still lie at the core of the repertoire, but new ones have also been added (these are discussed further in Chapter 5). Place is also central to típico: the music is a symbol for the northern Cibao region as well as its traditional agricultural economy and stratified class system. While it is still played informally (then usually in a trio, often termed perico ripiao) in villages throughout the region, Santiago de los Caballeros has been its center of production since the 1960s. The second-­largest city in the country and largest in the Cibao region, Santiago has a remarkable live music scene dominated by típico but including many other sounds as well. In spite of típico being firmly rooted in urban settings, most típico musicians are nonetheless proud of their ties to the rural Cibao and emphasize these ties even in urban contexts. On another level, típico can be defined by its social relations. Outsiders tend to see it as the music of peasants, urban lower classes, or return migrants, all groups with a low status. For insiders, however, it can be associated with upward mobility, as its consumers adapt to urban living and work situations, reacclimate themselves to Dominican life after amassing financial resources abroad, or use musical patronage to demonstrate economic success. In fact, even though típico is disseminated via mass media like regional radio and television and the Internet, traditional patronage relationships still play an important role: businessmen commission homenajes or praise songs, or they use típico as an investment strategy by managing young musicians at the start of their careers. This mixed economy is another manifestation of típico’s Canclinian hybridity, and it can also be observed in the places típico is played, which range from rural cockfight rings to urban bars and nightclubs, passing

Introduction

17

through the roadhouses (paradas) and ranchos (discos built as large, open-­air, thatch-­roofed shelters) located on Santiago’s periphery. In gendered terms, fans sometimes describe the styles and rhythms of merengue típico as either masculine or feminine. The newer merengue con mambo is perceived as a more feminine style than the older merengue derecho or straight-­ahead merengue, a repertoire also referred to as “merengues de hombre” (men’s merengues; D. Polanco 2006). Some tie this change to playing technique (F. Pascual 2004) and others to the increased participation of female fans (Guzmán 2006). More broadly, some also see the whole repertoire of típico as dividing into the masculine merengue and the feminine pambiche (e.g., Américo Mejía in X. Pérez 2010), each distinguished by tambora rhythm, the former march-­like, the latter syncopated. We can therefore view traditionalists’ vehement condemnation of rhythmic changes as a camouflaged denunciation of changes in traditional society, including its gender roles. While modern típico’s great popularity would seem to show a greater acceptance for such changes, the possibly reactionary emphasis on hypermasculinity in some performances (discussed in Chapter 5) must be viewed critically. Merengue típico shares space with a variety of other Dominican musics, including palos, bachata, merengue de calle, and merengue de orquesta (see Appendix A), and no one listens to only one genre of music, but típico has marked out its territory in particular ways. The word típico here refers not to what is ordinary but to what is typical of a place. Thus, it is more tied to a particular space than any of the other styles I discuss here. Furthermore, típico aficionados conceive of their musical environment and relations as a “world”—­el mundo típico—­rather than a scene, as scholars might describe it (see Hutchinson 2016), and this resonates with concepts of world-­making used in queer studies. Queer theorists Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner’s 1998 article “Sex in Public” argued that just as queer subjects reinscribe public spaces with their own meanings, often hidden from heterosexual outsiders, queer culture can and should engage in the political activity of establishing nonheteronormative spaces in the broader public sphere. Their own use of the term world-­making was based on ideas from the philosophers Hannah Arendt and Martin Heidegger. Elsewhere Warner has explained that they understood Arendt’s concept of world-­making to refer to how “the activity we undertake with each other . . . brings into being the space of our world, which is then the background against which we understand ourselves and our belonging. . . . The world made in public action is not an intended or designed world, but one disclosed in practice. It is a background for self-­understanding, and therefore something not purely individual. It is also immanent to history and

18

Chapter one

practice, unlike ideas of community or identity, which tend to be naturalized as stable or originary. And it is a language of performativity that is necessarily contextual and multi-­perspectival” (Jagose 2000). Taking insider discourse seriously and considering merengue típico as a “world” thus helps us to see how its practitioners and listeners together create not only particular musical sounds, dance movements, social spaces, and interactions but also gender and other facets of Cibaeño and Dominican identities. It forces us to consider típico’s contexts, the multiple perspectives of those inside and outside of it, and the ways performance brings it and its associated identities into being. Típico musicians and listeners are engaged in a process of world-­making, and while they do not normally see their activities as political, scholars can view them as such, since at one level típico music and sociality are aimed at validating the experiences of those Cibaeños whose voices might not normally be valued by those in power: those who live abroad, those who have returned, peasants, tígueres, and tígueras. In fact, we can easily view each musical genre as a world-­making project of its own, and, as I will show later in this book, each genre world emphasizes particular gender performances. In each case, gender and genre mutually define and create each other. Gender in the Caribbean Merengue típico iterates gender performances found in other genres, but it is also unique in the Caribbean for being perhaps the only genre in which women have been more prominent as instrumentalists and bandleaders than as vocalists or dancers. The reasons for their relative success in this apparently “macho” music are multiple, but at the very least they suggest that perspectives on Caribbean gender construction that emphasize machismo as part of a binary whose counterpart is female subservience present a one-­sided view of the subject that does not represent the social reality of all Caribbean women. When factors such as class, race, and musical-­performance traditions are figured in, the picture becomes considerably more complex, since some women, particularly in the lower classes, can and do draw on a number of empowering traditions. Caribbean gender studies have been predicated on notions of gender as a binary, either-­or construct that corresponds to binary divisions found elsewhere in society. In the 1950s, anthropologists like Sidney Mintz, Robert Manners, and Raymond Scheele, all students of Robert Redfield, saw lower-­class life in the Caribbean—­specifically Puerto Rico—­as being organized around a divide between the masculine realm of the calle, street, and

Introduction

19

the feminine one of the casa, house or home (see e.g., Steward et al. 1956). Other studies of Caribbean gender from this time, such as studies by Mexican researcher María Elena Bermúdez (1955) and American sociologist J. Mayone Stycos (1958), established “machismo” as the principal term for describing Latin American men’s behaviors and attitudes, and by the 1970s the term was widely used in feminist critiques as well as in popular discourse, even in English. Scholars viewed machismo primarily through a psychological lens, seeing it as pathological and thus almost entirely negative (Ramírez [1993] 1999, 8–­11). In 1969, Peter Wilson added to the casa-­calle model by positing that men were focused on acquiring reputation in the street, women on maintaining respectability in the home. In 1973, political scientist Evelyn Stevens created another binary by arguing that machismo always had a feminine counterpart in marianismo, where women gained respect through embodying the virginal and motherly aspects of the Virgin Mary. Next, Jamaican educator Errol Miller (1986) effectively transferred the calle/reputation model to the Anglophone Caribbean by advancing the so-­called male marginalization thesis in the 1980s. Echoing earlier views of Caribbean families as matrifocal organizations in which men were irresponsible, marginal, or tangential members, he argued that Caribbean men’s declining educational performance was a result of, first, colonial policies that favored steering black men toward manual labor and, later on, policies that created opportunities for women’s advancement in education and other areas, thus laying the blame (in part) at the doorstep of high-­achieving women. These theories of Caribbean gender continue to influence researchers, writers, and policymakers, even as new directions for gender research have emerged, particularly those focusing on the intersections of gender with nationalism, ethnicity, or race, or on homosexuality and homophobia. My research has convinced me that neither reputation nor respectability is a concern of any gender exclusively; instead, different masculinities and femininities may emphasize one over the other or even seek to balance the two. It follows that “machismo” is only one way of viewing masculinity in Latin America, and, in fact, Ramírez ([1993] 1999) sees machismo as a social-­sciences construct based on anecdotal evidence at best and imposed externally. He found that the term was never used among lower-­class Puerto Ricans, even though they did discuss being macho, male (3–­4). In the Dominican Republic the term machista is similarly employed mainly as a feminist critique of male behavior, rather than as a way of analyzing or discussing masculinity (maleness seems to remain the unmarked category). And not only is it impossible for me to imagine the women I know in the Dominican

20

Chapter one

Republic being described as subservient, but also it is difficult to view Dominican femininity within the framework of marianismo. Gender complexity, a term that has recently gained popular currency to describe the spectrum of gender identities that exist beyond conventional male and female ones, is also useful for scholars and activists who wish to look beyond binary views of gender.14 This concept is pertinent to my current project particularly because, at the beginning of my research period, a surprising development in the performance of gender was underway in Dominican music, as a number of male singers began to appear in drag or other atypically masculine attire on stage. Later, several men and women who were either gay or not clearly heterosexual gained popularity in a variety of Dominican musical genres. I believe that the two developments were related, and that both in turn built on the foundation of tigueraje laid by earlier merengueros. While some of these performances resemble camp, a subversive, exaggerated, or shockingly excessive performance aesthetic associated with effeminate homosexuals and famously analyzed by Susan Sontag (1964), others do not fit this type, perhaps due to camp aesthetic’s roots in the North. As Muñoz explains, campy performances (including drag) use humor for cultural critique in a disarming way, but because camp is mainly the province of gay white men, Latinos have developed other kinds of disidentifying performance (1999, 121). One of these is choteo, a kind of mocking, joking talk widespread in the Caribbean that undermines authority and causes confusion.15 While the term “choteo” is not used in the Dominican Republic, its ethos is quite close to that of tigueraje in its tricksterish forms of critique. One can therefore see the musicians I describe in Chapters 6 and 7 as reforming—­or perhaps “queering,” to echo two well-­known books on queer musicology (Brett, Wood, and Thomas 1994; Whiteley and Rycenga 2006)—­the formerly heteronormative tigueraje through their critical, sometimes humorous, and frequently exaggerated acts. These musicians’ performances seem to owe much to earlier ones by the female accordionist Fefita la Grande (Chapter 4), which might themselves be considered campy. In reformulating tigueraje, these artists not only work to make the Dominican public sphere more inclusive of a wider array of gender identities, but they also force us as scholars to move beyond binary models of Caribbean gender. Music and Movement I write this book from the perspective of an ethnomusicologist, and my primary focus is gender. However, to study gender in and as musical performance, I draw from an interdisciplinary toolbox and hope to contribute to

Introduction

21

an interdisciplinary tradition of research not only on these two topics but also on the interrelated topics of body, movement, and gesture, as well as feminist theory. These topics have received sustained but uneven treatment in my home field. In the latter half of this book, bodily movement in music becomes an important facet of my analyses. I have been inspired by many excellent works in dance studies that consider the relationships between movement and gender (e.g., Cowan 1990; Novack 1990; Browning 1995), nation (Doi 2001), race (Browning 1995; DeFrantz 2006), class (Ness 1992), colonialism (Savigliano 1995), gesture (Noland and Ness 2008), and many others. I am also encouraged by the fact that ethnomusicological attention to body and movement has grown in recent years, leading to a number of monographs on dance, movement, or gesture by ethnomusicologists (e.g., Hutchinson 2007; Hahn 2007; Spiller 2010; Hellier-­Tinoco 2011; Clayton, Dueck, Leante 2013; Rahaim 2013; Bosse 2015) as well as numerous publications on gesture by musicologists (e.g., Gritten and King 2006; Godoy and Leman 2010; Le Guin 2006; Hatten 2004; Rahaim 2013). Given this body of work and recent developments in scholarship on music and the body, I hope to unite several recent trends in musical research by attending to the interrelationship of musical sound with gender, gesture, and aestheticized bodily movement (including but not limited to dance). I take up the challenges posed by Judith Butler, Paul Gilroy, Martin Clayton, and other scholars by investigating how musical sound connects to a particular society and its belief system—­particularly as regards gender—­through the body. And in linking ethnographic research with movement, gesture, and video analysis, I hope to present music, movement, and gesture in a holistic manner rather than separating performance into musical and movement components according to traditional disciplinary divisions. Since gender is located in (i.e., performed by and read from) the body, I believe that movement and gesture analysis provide an excellent way of studying it; music’s important role in identity formation and group cohesion make it equally fundamental. By considering sound and movement together, I aim to probe further the embodied dimensions of music and gender. A Guide to This Book I came to this music first as a fan and aspiring musician, attracted above all by típico’s musical complexity: its virtuosic accordion technique, extreme speeds, tricky rhythms, and fascinating intraensemble interactions. I was involved with the music for a year and a half before I considered myself really

22

Chapter one

to be researching it. Before that, I simply attended numerous gigs without taking notes or making recordings. This early involvement meant that I became friends with many musicians and their families before I began to “study” them, and this turned out to be advantageous, in that it was easy for me to make connections with típico musicians and fans in Santiago before I ever got there. Since that time, my principal mode of research has been ethnographic fieldwork. My fieldwork consisted of observing típico events and típico in daily life in two cities, participating in such events as a dancer and accordionist, and interviewing numerous participants in the típico world, from performers to managers to fans. I also undertook a side project on Santiago carnival by participating for four years in a group of lechones, Santiago’s traditional masked figure. While that work is tangential to this book’s topic, the experience nonetheless further informs my understanding of Dominican gendered culture, particularly because I was dressing as a typically masculine carnival character, the lechón. Aside from fieldwork, I have also done library and archival research into both merengue típico and Dominican gender construction. Sources for the former included documents in the collections of the Centro León and the Archivo Histórico de Santiago, and for the latter, the books, articles, and theses I have cited throughout. Many of my interlocutors were interested in my project because they realized that merengue típico was devalued in the Dominican Republic, and they believed my attention would help rectify the situation. My transcriptions in particular seemed important to them because of widespread beliefs that (a) merengue típico simply could not be written, and that (b) written music was more valuable. Their views on the value of written music provide justification for my inclusion of transcriptions in this book. In part, my collaborators were right in their assessment of potential benefits: since I began my research and presented my findings (and transcriptions) at local conferences, merengue típico has begun to gain ground, with some of its musicians invited to perform in prestigious locations that would have been unthinkable a decade ago. Such invitations build upon and interact with the concurrent work of respected Dominican típico aficionados like Rafael Chaljub Mejía, Huchi Lora, and Américo Mejía, who also advocate for the style and deserve greater credit than I do for that growing prestige. Given my research methods, parts of this book fit the classic musical ethnography mold, but my work also differs in its use of a wider array of interdisciplinary tools. Besides ethnographic description and the analysis of musical sound and lyrics, I engage in the analysis of visual art (in Chapters 3 and 4), film and video (Chapters 4 and 7), literature (mainly Chapter 7), and

Introduction

23

movement (Chapters 4 through 7). My movement analyses were conducted by engaging in close readings of filmed performances, correlating movement and gesture with lyrics, musical sounds, and fans’ feedback. I mainly used recordings that are easily accessible on video-­sharing sites like YouTube, so readers can also view my source materials, and indeed should do so as they read this text (further information and links can be found on this book’s companion website). I should note, however, that fan-­created videos of the songs I discuss also circulate on video-­sharing sites, and their content can differ sharply from those created by the artists themselves. In its structure, this book proceeds in a roughly chronological fashion, from the historical perspective of Chapter 2, through a focus on the 1960s and 1970s period in Chapters 3 and 4, to the more contemporary topics of the final three chapters. Chapter 2 outlines a range of masculinities and femininities in the Dominican Republic, demonstrating the historical rootedness of local concepts about gender and providing modern-­day examples from music and politics to illustrate their continued relevance. Here I also link changes in Dominican masculinities with social and economic transformations related to transnational migration and neoliberalism, and I argue that Dominican femininities can offer both conceptual challenges to and inspiration for feminists in the world at large. Chapters 3 and 4 form a pair looking at two key performers of merengue típico, one male and one female, both associated with the transformations their musical genre underwent following the assassination of dictator Rafael Trujillo in 1961. These musical transformations occurred simultaneously with, and arose principally because of, the massive urbanization and migration that followed the change in political power; these two performers therefore embody these musical-­social changes and express them in part through their related performances of tigueraje. In Chapter 3, I demonstrate how Tatico Henríquez’s performance of tigueraje at a particular time and place—­Santiago during its tumultuous years of urbanization in the period mentioned—­made him so culturally charismatic that he became a legendary figure in the years since his death. In so doing, I also offer a new model for analyzing charismatic performers in traditional contexts and beyond. In Chapter 4, I position Fefita la Grande as a model of charismatic Caribbean feminism for her daring vocal, instrumental, and bodily performances, while also problematizing the reception of those performances in her home context. Chapter 5 unites the currents of the previous two chapters, discussing the positions and performances of both women and men within the “new” substyle of merengue típico moderno or merengue con mambo. Simultaneously viewed as “feminized” (often but not only by its detractors) and performed

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as hypermasculine, this style is centered on the danceable mambo section as well as a form of transnational tigueraje, a border-­crossing youth culture, which builds contemporary Black Atlantic connections even as it draws on historical resonances with other Afro-­ Caribbean and African American musics and masculinities. In Chapter 6, I look at instances of gender complexity in típico as well as other Dominican musical genres like merengue de orquesta, bachata, and reggaetón. I first aim to explain why a number of cross-­dressing male performers appeared in the early 2000s and what their effect on Dominican music and gender performance has been; I then go on to describe artists who have questioned the heteronormativity of Dominican society through their musical performances. While many such performers are in part commercially motivated, I argue that their visibility nonetheless has important consequences, for it has paved the way for a more inclusive musical stage, which may in turn contribute to a more tolerant society. The seventh chapter focuses again on one particular performer, the openly lesbian, sometimes androgynous, and always thought-­ provoking writer, musician, and performance artist Rita Indiana. Through analysis of her music, videos, literary works, and live performances, I show how this artist not only has created new genres and brought queer femininities into the public sphere but also pushes listeners into a more active form of reception and reinterpretation, a practice I term “listening sideways.” I follow this chapter with a brief conclusion summarizing my findings and return to Maluca’s music as a frame for them. With this book I hope to make theoretical contributions, but they are not my only goal. By demonstrating the wide range and historical depth of a variety of Caribbean femininities and masculinities, I hope to help expand possibilities for women and men in the Dominican Republic and beyond, or at least to inspire such an expansion. As a whole, I want this book to open my readers’ ears and minds to the potentials a broader, more inclusive conception of gender offers. I hope to provide a new perspective on Caribbean gender that considers classic binaries but goes beyond them; to show how music can either reinforce entrenched gender roles or help to open up possibilities by imagining new roles and identities for all genders; to give concrete examples demonstrating the performativity of gender; and to show how powerfully musical performance unites gender, racial, national, and other identities, with both the problems and opportunities that such conjunctions entail. I write this book as a humanist at heart, but I think that at this historical juncture any humanist has to be a feminist first and, likewise, an Africanist and a queer activist. By this I mean that only in understanding the limits

Introduction

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placed upon those who are most disadvantaged by the current world order—­ and working to remove them—­can all of us gain greater liberty. While I fully concede that writing an ethnography might be a poor substitute for concrete activism, Butler has suggested that “theory itself is transformative” (2004, 204), that simply expanding the questions we can ask about who is included in our common humanity and who remains outside it “open[s] up the category to a different future” (13). I believe that ethnography has that power to generate new questions and thus new futures, but I also concur with Butler that the potential can only be realized if those questions are accompanied by sustained social and political interventions (204–­5). A first step might be to “question everything,” as the old adage goes. That would mean ridding ourselves of received assumptions about what men and women do and are by asking ourselves what and who we think we are, and asking our Others what and who they want to be.

2

A Gendered History

The Dominican Republic is typically viewed, along with the rest of Latin America, as a patriarchal, machista (male chauvinist) society. Indeed, my experiences as a woman researching and playing merengue típico, or even just living in the Dominican Republic, were often frustrating. I never could adjust to the continual piropos (pick-­up lines) thrown my way by, it seemed, every man I passed on the street. The sound of Sssssss! Ssssssss!—­the typically Dominican way to attract one’s attention—­followed me everywhere, like a whole fleet of bicycles simultaneously getting flat tires. I felt this as an invasion of my space and my thoughts, which frequently made me angry. While Dominican friends advised me, “Get used to it! Aren’t you supposed adapt to our culture while you’re here?” I still found it difficult to accept. Another was when acquaintances offered advice seemingly predicated by my gender, in combination with my (then single) marital status. At the same time, I learned that many Dominican women felt differently: they found verbal attention from men in the street a validation of their feminine attractions, just as the men seemed to feel they became more masculine through giving such attention. This is just one example of how masculinities and femininities are built, and acquire value, relationally. In other ways, I found the country to be less machista than I had expected. I came to accept statements like “you can’t go there alone” as well-­intentioned advice motivated by growing violence in the city, rather than gender-­based behavioral proscriptions. Similarly, I was at first annoyed by the shock registered on the faces of many when they found out I lived alone, in my own apartment in a middle-­class Santiago neighborhood. While I thought it due to sentiments along the lines of “women need to be looked after” (or perhaps watched and monitored), I later realized that the same reaction might

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be expected by a solitary man: because of both the strength of extended families in Dominican culture and the proximity of neighbors, many Dominicans are unused to being alone and thus regard such a living arrangement with a mixture of horror and pity. My reactions had been based more on my preconceptions about Latino machismo than on the actual intentions of my interlocutors. Indeed, in the music world, I seldom found much opposition to my unconventional pursuits. Whether playing accordion, tambora, or palos, whether sharing a bottle of rum with musicians at their family home or hanging out at a car wash,1 I was welcomed into every situation, even when I was the only woman in a circle of men. And although I may have received some special treatment as a foreigner, my experiences were not unique—­I frequently met or saw Dominican women engaged in similar pursuits. Beyond my own personal experiences, what I saw going on in Dominican music did not seem to match the impression I had formed of Dominican society based on my preparatory reading. It wasn’t that what prior scholars had written was wrong; it just seemed one-­sided. From the beginning, I was impressed with how many women were involved in merengue típico, not only or even primarily as singers (as in other Latin American popular styles) but also as instrumentalists and bandleaders. How did this fit into the machista model? In addition, beginning not long after I started my research, certain male merengue singers—­two in the orquesta genre and one in típico—­ appeared who challenged typical masculine images by performing on stage in feminine attire. Audiences did not generally interpret this as a manifestation of the artists’ sexual preferences, but rather as an amusing element of their stage personas. Was this behavior just an extension of the general sense of play surrounding Dominican musical behavior? Or did it express some larger truth? Based on these observations, as well as the experience of learning how very much my own reactions were based upon my own cultural background, I soon came to believe that classic views of gender in Caribbean and Latin American society did not accurately describe the Dominican Republic—­at best, they did so in only a very partial way. The traditional dichotomy that opposed woman (home/private) to man (street/public) could not account for women in the típico world, either on stage or in the front rows as fans. The male-­provider / female-­nurturer model also did not truly fit the homes I visited, either on the island or among Dominicans in New York, where it was not uncommon to see women returning from a day at work to men washing the dishes or sweeping up. It seemed at least possible that previous scholars writing about gender in the Caribbean had been as influenced as I had at first been by their own cultural biases and/or Northern feminist ideals.

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Caribbean gender scholar Linden Lewis states that the old roles I had read about—­like the “male breadwinner” and “exclusive ‘female nurturer’”—­are now outmoded in the region, so that “we are at a crucial conjuncture with respect to the change in the way men and women relate to each other” (2002, 513–­14). In places like the Dominican Republic, it is doubtful that those roles ever extended much beyond the Hispanophilic, Catholic elite. Modes of gender performance that differ by class and other factors can clearly be observed in historical típico lyrics, as we will see. Yet even here, the relationship between men and women has certainly entered a new era since the 1970s. It is not coincidental that this time period coincides with extensive musical transformations in Dominican music from merengue típico and merengue de orquesta to bachata and more. In this chapter, I outline the historical development of different but interrelated masculinities and femininities in the Dominican Republic, using musical examples to illustrate, and I conclude by explaining how this gendered history has enabled the emergence of a relatively large number of female accordionists in merengue típico. Throughout, I will show how gender and musical genre are linked. Each type of masculinity or femininity I present can be understood as one way of performing gender that has been salient either now or in the past. Studying historical gender constructions is necessary for understanding those modes of performance that exist today, as well as the ways in which típico musicians have alternately reinforced and challenged dominant modes of Dominican gender performance. These chapters provide background information that will serve to historicize and contextualize the arguments I make about musical expressions and constructions of gender in the rest of this book. Economics are an important part of this historical context. Linden Lewis cautions us that, besides attending to the relations between men and women and how roles are performed, we should also remember the relationship between gender, capitalism, and labor (2002, 519). My discussion here will show that socioeconomic systems carry with them particular gender roles that members of a society are expected to perform; therefore, the vast socioeconomic changes the Dominican Republic has undergone in the past half century have led to changes in the performance of gender. In particular, economic disparities and differing attitudes toward labor are strongly tied to the two principal modes of performing masculinity at present: the hombre serio or manso (serious or docile man) and the tíguere (tiger). In this discussion, I do not want to become an apologist for those Dominicans who do maintain traditionally oppressive gender roles. Such roles certainly exist and are not beneficial to women (nor are they, I would argue, to

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men); in some cases they are harmful to the extreme, leading to gender-­based violence. I simply wish to show that such roles do not explain all Dominicans’ experiences because they are not the totality of gender roles available in the Dominican Republic. In fact, while merengue típico and other forms of local, neotraditional culture are in some ways conservative, in other ways they can actually offer significant and important alternatives to global capitalism that include reinterpretations and reconfigurations of traditional gender roles. Male Roles Among the menagerie of masculinities available in the Dominican Republic, all adhere at least hypothetically to hierarchical notions of gender that place men at the top of the social ladder. Yet expressed ideals and actual behavior frequently do not match in daily practice. For instance, De Moya adheres to expressed ideals when he describes how Dominican middle-­and upper-­middle-­class boys are taught early on to steer themselves away from “feminine” behaviors in terms of body language, actions, and affinities; thus, they should learn neither piano nor violin and should not enter the kitchen, prepare meals, or sweep or mop “if there are available women” (2004, 72–­ 74). Lewis, on the other hand, reminds us that we should also recognize that “there is often a dissonance between public performance and private practice,” so that many Caribbean men have hidden housekeeping abilities (2002, 515)—­and, indeed, I frequently did observe Dominican men I knew well engaged in cleaning and cooking. The contradictions apparent in single mothers steering their boys to the most macho activities and feminists who marry insensitive men, Lewis further explains, show how “men and women satisfy public expectations of gendered behaviors which may or may not be compatible with their private views” (516). “Dissonance” between ideal and actual gender performance may be one explanation for my experience, but another is that the European-­derived gender distinctions embraced by Dominicans of a certain class have never held much water for the mulatto masses.2 To give an example, while the upper classes may attend churches with male priests, lower-­class Dominicans are more likely to participate in home-­based Afro-­Dominican religious practices, where women often hold leadership positions. In addition, the stay-­at-­ home mother is as much a luxury for urban Dominicans as it is for most US Americans today. Dominican men thus perform a range of masculine roles, many of which are conditioned by economics and even by race. Perhaps the most prevalent one today is the tíguere, the Dominican tiger (from the “proper” Spanish

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tigre, but almost always spelled as a three-­syllable word by Dominicans discussing this role), a streetwise hustler. The tíguere is a role that is both temporally and spatially situated. It has evolved in a complex relationship with other Dominican male roles, particularly the hombre serio, which some see as its opposite, although I argue that the two actually have a more complex relationship. Simonson describes both as “projects of selfhood,” ways in which individuals make sense of their lives and relate to the larger society. The goal of these “projects” is both to gain social acceptance and to freely express the self through the creation of a self-­image and the building of a reputation (1994, 122). The hombre serio is considered as prior to the tíguere and linked to rural locations, while the latter is thought to be a more recent development that emerged through urbanization. These and other Dominican masculinities are thus strongly tied to a particular historical moment and social context, but they have evolved from earlier modes of masculinity including the montero and Concho Primo, and they relate to still other contemporary masculinities such as the hombre gallo, viejete, and bacano. I outline these here, as components of a gender history, as constructs of race and nation, and as models for actual actors in the Dominican music world. Historical Masculinities The roots of today’s hombre serio could be traced to the montero, a backwoods huntsman and the titular subject of an 1856 novelette by Pedro Francisco Bonó often cited as the beginning of Dominican fiction and, indeed, the Dominican nation (Bonó [1856] 2003). Also a machetero, a machete ever at his side, the montero adheres to codes of honor and is fearless in defending his own; Bonó describes him as enjoying the rural music and dance parties then known as fandangos. The montero is analogous to the Puerto Rican jíbaro, also a rustic subsistence farmer from the mountains and aficionado of Hispanic string band dance music, and a symbol of the Puerto Rican nation. In Cuba, the guajiro was a similar figure, a usually white peasant who played Hispanic string band music. This character was used as a stock figure in Cuban popular theater as early as the first half of the nineteenth century, and it was later absorbed into bufos, comic plays (Thomas 2009, 13–­15). Unlike in these neighboring islands, however, the Dominican montero did not survive as a masculine archetype. In the early twentieth century, the montero gave way to the belligerent, ignorant yet often ingenious peasant—­ generically called Concho Primo (Fig. 2.1)—­as a result of the assassinations, struggles, and state-­level financial problems of the early twentieth century.

F i g u r e 2 . 1 . Illustration of Concho Primo by Bienvenido Gimbernard, 1919. Image in the public domain (WikiCommons).

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Concho Primo is not a real name, but a joke, apparently a combination of the faux-­swear word concho, used in place of the naughtier coño, with primo (cousin), a term of familiarity like the Cuban compay that gives this type his homey flair (Calvo 2011). As a masculine archetype, the Concho Primo was a kind of Dominican Uncle Sam created and spread by cartoonist Bienvenido Gimbernard, who depicted him in a 1919 magazine caricature as a hat-­ and sandal-­wearing, pipe-­smoking campesino insolently leaning against a wooden chair with an accordion on his knee (see Fig. 2.1; see Rodríguez Demorizi 1972). Gimbernard’s son explained that the name and the character were based on a real person who then hung out in Santo Domingo’s Parque Colón, beginning all of his many stories with the words “Concho, primo” (Gimbernard 2009, 141; Damn, cousin). While the Concho Primo does not survive as a model of masculinity today, his name continues to stand for the historical period; for a kind of Dominican Robin Hood; or for old-­school, backwoods, caudillo-­centered politics in general (Calvo 2011); sometimes, it is even used to refer to the single-­row button accordion of early merengue típico. Various merengues from the early twentieth century describe Concho Primo-­like characters, including “La Batuta” (see Chaljub 2002, 101) and “Desiderio Arias.” Contemp orary Masculinities A more contemporary version of the independent but family-­minded montero is the hombre serio, which De Moya describes as a hegemonic heterosexual masculinity (2004, 83). In traditional rural society, a man’s image depended on obtaining a reputation as “serio” or serious, a term that refers to a person who is hard-­working, responsible, morally upstanding, and takes care of his or her family, rather than someone lacking a sense of humor (an hombre serio can, in fact, be funny). A man might demonstrate his seriedad by showing his own humility through acts of respect to other honorable men, thereby earning confianza or trust; he also had to gain honor through his conquest of women, mastery of dominos or cockfighting, or other kinds of rivalries (see Simonson 1994, 126–­34). A particularly successful and virile hombre serio might be termed an hombre gallo or gallo de hombre, a cock of a man (136–­37). This role seems the one most responsible for the Dominican Republic’s reputation for machismo, and it is quite similar to Hispanocentric masculinities found around Latin America. Historically, numerous lyrics to traditional merengues have extolled the hombre gallo way of life, which not coincidentally is connected to cockfighting; examples include “El papujito” (The Bearded Rooster) and “El gallo floriao” (The Black and White Rooster).

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A version of the hombre gallo found in Dominican youth culture today is the bacano; known for style in attire and dancing as well as a high economic standing, bacanos can often be found in nightclubs playing the latest urban styles. Another kind of hombre serio is more prevalent in the merengue típico world, however: the viejete, a humorous term applied to male fans of merengue típico of any age who prefer old-­fashioned music (hence the etymological link to viejo, old). Viejetes are also termed seguidores (followers) and merengueros, this last a word more often applied to those who enjoy merengue than to those who make it. Viejetes are famous figures in their own right, known by name across the típico world; they dress in an elegant Caribbean style and engage in the conspicuous consumption of expensive bottles of liquor when attending típico shows in ranchos. As a group, viejetes exert enormous influence on merengue típico through their continuing demand for the core traditional repertoire. Viejetas or female fans also exist, but are a very small minority of traditional típico fans. Although these various masculinities are all available to Dominicans today, another masculinity dominates contemporary típico performance —­as indeed it does all genres of “urban” Dominican music, in which category I include modern típico. It is that of the tíguere, a tough guy or a hustler, the king of the streets, and thus a figure widely admired among youth and lower classes but disdained by elites (see Collado 2002, 15). The tíguere is also a sort of trickster, adept at wordplay, colorful slang, and doublespeak, sartorially resplendent and reputedly successful with women. De Moya classifies tígueres as either a dominant form of heterosexual masculinity or a “survivor” type of subordinate heterosexual masculinity (86; see his rather complex full typology in Table 2.1). The tíguere has particular spatial, temporal, social, and ethnic connotations. Spatially, the hombre serio was located either at home or at work, and ideally used the space in between only for temporary travel. But dominicanos today are stuck in between, and they must inhabit the liminal, dangerous space of la calle (the street)—­the domain of the tíguere. Also, tigueraje was and is an essentially urban phenomenon, in fact the first unique social type to evolve in Dominican cities (Collado 2002, 23, 60). Temporally, the tíguere subculture first arose in the barrios adjacent to the port in the capital city during the late 1920s (Collado 2002, 30) and gained national ascendancy after the fall of Trujillo, as changes in modes of production and economic decline made it impossible for most Dominican men to fulfill the economic obligations of seriedad. In racial terms, tigueraje is more often associated with dark-­skinned men, and in economic terms, with those from the rougher urban barrios (see Collado 2002, 112). So while many better-­off Dominicans,

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T a b l e 2 . 1 . Antonio De Moya’s Typology of Dominican Masculinities (paraphrased) I. Hegemonic masculinities A. In household culture: hombre serio Related terms: hombre de palabra, hombre de pelo en pecho, padre de familia, señor don, hombre público, político, tutumpote, burgués, cacique, ejecutivo, empresario B. In street culture: tíguere Related terms: macho probao, verraco, barraco, pato macho, machazo, macharrán, bragao, machomén, machómetro, güebú, toro, bilíguer, bichán, líder, jefe, duro, comando, mayimbe, caballo, bacano, pachá, matatán C. Among Haitian migrants: papá bocó, lugarú, comegente II. Subordinate masculinities A. Hombres incompletos (incomplete men)—­e.g., single or childless men B. Hombres virtuales (virtual men)—­including hombre mamita and pariguayo, as well as cuckolds, unimportant and weak men C. Hombres sospechosos (suspicious men)—­including delicate or attractive men, dependent men, and gigolos D. Survivors or losers, the lowest category—­including tíguere-­tíguere, tíguere bimbín E. Subordinate bisexual masculinities—­including those suspected of being homosexual and male sex workers like sanky-­panky III. Marginal masculinities A. Out homosexuals B. Men raised as or behaving as women, including transvestites IV. Residual masculinities (virilized women)

particularly those with a more Hispanophilic orientation, would aspire to seriedad, others do not. Notably, in everyday Dominican speech the word manso is often used in place of serio. Manso means timid, docile, or calm, and particularly refers to a castrated horse or bull. Here, the difference between the hombre serio/manso and the fierce tíguere becomes particularly clear in terms of attitudes, comportment, and orientation, as well as class and racial background. Views of tígueres and hombres serios thus are equally varied, changing according to observers’ own race, class, and political sympathies. While the terminology of tigueraje certainly developed in urban contexts, rural predecessors did exist and can be noted in old típico tunes like “Le voy a dar una pela, mamá” (today known as “Arturo Almonte”) or “Un ser que me persigue,” a décima apparently borrowed from Puerto Rican jíbaro music into the típico repertoire. In both songs, male narrators brag about their skill in fighting and even boast of abusing insubordinate women. The troubling depiction of violence against women is part of a tradition of boastful competition poetry called poesía matonesca, something like “bully poetry,” that has its origins in Andalusia and in which Dominican women also have participated. For example, a décima improvised by Bartola Colón, born in 1928, declares

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F i g u r e 2 . 2 . Julián Ramírez, El Viejo Tíguere. Business card of Julián Ramírez, collection of author.

“I won’t trouble myself / over a man who goes about in the street / since I am no doll / if he’s going to leave, let him leave” (my translation from Payano 2003, 64).3 Concho Primo is another kind of proto-­tíguere. And in hindsight, scholars now view the dictator Rafael Trujillo as the ultimate tíguere, since he was himself a lower-­class underdog who ascended socially through sheer impudence and who also displayed a combination of style, violence, conspicuous consumption, and overt (hetero)sexuality (see Derby 1116). After Trujillo’s assassination, tigueraje spread and grew as Dominican cities rapidly urbanized and migrants emulated the tígueres’ lifeways as adaptations to their new environment (Collado 2002, 144–­45). Yet because this masculinity draws on notions of machismo with long roots in Dominican history, it should be viewed more as a transformation than a rupture with earlier lifeways. And while seriedad and tigueraje are valued differently in different levels of society, significant areas of overlap join the two. Indeed, even tígueres in the 1950s listened to perico ripiao (127–­28, 136); today they listen to merengue típico moderno (or con mambo), as well as reggaetón, merengue de calle, and other urban styles. And merengue típico lyrics seem to document the gradual shift from seriedad to tigueraje as dominant modes of Dominican masculinity, as beginning in the 1970s lyrics extolling their hard-­partying lives, like “El tiguerito” by Facundo Peña, and expressing conflicting attitudes toward women, like in “La chiflera” or “La parrandera” (both about cheating women), began to dominate—­much as in bachata (see Pacini Hernández 1995, 159, 166). Some típico musicians even explicitly promote themselves as such, as does Julián Ramírez, “El viejo tíguere” (see Fig. 2.2). Other recent lyrics, like “El pariguayo”

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by La Kerubanda, similarly praise tígueres by poking fun at their opposite, the unfortunate fool or pariguayo4 who succumbs to a tíguere’s deceptions, is clumsy, unstylish, and unsuccessful with women. Competing Masculinities Admiration and approval for the tíguere have been on the rise since the 1960s. While older people particularly may still see the term as an insult, by the 1990s most young people understood the tíguere as someone to be respected. It is no accident that the rise of the tíguere coincides with the exponential growth in emigration that followed Trujillo’s assassination in 1961 and the attendant political and economic turmoil. As I have explained in detail elsewhere (Hutchinson 2006), anxiety about the “cultural remittances” of Dominicans living abroad and their influence on or eradication of traditional Dominican culture led to increasing suspicion and condemnation of New York-­based Dominicans and retornados, return migrants who moved back to the island with money but little social capital to build on. While politics and economics were both factors in the emergence of tigueraje, continued economic hardships are the most likely cause for the tíguere’s ongoing dominance in la calle today. In 2011, típico group Banda Real recorded a song titled “Serio se murió.” While it would be going too far to say that serio is dead (as the title loosely contends), the hombre serio is certainly in decline as a model masculine type. And as modes of masculinity shifted from serio to tíguere, so did musical styles change as merengue con mambo or merengue de calle became dominant in both merengue típico and pop merengue. The association of these musics with transnationalism marks them as suspicious for elite Dominicans, who have long viewed the migrants they term “Dominican Yorks” with disdain, stereotyping them as ostentatious, nouveau-­riche cadenuses (wearers of gold chains or cadenas). While dominicano ausente (absent Dominican) has been proposed as an ostensibly respectable alternative, the term contributes to silencing the voices of those not physically present on the island (and is often associated with the repressive Balaguer era); in practice these “absentees” are no more welcome to intervene in island affairs than are the domninicanyorks and cadenuses (sing. cadenú). Perhaps most suspicious of all are the retornados, return migrants, who are often supposed to have been thrown out of the US for criminal activity. Even when not thought criminal, return migrants are fiercely repudiated by local elites who presumably view them and their relative wealth as threatening local power structures. Stereotypes of cadenuses are in a way ultimate expressions of tigueraje with their gold jewelry, flashy clothes, and reputation for both violence and extravagant

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partying. Since at least the 1970s, public discourse about the influence of foreign music in the Dominican Republic has often portrayed it as an “invasion” or cultural conquest perpetrated by Dominicanyorks with insufficient cultural knowledge and/or poor taste, and the changing sound of merengue is frequently seen as a dire commentary on the loss of Dominican values. Such critiques stem not simply from musical sound, but also from the rise of transnational tigueraje, and are bound up in complex ways with the broader effects of capitalism and neoliberalism on Dominican people. While tigueraje is more broadly accepted today, this very acceptance raises hackles among moralists, and their critiques often center on questions of labor. For example, a Dominican Christian commentator writes, “[A tíguere] gets into all kinds of business except for licit ones. . . . The tíguere’s thing is betrayal and surprise ornamented with tricks and stories. . . . [He is] a violent and bloody person, which is what a tiger is in actual nature.” The message he finds in tíguere-­oriented lyrics is, “Don’t be honest, don’t study, don’t accumulate knowledge, don’t earn money by working” (Nin 2010; this and all translations mine). While Nin may be right in his critique, he fails to inquire after the causes of the motives and messages he criticizes. In fact, a discussion of the causes of emigration, consumerism, and tigueraje is in general missing from the widespread critiques of Dominican Yorks and the cultural and musical changes with which they are associated. Based on CIA World Factbook figures, IndexMundi ranks the Dominican Republic twenty-­sixth in the world for youth unemployment, with 29.4 percent unemployed (IndexMundi 2014; no figures given for underemployment, which is also high). These statistics are unlikely to change no matter how many of the unemployed have attended school, and too much honesty only invites others to take advantage. Tígueres have learned that the system they live in does not always reward those who study, work at traditional jobs, and are generally honest—­particularly as the country has embraced export-­oriented policies and economic changes that have “heightened precariousness and informalization” (Itzigsohn 1997, 47) while creating a huge gap between the rich and the rest of society (Inter-­American Development Bank 1999, 15; see also Schmidt 2000). The rise of transnational tíguere culture must therefore be understood as part of a broader socioeconomic context, in particular, the spread of neoliberalism and its effects on developing countries. It is surely no coincidence that similarly admired and feared masculine types have arisen in other places undergoing similarly fraught economic and social transitions. Indeed, comparable attitudes toward bodily labor have been noted around the Black Atlantic. Gilroy explains that these attitudes are important because, for blacks in the West, “Social self-­creation through

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labour is not the centre-­piece of emancipatory hopes. For the descendants of slaves, work signifies only servitude, misery, and subordination. Artistic expression, expanded beyond recognition from the grudging gifts offered by the masters as a token substitute for freedom from bondage, therefore becomes the means towards both individual self-­fashioning and communal liberation” (1993, 40). Tígueres similarly resist capitalism’s inequalities by focusing their attention and value system on the aesthetic concerns of music, dance, and bodily adornment, rather than on labor. And the work they do choose, anthropologist Stephen Gregory found, often places them “beyond the pale of respectability and, often, the law” (2006, 42). Gregory observed that in the southern resort town of Boca Chica, tígueres held the disreputable job of fisgón or pitchman for beachfront restaurants, an activity they characterized as “picando” (pecking) rather than “trabajando” (working)—­taking advantage of tourist money rather than engaging in wage labor. Notably, típico musicians often refer to playing gigs as picando, and this activity is even described in song lyrics like the 1950s-­era “El picoteao” (still popular today). Gregory argues that the contrast between the two terms points out class antagonisms related to structures of labor and elite definitions of what productive labor is and who does it (44). Significantly, one fisgón contrasted his work with his only other opportunity, construction or cane cutting, which he characterized as working “like a black slave” (45). While it is easy to condemn tígueres, then, those who do so would do well to ask themselves which option they themselves would choose—­self-­employment in somewhat disreputable part-­time jobs, or near servitude in the cane fields. Tígueres’ devotion to bodily pleasure (dancing, sex) and improvement (bodybuilding, fashion) is significant for merengue típico because, among other things, it has contributed to an increased focus on dance and movement, and may influence the types of dance and movement in which tígueres and/or merengueros engage (explored further in Chapters 6 and 7). Their fondness for wordplay and double entendres—­ particularly in merengue lyrics—­is another way of subverting authority, one that resembles strategies found elsewhere in the Black Atlantic. For instance, Puerto Rican jaibería is a strategy of “nonconfrontation and evasion” named after the sideways-­moving crab, jaiba, which allows one to take over dominant discourse for one’s own purposes—­for instance, by saying “we’ll see” rather than “no.” I frequently experienced this practice during my Dominican fieldwork as well. While earlier writers saw this as a negative, weak trait, one can also see jaibería’s ambiguity as a critique and subversion of colonialism, much like tigueraje (Grosfoguel, Negron-­Muntaner, and Georas 1997, 31).

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The importance of the tíguere in the current Dominican economic system, Simonson stresses, is that it has emerged as a proletarian response to the hegemonic emphasis on seriedad in the absence of work opportunities. The tíguere is admired because he is believed to have foiled the system. So while subproletarian Dominican men prefer strategies that enable them to fulfill both tíguere and hombre serio roles, when a choice must be made they will normally choose to be tígueres simply because this role “extends an alternative expression of self-­worth in the face of a compromised ability to fulfill the principles of seriedad” (Simonson 1994, 177). Simonson’s statement hints at what I am arguing, which is that a single individual can perform both roles at different points in life, and that the two roles have significant points of contact. The tíguere evolved from the hombre serio, so the tíguere provides one viable model for resisting the capitalist system by opting out. The fact that he has arisen or been adapted from more traditional roles and that he is widely found in neotraditional merengue típico music demonstrates that some Dominicans see Dominican tradition as a means or source of resistance. As Paul Gilroy writes, “invocation of tradition may itself be a distinct, though covert, response to the destabilising flux of the post-­contemporary world” (1993, 101). More specifically, it can also be a response to the encroachment of capitalism on lifeways that were built with and in other economic systems. While the feudalistic pre-­1970s Dominican Republic was far from an equal society, music and gender performances of that time do provide Cibaeños the most immediate antidote and accessible opposition to the current industrialized, capitalist system. Some merengues speak quite cogently of the need to enact seriedad as well as the difficulty of attaining hombre serio status, and these lyrics therefore reflect the economic restructuring that led to the widespread adoption of the tíguere role. For instance, in the canonical merengue “El sentenciado,” possibly written by Domingo Reynoso (according to Rafaelito Román, 2011) the first verse explains that the protagonist was fined for being with a prostitute, and the last refers to lost love. But the second states: A mi persona la conceptúan vagabunda Gente que no conoce mi criterio Trabajando humildemente vivo En el mundo con carácter de persona seria

Some people think I am a bum People who don’t know my ways I live, humbly working In the world, with the character of a serious person

The singer seems to be saying that, while he attempts to live by codes of respeto, it is difficult to gain that respect from others when economic circumstances are not favorable. Seriedad is impossible to attain or maintain without a minimum level of economic independence, and that is simply not

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achievable for many Dominicans today. “El sentenciado” remains one of the songs young men most request at típico shows, which is partly because of the virtuosity required to play it but which also suggests that the lyrics continue to resonate with contemporary life. It is possible for a man to act the tíguere but to aspire to seriedad, as the narrative voice of this song appears to do; it is also possible for the same man to enact roles in different contexts or at different life stages. Performing Masculinities Various forms of masculinity can be observed in contemporary musical performance, through musicians’ sonic choices as well as their bodily behaviors. The hombre serio or manso survives in Dominican musical performance, for instance in Juan Luis Guerra, a light-­skinned, upper-­class, educated Dominican celebrated for his experiments in musical fusion, his Christian faith, and his international success. On stage, his gestures are typically understated: grasping the microphone, clapping his hands to the beat, raising them up or pointing outward to incite audience response. His movements are similarly low-­key: Guerra mainly stays in one place even on a big stage, occasionally stepping back from the mic to do some basic merengue steps or to take his guitar for a solo. Between numbers, he might remove the mic from its stand and walk back and forth along the front of the stage to enter a conversational mode. Rafaelito Román, my teacher and the neotraditional performer who might be considered the keeper of típico’s oral history, similarly remains largely stationary on the stage. Neither performer displays pelvic movements, provocative gestures, or showy spins or footwork, although one would expect to see all these with other popular performers, like Johnny Ventura, Krisspy, Tulile, or Shino Aguakate (who will be discussed in future chapters). In other words, the contrast between hombres serios like Guerra and Román and those who perform tigueraje is notable and obvious to fans. Similarly, some fans see accordionist El Prodigio as a bacano, the modernized, younger, and hipper version of the hombre serio. As we will see in Chapter 5, El Prodigio combines extreme virtuosity with a well-­heeled look denoting economic success and respectability, an impression reinforced by his upwardly mobile use of “schooled” musical forms like jazz and his narrative emphasis on his own educational level, higher than that of most other típico musicians, which included a stint at New York’s Harlem School of Music. His quiet, low-­key nature manifests itself onstage in a lack of dramatic movements and gestures and a neutral expression, a half smile usually on his face as he stands in place with his accordion. In live performance, he sometimes employs

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a group of backup singers to add the showmanship and tigueraje younger fans have come to expect, while freeing him of the obligation to perform it. Tigueraje5 crosses the lines between genres and can be expressed equally well in merengue, bachata, or reggaetón, three of the most popular musical styles in the DR today. Tígueres in típico include Tatico Henríquez, the subject of Chapter 3, Krisspy (Chapter 6), and Shino (Chapter 5); outside of típico, well-­known tígueres include Mala Fe and Tulile, analyzed in Chapter 6, as well as Omega and Johnny Ventura. In each of these cases, performing tigueraje on stage includes the use of sometimes outlandish humor and costumes, dramatic gestures, and frequently flashy dance movements. But the musical and bodily performance of merengue de calle veers toward hypermasculinity, drawing heavily from the styles and gestures of another hypermasculine Black Atlantic genre, hip-­hop. Off stage, audience members also engage in the performance of tigueraje at merengue de calle shows, where the dancing often strongly resembles other hypersexualized dance styles like reggaetón. The bodily performance of tigueraje in merengue de calle is further explored in Chapter 5. Female Roles Since Dominican women’s roles have changed just as dramatically as men’s since the 1960s, it will not be surprising to note that new modes of femininity have emerged in the same period. Like the Dominican masculinities we have examined, these too have long histories in traditional Dominican culture. Beyond offering a means of resisting capitalist demands on the body, these new femininities offer new role models for young women looking to make their way in the world. A history of Dominican femininities will look different from that of Dominican masculinities for two main reasons. First, as noted, women were not conceptualized as central to the nation-­building project, and thus their roles were not as clearly elaborated or publicly discussed as were the male montero or Concho Primo figures. Second, women have experienced different constraints on their performances of gender that are due to their historically subordinate status in a patriarchal society. For instance, Lewis (2002, 522–­23) explains that public harassment, in the form of whistling, name-­calling, and ogling like what I described at the beginning of the chapter, is a “widespread public ritual” in the Caribbean. “That women have to adjust their ways of doing things in public is some indication of how the domain of the public sphere is highly masculinized,” he states. Of course, many women also participate in and condone the activity, but their differing responses do not negate the fact of harassment. For these reasons—­women’s historical omission from

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national discourse and societal constraints on women’s behaviors—­while a number of different femininities do exist in the Dominican Republic, the public discourse about them is much less developed than that about masculinities. To give just one easy example, a Google Books search for “tíguere and dominicano” returns 5,290 results; a similar search for “tíguera and dominicana” returns six, two of which I wrote. Tígueras certainly exist and are widely discussed in popular speech (so that a regular Google search for the same two female terms gives 226,000 results)—­just not by historians, folklorists, anthropologists, or other academics. Women’s roles still are no public affair, especially when we are dealing with those roles outside of what is generally accepted by the Hispanic elite. Historical Femininities Just as the dominant mode of “respectable” masculinity has long been the hombre seria, so have many women aspired to be mujeres serias by demonstrating their capacity for self-­sacrifice and hard work (see Simonson 1994, 200–­206); we could consider this the hegemonic heterosexual femininity. But while ideals may have dictated that such women be subservient and docile, the real situation has always been more complicated, with many rural women participating in agricultural and other kinds of work outside the home, even though such work may not be verbally acknowledged (see Finlay 1989, 80; Simonson 1994, 207–­8). In addition, ideals of feminine behavior may change substantially at different points in life. For instance, prepubescent girls must tend to numerous chores and oversee younger siblings, but as señoritas or adolescents they should not go out in the streets unaccompanied, since this would invite attention from tígueres (Simonson 1994, 204–­6). Married women, señoras, gain some autonomy, and much more when they become doñas, older women past childbearing years who may once again spend time and even work in the streets (222). In some sense, doñas are no longer subject to the demands of maintaining the seria role. Some aspects of this traditional progression survive, although young urban women also have the option of experimenting with tigueraje before they decide whether to pursue seriedad. As with the hombre serio, many Dominicans use the term mansa (calm, timid, or docile) instead of seria to describe this role, emphasizing the contrast between this femininity and the fierce tíguera or tigress. While feminine counterparts to the early masculinities I have discussed simply do not exist—­there is no montera except by association, and definitely no Concha Prima—­we might take Salomé Ureña as a model of the ideal nineteenth-­century Dominican mujer seria. Poet, pedagogue, wife of

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politician Francisco Henríquez y Carvajal, mother of Francisco, Max, Pedro, and Camila Henríquez Ureña (all later noted as writers, poets, or philosophers themselves), Salomé exemplifies the ideals of being a clever, hardworking, respectable wife and mother, devoted to her family but also generous in contributing to her community and country. During the twentieth century, mujeres serias took on more active public roles: for instance, the three Mirabal sisters—­Patria, Minerva, and María Teresa—­helped lead the 14 de Junio resistance movement against Trujillo and were incarcerated, tortured, and finally killed. Today they are national heroes, and their elegant former home near Salcedo is a museum.6 Lower-­class women’s activities are less well documented, but one example of a poorer mujer seria could be Mamá Tingó, Florinda Muñoz Soriano (1921–­1974), a woman often described as hardworking and dedicated to her family, but who also worked to defend peasants’ land rights until her murder in 1974 (see Cartagena [2011?]). These examples show that mujeres serias may gain respect by acting in a docile manner, but they may also do it by fighting for that respect; in addition, qualities of the mujer seria can be found in women of different social classes. Women were never restricted to this one role, however; even early in the twentieth century atrevida was a term—­either in praise or in censure—­for a daring woman. One such woman was Flor de Oro Trujillo, the dictator’s “bad girl” daughter known for her insolence, rebelliousness, and numerous lovers, including her sometime husband, the famous playboy/tíguere Porfirio Rubirosa (see Derby 2000, 1128). At age twenty-­six, following the death of her third husband, Flor was named cultural attaché to the United States and became a favorite of the society pages (1130). Taking on traditionally masculine jobs, like that of the diplomat, and traditionally masculine traits, like boldness and sexual adventurousness, Flor demonstrates that the modern tíguera has a clear historical precursor in the atrevida. In the lower classes, as well, traces of such brash women can be found in típico lyrics and folk poetry where female narrators claim agency or male ones express both admiration and condemnation for nonsubservient women. Contemp orary Femininities Women’s lives transformed just as men’s did after Trujillo’s assassination in 1961. Women who moved to urban areas in some ways found greater independence, particularly as they entered the workforce in large numbers. Economic self-­sufficiency and the lower-­class tendency to engage in consensual unions rather than state-­sanctioned marriages gave women more life options (Pacini Hernández 1995, 157); this was even more true in diaspora, and in fact

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in Dominican families it is often the women who lead the way by emigrating first (López 2004, 180). While men continue to imagine women’s roles as ideally subservient, women more often see themselves as assertive leaders; and, in fact, this patriarchal imagining of gender relations may be an urban, elitist stereotyping of peasants and migrants rather than the main way either rural, underclass, or transmigrant men or women see their own roles (see, e.g., Gregory 2006, 116–­21). Yet today, women’s opportunities do vary widely according to factors like class, age, and familial relations. While lower-­class women may be free from many gender-­related limitations out of the sheer necessity for additional income, the pressure upper-­class families exert on women to maintain decorum and propriety at all times serves to constrain the options of otherwise privileged women. Novelist/poet Julia Álvarez has described this kind of “entrapment” as “the golden handcuffs” (1998, 156). Thus, it is in the margins, the realm of típico, that women are best able to make their way into male-­dominated or otherwise taboo professions. Perhaps then it is no surprise that tigueraje is on the rise among urban women, as well, and is a role frequently performed by female típico musicians. The tíguera role became widespread only around the turn of the twenty-­first century: Simonson found “no female counterpart” to the tíguere during his early 1990s field research, even though he noted that some “assertive divorcees” were occasionally termed tíguera or leona (1994, 221; lioness). The eventual emergence of a tíguera identity occurred as a result of accelerating rural-­to-­urban and transnational migration and the worsening economic situation that compelled many women to work, taking them out of the home and into the streets; the performance of this role was perfected and spread at least in part by women in típico. Yet women continue to search for and often find ways to be both seria and tíguera, much as the hombre serio and the tíguere continue to coexist and at times overlap. In fact, just as the tíguere depends on the earlier model of the hombre gallo, the tíguera likewise draws upon earlier models like the atrevida—­and, indeed, Dominican women have long been singled out for their strength; John Bartlow Martin, then the US ambassador to the Dominican Republic, saw them as the stronger sex already in 1966 (Tancer 1973, 223), before urbanization, migration, or Northern feminism could have had much effect on gender roles. Merengue típico lyrics even document women behaving like aggressive tígueres as far back as the 1940s, for instance in “La pobre Adela,” a traditional merengue telling of a knife fight between two Puerto Plata women. Such lyrics reinforce the class ramifications of feminine tigueraje, since while many upper-­class Dominican women are brought up to be demure, many among the lower classes learn to fight for and defend what is theirs. One merengue explains the difference between

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women of different classes in this way: “la mujer del hombre pobre / no se puede poner guantes,” the wife of a poor man cannot wear gloves (cited in Chaljub Mejía 2002, 142). In other words, she cannot afford to be delicate, or try to protect herself from the outside world. The gloves are off, and she must be ready to do what is necessary, even to fight if need be. There is even a special kind of tigueraje for older women, which underscores how constructions and ideals of femininity vary by life stage. The vieja que baila, old woman who dances, is a hard-­partying figure that has appeared in típico lyrics for many decades. It is not insignificant that Tatico jokingly baptized Fefita “La Vieja Fefa” when she was just a girl: it is likely he recognized the characteristics of a proto-­tíguera in the young accordionist, and, indeed, she continues to perform this role to the present (see Chapter 4). Many in the típico world accept the presence of tígueras, both on stage and in the audience. But just as male tigueraje raises hackles among elite Dominicans, so do many view the tíguera through a critical lens—­although criticism of feminine tigueraje takes a somewhat different form. An example can be found in the online, user-­edited Diccionario libre (diccionariolibre. com). While the masculine noun tíguere is defined mostly in positive terms as a “guy” who is “astute or able,” “extraordinary and surprising,” and has “incalculable experience,” the feminine versions are judged negatively: a “tiguerita” is “spoiled” while a “tiguerona” is “an easy woman.” Tígueras in típico challenge these double standards by performing assertive lyrics or even by adding their own verses to misogynistic merengues. For instance, the 1970s merengue “La chiflera” by Arístides Ramírez is an anthem for tígueres everywhere, a favorite audience request especially among young men in New York. While the original lyric complains about women who cheat on their men, several female accordionists have altered it to express the views of a tíguera. For instance, at age fourteen accordionist Lidia de la Rosa decided to alternate the preexisting verses in a male voice with those of her own composition, which she sings. The man begins, El hombre que no se casa No sabe de cosa buena Tiene que saber buscarla Pa’ que no salga chiflera.

The man who doesn’t marry Doesn’t know about good things. He has to know how to find one That won’t turn out to be a slut.

Lidia responds, Dicen que somos chiflera Si eso está, Dios lo castiga Porque si el hombre se divierta La mujer también vacila.

They say we’re sluts If that’s so, God will punish Because if the man has fun The woman will also party.

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The man then sings, Si el marido es cumplidor Le busca las tres caliente Y la chiflera en las calles Dando reco a su emergente

If the husband is reliable He gives her three hot meals And the slut in the streets Messes around with her man of the moment.

To that Lidia says, Toda mujer necesita Un marido cumplidor Pero si es un sinvergüenza Ella busca otro mejor.

Every woman needs a husband who takes care of things but if he is no good she’ll look for a better one.

Women often sing along with this text in performance, Lidia reports (Merritt 2003). In Chapter 4 we will see how Fefita la Grande uses her bodily movements and gestures as another means of commenting on the same musical text. Performing Femininities As was the case for masculinities, each of these femininities has its place on the Dominican musical stage. Casandra Damirón, a vocal diva of the Trujillo era known for her staging of folk musics, is an example of the mujer seria. A television documentary clip on Damirón (Selman 2012) describes her and her composer husband, Luis Rivera, as “emblems of quality, respect, and dignity” who brought “dignified elegance” to the world of music and dance, clearly emphasizing these musicians’ class status and successful performance of seriedad. Her attempts to “raise the level” of folk music and of dances like merengue, mangulina, and carabiné for Trujillo’s ostentatious 1955 Feria de la Paz (Peace Fair) earned her the approval of the dictator himself. In television broadcasts, her ball gowns, big-­band-­style accompaniment, and sedate dance moves all lend her the moral authority of the mujer seria (see Archivo Fílmico Dominicano 2012). A more contemporary example would be orquesta singer Milly Quezada, who exudes propriety both in her televised performances and in her offstage talk, where she often mentions her Christian faith and her attachment to her three sons and wider family (e.g., Quezada 2006, 429, 432). Austerlitz (1997, 117) reports that Quezada told him that she did not intend to change or comment on Dominican gender roles with her music, and indeed her generally modest attire, gestures, and movements uphold the status quo more than they contest it. In merengue típico today, one woman who performs the mujer seria is Mery Hernández (La India Canela; Fig. 2.3). Her modest bodily

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F i g u r e 2 . 3 . La India Canela (left) works out a part with saxophonist Quiquito in the recording studio, Santiago, Dominican Republic, 2007. Photo by author.

performance resembles the others just described, and her religious faith as a cristiana (meaning Protestant in the Dominican context) is often emphasized (e.g., India Canela 2006, 436). While she does play the explicit and misogynistic songs occasionally found in traditional típico, she employs female and male backup singers to free herself of the obligation of voicing objectionable lyrics (M. Hernández 2004). It is no surprise that, of the many típico performers available, she is one who Santiago’s elite has often employed in their own parties, weddings, and other private events. Tígueras are well represented among musical performers today. In merengue típico, they include Fefita la Grande and María Díaz; in orquesta, Juliana O’Neal (see Chapter 4). Tígueras are known for their revealing clothing, sharp tongues, and suggestive dance movements. Their self-­presentation, both in spoken and sung discourse, also differs from that of mujeres serias or mansas. For instance, La India Canela’s earliest hit, “Apriétame así” (Squeeze me like that), celebrates the pleasure of close dancing with a man, but in the context of what the singer as mujer seria hopes is a monogamous relationship: Yo quiero que esté junto a mi casita Para estar segura que es mío solito.

I want him to be with me in my house to be sure that he is mine alone.

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Fefita la Grande, on the other hand, seems less concerned with what her partner is up to than in what mischief she might get up to, herself. Her early hit “Si quiere venir que venga” (If he wants to come, let him come) makes it clear that it means little whether the singer has one man or another. It also shows that as a tíguera she is in full command of her body and her sexuality, as in this verse, where “love” refers to the physical act: Yo les digo a las mujeres Y es la pura verdad Que no hay otra cosa más agradable Que un amor de madruga’.

I tell all women And it’s the pure truth That there is nothing nicer Than early-­morning love.

Or in another of Fefita’s lyrics, “Más vale un viejo caliente / que un joven desanimao” (better a “hot” old man / than a lifeless young one). Such works clearly express feminine tigueraje by claiming feminine agency and freedom of choice regarding sexual acts, rejecting double standards. Vocal production is another way in which women perform and indeed create either seria/mansa or tíguera roles. While típico women more often perform the tíguera, women in bachata have typically portrayed more docile, timid women. The vocal style of women in pop bachata since the 1990s has portrayed a virginal, prepubescent girl that is no threat to the social order (see, e.g., performances by Aventura or Monchy y Alexandra); in contrast, tipico’s female accordionists’ more forceful, rougher, and somewhat deeper voices depict a grown woman in control of her sexual life. While one of the earliest bachateras, 1960s singer Mélida Rodríguez (see Pacini Hernández 1995, 179–­81), did perform a version of the tíguera, there has since been little space for tígueras in bachata, a genre in which singers prefer to tell misogynistic tales of treacherous women. But típico musicians more often joke around and cement social bonds by singing to their friends and patrons; in this world, women are welcome as long as they are up for having a good time. The fact that típico women sing loudly and unwaveringly shows that they are taking on a strong role—­and in doing so they are insisting, quite literally, that women must have a voice in the broader society. That típico women choose to emulate these particular vocal qualities, also popularized by male counterparts like Tatico, and to sing in the same range as their male colleagues, shows that they are performing some aspects of the tíguere role and thus of Dominican masculinity. It is worth noting, however, that women are not restricted to one or the other role. Some move from tigueraje to respectability over the course of their careers, as have típico accordionist Raquel Arias (discussed further in Chapter 5) and orquesta singer Miriam Cruz. Others balance traditional femininity

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with the traditionally masculine traits of tigueraje throughout their life. In performing both tíguera and seria roles, they can serve as a model for all of us who struggle with balance, for instance between home and work, or our public and private roles. So while tíguere and hombre serio roles are more often performed by two different people, tígueras frequently combine both in one body and thus do what the tíguere often cannot. In their performance of gender, they integrate the rural and the urban, the traditional and the modern, the individual and the community. I believe the fact that both tigueraje and female instrumentalists are more prevalent in merengue típico than in competing genres, particularly merengue de orquesta, is significant. In spite of the occasional claim that it was in orquesta merengue that Dominican women first entered the music scene (e.g., Lipsitz 2000, 340–­41), women were actually not only singing but also playing instruments professionally in típico since long before the female orquesta singers of the 1980s. As noted, Fefita began playing publicly in the late 1950s, predating most orquesta singers’ appearance by at least two decades. But lyrics of merengue típico songs actually document female participation in the genre, at least semipublicly, since the early twentieth century. One famous example, which Chaljub Mejía (2002, 317) dates to 1921 by virtue of the measles epidemic mentioned in the lyrics, states: Monguita Peralta La de Dajabón Pasó la viruela Tocando acordeón

Monguita Peralta The one from Dajabón Spent the measles epidemic Playing accordion.

In addition, folklorist Ralph S. Boggs was given a photograph of a trio of children with a girl playing accordion in the mountains of the Cibao in 1944 (Garrido de Boggs [1947] [2006?], 157). In those days, women’s instrumental activities were a private affair, and, in fact, even today male típico musicians often tell me that the women in their family play instruments, too, but only for family gatherings. Thus, Fefita was not unusual so much for playing the accordion, as one might assume, but rather for doing so publicly and professionally. So while this case would appear to be significant because of its uniqueness, the lack of attention to merengue típico music in the literature has conspired to draw attention away from típico women’s musical contributions. Women have had a much greater impact on típico music than on orquesta music, both because of their numbers7 and because of the roles they play as bandleaders and composers. Noting these discrepancies during my fieldwork led me to wonder why women had apparently been more successful in merengue típico than in

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other Dominican genres—­even serving as leaders of otherwise all-­male bands, rather than being segregated off into all-­female groups (as is often the case in salsa, and as also occurred with the famous orquesta merengue group Las Chicas del Can). I found several answers to this question, some of which have already been hinted at here. First, típico seems to be an index of “home” more than other genres, partly because most típico musicians first learn to play at home from family members, partly because it is believed that típico is passed on “in the blood,” and also because the music is associated with the land, roots, and history. These factors made típico appear more suitable than other popular genres like bachata and guitar-­based merengue, which more frequently serve as indexes of the street and of bars; more practically, it is easier for girls to learn this music since the learning is done at home rather than in bars. A second important factor is its class base, since as noted expectations for rural and lower-­class women’s behavior differ markedly from those in the upper classes, where Catholicism and Hispanic patriarchal values dominate and tend to be more rigorously enforced. Precisely because, as one Dominican researcher reports, “female performers of merengue típico are a faithful representation of the rural woman, where family and cultural values differ totally from others,” they face less scrutiny when acting independently and taking on leadership roles in the manner of a tíguera (Martínez Pérez 2006, 415). Third, Fefita’s successful performance of a merengue típico tíguera over the course of many decades has made the association between female instrumentalists, típico, and tigueraje seem a natural one to many Dominican viewers. Fourth, since Caribbean women’s entry into politics and the public sphere is often interpreted as a sign and even a producer of modernity and progress (Edmondson 2003), including women in típico groups may allow típico men to symbolize their own entrance into modernity and show that they share some values with more economically developed countries—­a particularly important statement, when one considers the historical stigmatization of típico as backward. In accepting female colleagues, merengueros show their compatriots that they are more progressive and modern than the higher-­status hombres serios of the Hispanic elite. Here again, “tradition” (típico) can be more progressive than what is “modern” (orquesta). Conclusions Throughout this chapter, I have shown how particular musical genres tend to correlate with particular masculinities and femininities: in other words, as I will continue to demonstrate throughout this book, gender and genre are closely related. The rise of tigueraje is linked to urbanization, transnational

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migration, capitalism, and neoliberalism, as well as to the appearance of new musical genres similarly associated with cities and local notions of modernity: merengue con mambo or merengue típico moderno, merengue de calle, urbanized bachata, reggaetón. Older masculinities and femininities continue to exist and to be performed on stage, but more typically in other musical styles, like merengue de orquesta and neotraditional merengue típico. These connections show that musical sounds and structures are indeed closely linked to bodily performance and cultural ideas about the body, including gender. To put all this into broader perspective, it is important to note that, as a mode of masculinity used to resist capitalist hegemony, the tíguere is not unique to the Dominican Republic. Similar types of masculinity have been described in Cuba, Colombia, Brazil, and the United States, and they too are often expressed through musical performance. For instance, Cuban singer Daniel Santos became an international star not only for his voice but also for his wild ways and embodiment of the barrio hustler called camaján (Waxer 2002, 52). In the 1940s and 1950s red-­light district of Cali, Colombia, the key figure was the hustling, snappily dressed pachuco, modeled on images from Cuban, Mexican, and US films (Waxer 2002, 80). And in Brazil, the malandro, a favela hustler and antihero, has been celebrated in samba since the 1930s (Oliven 1984, 70). In the United States, the bluesman fills a similar niche: he portrays himself on stage and in song as an attractive womanizer, a good dancer, a sharp dresser, and a clever man of words. Malandros, pachucos, camajanes, and tígueres can all be seen as urban, male countercultures that have arisen primarily (though not exclusively) among people of color in marginal urban areas as a response to the socioeconomic conditions in which they find themselves and the racism and/ or classism that they frequently experience. The wide distribution of these tíguere-­like roles and their previously described relation to labor marks them as a key feature of Black Atlantic life today. As Paul Gilroy writes, “an amplified and exaggerated masculinity has become the boastful centrepiece of a culture of compensation that self-­consciously salves the misery of the disempowered and subordinated” (1993, 85). While the examples I have mentioned are specifically Black Atlantic ones, one might also be able to extend the concept of countercultural masculinities, in which appearance and street smarts provide a value system alternative to that of the capitalist labor market, far beyond that region. Yet it is important to note that seriedad and tigueraje continue to coexist in Dominican musical performance. Hombres serios provide a great deal of economic support to típico musicians and even commission homenajes or praise songs from their favorite accordionists. For them, serving as patrons of merengue típico is one way to maintain the old social order—­and

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to make sure they stay on top. The conflict between serio/manso and tíguere roles is manifested in típico through the bifurcation between merengue con mambo and neotraditional merengue derecho styles. As with Dominican masculinities, so do femininities in the Dominican Republic exhibit similarities with those found elsewhere in the Caribbean and Latin America. Yet I do think there is something unique about the tíguera and the vieja que baila, and that the availability of these femininities—­primarily but not exclusively since the 1960s—­is one reason for the number and success of Dominican female instrumentalists. These ways of performing femininity have developed outside the realm of Northern, academic feminism and can be seen as offering a significant alternative to its typically white, “First World” perspective on female empowerment. Tígueras and viejas can be surprising, audacious, and even inspirational, particularly in their performances on the típico stage, or in front of it as fans. Debates over the definitions and morality of these roles demonstrate continuing uncertainty over gender roles in the Dominican Republic and particularly about women’s performances of gender. However, the tíguera role is significant because it offers women a different way of being female, one that need not replace other ways of performing femininity, which indeed draws on earlier femininities, but one which can nonetheless be liberating. While the tíguera’s full potential has not yet been realized, then, the general acceptance of the tíguera role in merengue típico, a musical style that is symbolically powerful due to its strong ties to Dominican regional and national identity, is significant. The realm of music is clearly not the whole of social life, and it is somewhat separated from the everyday. Nonetheless, it is an important venue in which gender relations are performed and where actors can negotiate their ideas concerning gender. The separation between music performance and everyday life is far from absolute, and if the performances of musicians on stage are affected by their offstage lives and the political, social, or economic changes they experience there, so can the reverse occur. Experimentation that occurs on the musical stage can lead to broader change. Representation on that stage is equally vital: and that means that the tíguera, in her counterhegemonic femininity, is not the only significant player here. It is just as important that mujeres serias appear there, and indeed that a whole range of femininities between the two do so as well, offering a wide array of options. In this chapter I have emphasized that through típico women’s performance of the tíguera through vocal timbre, range, power, lyrics, and bodily and instrumental performance, the ostensibly conservative, traditional merengue típico (and indeed traditional culture in general) may actually be

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a progressive influence on gender roles in the current globalized economy. As one Dominican observer writes, “the most emancipatory case is that of the female merengue típico musicians, since they play accordion, are composers, arrangers, group leaders, and in most cases, producers and promoters” (Martínez Pérez 2006, 416). Stephen Gregory provides a hint as to why such might be the case. He writes of the debate over whether to build a megaport for ships near the southern town of Boca Chica. There, officials relied on neoliberal rhetoric asserting that only a free market economy and transnational capital could modernize the Dominican Republic; they placed the blame for sluggish economic growth not on dependency but on “traditional backwardness” (2006, 216–­22). One of the problems with such an argument, Gregory explains, is that it universalizes Euro-­American development experiences, attempting to apply them in a country that has never been truly industrialized to begin with; another is that it only serves to place the country even further under the thumb of lending agencies and the United States (228). Furthermore, such projects reinforce damaging gender constructions. For instance, managers in Dominican free trade zones believe that women are “naturally” better at regimented work requiring patience and dexterity, and thus the global economy positions women as “natural” subjects for exploitation (139). As in a Dominican telenovela plot that Gregory describes, where the woman moves from the traditional campo to civilized urbanity and finally into Western masculine modernity, the neoliberal narrative also makes the affirmation of heteronormative male power a prerequisite for economic progress. Given the damage that neoliberalism can cause to developing countries and particularly their subaltern subjects, then, one can see that a return to preindustrial cultural models might represent a way out. In this situation, while it would be wishful thinking to see tradition as radical opposition to global capitalism, at least it offers a different picture of how things could be. Típico modernity expresses ambivalence about global capitalism in its attempts to combine traditional patron-­client relationships with modern, mass-­mediated musical performance, in its embrace of the tíguere with his contempt for traditional kinds of labor, and in its advancement of the tíguera with her disdain for more restrictive femininities. While the prior modes of production encoded in traditional music may not be at all progressive in themselves, in recalling a different economic order, merengue típico—­sometimes, perhaps, ironically—­makes way for the tíguera. This role offers women a different way of being female that appears new, but actually has deep roots. Although the tíguera may have been dormant or invisible until recently, she has now come out of her cage.

3

Tatico Forever

Picture a pastoral scene in the tropics. There is a wooden home surrounded by banana trees, some noise from chickens scratching in the dirt. A middle-­aged man walks home after a day of work in the fields, signified by the machetes he holds. Although he is tired, the first thing he does upon entering his rustic, one-­room home with a dirt floor is to take down a one-­row button accordion stored on a high shelf. As he plays a simple melody, his young son watches intently. From the camera’s close-­up on his focused expression, we know that this boy is going to be important. This is the opening scene from Tatico siempre, or Tatico Forever, a 2006 film about the legendary accordionist Tatico Henríquez (1943–­1976; Fig. 3.1). The film was made by Rafael Chaljub Mejía and Huchi Lora, journalist-­ aficionados who number among típico’s most tireless defenders, and who are themselves intimately connected to the genre: the former was Tatico’s own brother-­in-­law, the latter is related to the proto-­típico accordionist Ñico Lora. Both together host a weekly radio show in the capital, where few media outlets broadcast merengue típico. The film’s production was funded by the Grupo León Jimenes, a Santiago-­based tobacco and beer conglomerate owned by the family for which it is named; the group had earlier funded other Chaljub-­Lora típico projects, including another documentary, Antes de que se vayan . . . (Before they are gone), Chaljub’s book Antes de que te vayas (Before you leave), and a CD box set, Ripiando el perico: Antología del merengue típico (Ripping the parrot: Anthology of merengue típico).1 In May 2006, the film premiered at the Centro León, the nonprofit cultural center with which I worked for many years that is also funded by the León Jimenes family, right around the thirtieth anniversary of Tatico’s death. I had personally invited dozens of people to come and see it, but I was still

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F i g u r e 3 . 1 . Tatico Henríquez. Cover of album released by Zuni Records, collection of author.

nervous that no one would show as I waited for my friends to arrive. It was not your typical (if one can excuse the pun) cultural event at this location, where one more often finds intimate talks by experts on art and culture, or video showings of international rock and jazz concerts. Many of the musicians I had invited had never been to the elegant museum and cultural center before. The event’s organizers had also requested that I prepare a few words to say on Tatico and what he meant to me and my research. This little speech sat folded up in my purse as I sipped a glass of wine and waited. I shouldn’t have worried. It ended up being the Centro’s biggest turnout ever: nearly one thousand people showed up to remember the great accordionist. Among them were several generations of accordion greats, including Fefita la Grande, Rafaelito Román, El Ciego de Nagua (Bartolo Alvarado), Geovanny Polanco, La India Canela, David David, and El Prodigio; older merengueros like Julián Ramírez and Juan Balbuena; aspiring younger accordionists like Yohanna Tavárez and, well, myself; a number of musicians who

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had played with Tatico, including marimbero Manochí and tamborero El Flaco; media personalities like radio deejay El Papillón (José Miguel Ortiz) and television host Gaspar Rodríguez; and Tatico’s own relatives and friends, including the photographer and titular coprotagonist of the merengue “­­Tatico y Lalán (La balacera).” The film began, and we settled into the scenery that placed Tatico firmly within a bucolic past familiar to many in the audience. We saw him learning from his father, Bolo, and taking down the accordion to practice in secret; we noticed how he participated in the region’s rich religious and festive folklife, in which the accordion played a central role. Because there is no known footage of Tatico himself still extant, the role was played by his look-­alike younger brother. Since the brother does not play accordion in actuality, his uncertain finger motions caused much laughter among the accordionists present. Big laughs also for the rustic accents and expressions of many of those interviewed, since Cibaeño speech is seldom featured in mainstream media. The one-­hour film ended and a discussion period began. As it turned out, there was no chance to read the words I had prepared because of all the testimonies people in the audience felt moved to offer. Fans, friends, and musicians all had anecdotes to tell about the accordionist and his legacy. For them, as for me, Tatico was a haunting presence that demanded to be listened to, made sense of. Because in spite of the lip service paid to influential accordionists of earlier generations, like Ñico Lora, Matoncito, Toño Abréu, or Pedro Reynoso, merengue típico today is built almost entirely on the foundation Tatico laid. “Tatico’s merengues” are the ones aspiring accordionists must master, since they are the ones played and requested at every gig. Even though many of these tunes were created by those earlier musicians, they are remembered in his voice. And yet his name seldom if ever appears in more than passing fashion in published histories on merengue, which privilege orquesta over típico and deal not at all with típico’s development over the past half century. Chaljub and Lora’s crusade to bring attention to this musician and his music through books, recordings, and film is therefore eminently understandable: it is a necessary intervention in a public history that has been built on forgetting the private memories of thousands of Dominicans. Tatico siempre was not commercially released for nearly five years, but it did circulate among típico fans, much as do digital recordings (which now replace the cassettes that did the job earlier in my research period) of live performances by popular current and historical groups. My pirated copy f­ eatures a line of text on its cover:

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DESPUÉS QUE DIOS HIZO EL MUNDO NOTÓ QUE SE LE OLVIDABA ALGO; ENTONCES HIZO LAS MANOS DE TATICO After God made the world, he saw that he had forgotten something; so he made the hands of Tatico

These words are a variation of similar statements that appear in Chaljub’s book, Antes de que te vayas (2002, 137); on the bust of Tatico that was installed in his hometown of Nagua a few years ago (paid for by donations from fans and musicians gathered by Chaljub together with a local organizing committee; Fig. 3.2); and, now, on the blogs of fans. The quote, which implies that God took a personal interest in merengue típico and created Tatico especially to be its savior, will seem overblown to those who are not part of the típico world. But it is important to take this statement on its own emotional terms to understand how significant his impact has been for the típico community. Tatico and his talent were quite literally gifts from God in the eyes and ears of many. It was this emic view I tried to capture in the speech I never gave (but later published in the newspaper El Caribe) along with my own sense of Tatico as un ser que me persigue, a being that follows me, in the words of a well-­known piece in the típico repertoire. I titled that speech “In Search of Tatico” because of the sense I often had in the field of always following but never reaching him. Tatico is unavoidable in the típico scene, turning up in every conversation, his merengues played in every party. His continual absence from printed histories of merengue is therefore a noticeable hole. I follow Chaljub here in trying to plug it up, although I also take a more critical stance in asking why he is both revered and omitted. In this chapter, I will endeavor to explain the reasons for his enormous impact, and what it says about masculinity and típico music. I do this by outlining his biography and the discourse that circulates about Tatico at present, by examining his musical sound and lyrical output, and by analyzing his remembered persona from a gender standpoint. I argue that his central position in the típico scene is due to what I term cultural charisma, and I suggest that the memory of Tatico functions as a trope that allows the típico community to relate its rural past to its urban present. Finally, I suggest that Tatico’s embodiment of a particular kind of masculinity may be the most important factor in his legendary status: he was a tíguere, but one who recognized and celebrated his indebtedness to the hombre serio.

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F i g u r e 3 . 2 . Bust of Tatico on display in the Nagua town square. The inscription reads “After God made the world he noticed he had forgotten something, so he made the hands of Tatico. 1943–­1976.” Photo by author.

Tatico in Life and in Legend Tatico Henríquez (born Domingo García Henríquez, Fig. 3.1) was born in the Los Ranchos section of Nagua, on July 30, 1943, to one of the most musical families of a very musical town. He began playing accordion to accompany his neighborhood baseball team and was then “discovered” in 1964 by

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beloved accordionist Matoncito (Ramón Amézquita Díaz), who offered his services as a teacher. In 1966, Tatico moved to Santo Domingo and began performing on radio as a replacement for the recently deceased head of the Trío Reynoso, the favorite típico group of the Trujillo era (Chaljub 2002, 140–­42). In 1969, Tatico relocated to Santiago, the Dominican second city, which to this day is the center of típico production. There, competition was intense and fans grouped into camps supporting either Tatico or El Ciego de Nagua (Bartolo Alvarado), still active today. Both the city and the music were undergoing rapid change: as rural migrants moved into the city, dramatically increasing its size and producing chaotic urban growth, the number of locations in which típico was played accordingly expanded, moving away from brothels and into the new phenomenon of urban bars, though still not quite reaching into the new discotheques, which were then devoted to merengue de orquesta and its higher-­class listeners (Ortiz 2006). In 1972, Tatico married a fellow Naguan, Elba Chaljub Mejía, sister of the author and típico activist Rafael (Chaljub 2002, 148). He had several children with her and others outside of wedlock, including the New York-­based accordionist Fary Henríquez. Tatico was tragically killed in a car accident in Santiago on May 24, 1976, at the height of his popularity. The event was widely reported in local newspapers and on radio, and it was memorialized in homenajes or songs of homage composed by other merengueros. In addition, the story was frequently recounted to me during my research; musicians clearly remembered it as a pivotal moment, and some even told of seeing the accordionist in visions after his untimely death. During my research, I was astounded by how nearly unanimous típico fans and musicians were in naming Tatico as the greatest accordionist of all time. As a person, musicians and fans alike remember Tatico as exemplary: warm, open, kind, generous, and above all, charismatic. Musically, he is singled out for his flair in playing the pambiche rhythm; for his compositions, which ran from humorous to touching and even included rare instrumental tunes; and for his repopularization of traditional repertoire on his regular radio and television performances. Most significant for some—­especially for musicians who make their livings from the genre—­is Tatico’s economic impact. He toured Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Curacao, Colombia, and particularly New York, gaining new audiences for the genre, and was able to charge high prices for performances locally as well. So significant is he that stylistic, technical, and repertoire developments in the genre are commonly dated to “before Tatico,” “after Tatico,” or “in Tatico’s time,” and the entire típico canon today is dominated by merengues he played. Güirero Ramoncito estimates

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F i g u r e 3 . 3 . La muerte del merengue: Homenaje a Tatico (The death of merengue: Homage to Tatico), painting by Raúl Recio. Used by permission.

that in a party where twenty-­five merengues are played, at least twenty have to be Tatico’s (Jiménez 2007). Yet in spite of this impact, Tatico was left out of the published history of merengue for over three decades—­due, I hypothesize, to prejudices against the lower classes, rural and transnational migrants, and indeed to oral musical traditions in general. Chaljub Mejía’s 2002 book was largely written to make up for the lack and to place Tatico at the center of the revitalization of merengue típico in the 1960s and 1970s. Even though numerous accordion-­playing contemporaries also contributed to this process, the centrality Chaljub grants to Tatico nevertheless accords with the opinions of the legions of fans the accordionist still commands at present. Tatico’s general omission from written histories and concurrent centrality to oral histories of merengue may seem paradoxical, but the pattern clearly follows the boundaries of class drawn around this music for many decades. In this sense it is illustrative that he has been memorialized differently inside and outside of the merengue típico scene. For instance, an homenaje by El Ciego de Nagua (in Chaljub Mejía 2002, 143) praises Tatico for having “raised up” merengue típico in symbolic and economic senses: Estaba en el suelo el merengue Cuando Tatico surgió. Con su forma de tocarlo él fue que lo levantó.

Merengue was on the floor [unpopular] When Tatico emerged. With his way of playing it He was the one who raised it up.

In contrast, an homenaje composed by orquesta star Wilfrido Vargas and sung by popular vocalist Fernando Villalona places Tatico firmly in the realm

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of rural tradition, omitting his economic impact and focusing instead on the accordionist as the embodiment of landscape features like “the mountain breeze” and the “smell of damp earth.” By equating Tatico with nature and the earth, they cement the view of típico as a “natural” and authentic representation of Cibaeño identity, clearly separated from modern urban life and commerce. Raúl Recio’s 1988 painting, La muerte del merengue: Homenaje a Tatico Henríquez (The death of merengue: Homage to Tatico Henríquez; Fig. 3.3) expresses a similar view in the visual arts. The artist explained to me that while he was never a fan of merengue típico, he saw Tatico as “the last folk hero of the Cibao,” a local Bob Dylan, and thus included him in the work (Recio 2014).2 Thus, the accordionist’s death is made to stand in for “the death of merengue” at the hands of the commercial music represented visually by the LPs, radios, and blaring trumpets. Here again, Tatico represents Cibaeño folk culture and its resistance to commercialization—­even as típico musicians celebrate him precisely for commercializing típico. Tatico, the Musician While Tatico’s importance in típico history is clear, the precise nature of his musical contributions is still debated. Many point to him as the initiator of a “revolution” (even using that exact word) in merengue típico related to his particular rhythmic feel and faster tempi; others feel his impact more in the social aspects of típico performance. Interestingly, a number of musicians took pains to point out to me that Tatico was not technically a great accordionist. Santiago-­based accordionist Domingo Arias (2004) states, “It wasn’t that there weren’t good musicians back then; there were those that played accordion better than he did but that didn’t get known as he did.” Citing a particularly difficult merengue, whose title evokes both staccato playing and “pecking” for gigs, as all musicians must, Bronx-­based accordionist Arsenio de la Rosa (2006) comments: “Matoncito had much better technique [picoteaba mucho más] than Tatico. He was faster than Tatico. . . . They told him he was the crazy one, because in those times things were slower, and already he was playing fast. You’ve heard ‘El picoteao’? That was his; imagine how that was. Now, one thing is that almost no one knows how to play [picotear] like it used to be. Everyone plays ‘El picoteao,’ but like Matoncito played it, hardly anyone can play.” Joe de la Rosa (2006), Arsenio’s son and a house-­music producer, also finds that Tatico’s legendary status is not tied to musical ability: “I don’t think [Tatico’s] the best, I just think he’s the guy that took it to that next level. He’s the guy that kind of popularized it . . . made it more mainstream. . . . It was cool to listen to Tatico.” Technically speaking, he continues,

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“King [de la Rosa] can fit more notes into a bar than Tatico could.” Nonetheless, he was special for other reasons, such as “that voice he had . . . and that swing.” Similarly, típico TV show host Gaspar Rodríguez (2006) finds, “Tatico was more típico, but El Ciego [de Nagua] played better, he had more finger technique [digitaba más].” Joe and Gaspar seem to concur that Tatico’s playing, while not technically perfect, had a special something that others did not have. Like his voice, his lyrics, and his well-­cultivated relationships with seguidores, Tatico’s playing was warm, inviting, and humorous. One might say that his very imperfections gave Tatico’s playing charm: the flashy yet sometimes flawed accordion makes him human and accessible. The indefinable quality of Tatico’s playing is variously described as either “swing” (using the English term) or simply as being “more típico.” While típico fans and musicians have difficulty defining such terms, I believe that his recycling of preexisting repertoire, his use of folk themes, and his composition of new homenajes or praise songs are all strategic ways of fitting his work firmly within típico tradition, while his faster tempi, updated arrangements, extreme use of “masculine” accordion techniques, vocal production, and special rhythmic feel (swing) combine to make his music both “modern” and especially típico-­sounding. In this way he combined traditional and modern in his musical sound, as he also did in his performance of gender. To further explain the first of these facets, Tatico is known as an expert recycler. His “Las 7 pasadas” (Seven passages), also known as the “7 pedazos de Pedro” (Pedro’s seven pieces), combines musical motifs from several sources, including fragments of merengues by Matoncito and Colombian vallenato accordion; this work is recognized for its variety and the “irresistible force of its rhythm” (Chaljub Mejía 2010, 195). His “Arturo Almonte” was a relyricized version in the newer guinchao rhythm of an earlier merengue performed by Trío Reynoso called “Le voy a dar una pela,” just as his “Homenaje a bolo” set new words to his father’s “Octavio Acosta” (and would later acquire yet another layer of meaning when it became “Homenaje a Tatico” in the hands of Francisco Ulloa). While both relyricizing and remelodizing old melodies or texts, respectively, was a longstanding practice in this tradition, Tatico made an art of it, repopularizing old pieces in the process of honoring new patrons. Such a practice can be understood in Peircian semiotic terms as semantic snowballing (Turino 2008, 9), wherein indexical associations (those that rely upon links established through experience, rather than resemblance) accumulate layer upon layer: the old lyrics are not lost when Tatico sings new ones, but remain in the memories of many listeners as one part of the merengue’s accumulated meanings.

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Second, Tatico frequently played both original and repopularized songs that spoke of folk culture. These songs would cause recognition among his listeners, eliciting feelings of identification. Examples include “La mamajuana,” which humorously speaks of a traditional beverage made of hard liquor like rum poured over fragrant bark, which is believed to act as an aphrodisiac and is frequently sold to tourists; “La botija,” about a folk belief that buried vessels containing valuables may belong to the devil or to the dead; or “La jigüera,” referring to a water vessel made from a gourd, once commonly used in the Dominican countryside. Such lyrics are a way of remembering rural life in the face of urbanization. Third, Tatico was a master of the homenaje, a praise song usually in honor of a loyal fan, less often of a late musician. He strategically used these songs to strengthen his relationship with wealthy patrons who became his lifelong friends; while this practice existed before him, Tatico made these works a central part of his repertoire and financial model. They include “Don Amado,” “Joaquín García,” “Pedro Oquí,” “Víctor Martínez,” “Negro Cruz y Toño Colón,” “Homenaje a Chelo,” and “Tatico y Lalán,” each honoring the patron named in their title, as well as “Ñico y Matón,” in honor of the two accordionists. In the lucky cases of “Radhamés Guerra” and “Arturo Almonte,” as well as “Octavio Acosta,” written by Tatico’s father, those pieces entered the canon and have ensured the immortality of the men they describe. Each homenaje3 lays out the admirable qualities of the protagonist, who is frequently described as gentlemanly (caballero), decent, and hardworking; he often emphasizes how much they love merengue, and occasionally recounts a humorous anecdote. Homenajes are still an important part of the típico economy, usually written on commission, but sometimes without prior financial arrangements, more like a thank-­you gift or in hope of future benefit. However, as Brooklyn-­ based fan and bodega owner Fermín Checo (2006), himself a commissioner of homenajes, explains, “nobody made homenajes like Tatico Henríquez.” Taken together, Tatico’s performance practices combined to elicit feelings of identification from his audiences. The sonic indices of traditional culture, the lyrics, and the relationships he worked so hard to build created emotional bonds between performer and fans that related to a sense of a rural Cibaeño identity under threat from cultural transformations related to urbanization and migration. These practices also show Tatico to have been a master of managing symbolic and social capital, in Bourdieu’s terms (1977, 1986). While the lyrical practices described are traditional ones, Tatico was also a musical modernizer in several dimensions. First, he played significantly faster than earlier musicians: his merengues typically range in the 140s–­160s

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beats per minute (bpm), while the Trío Reynoso’s of a decade or so earlier ranged from the 120s to the 140s, an increase of over 10 percent. Even his own performances seem to have gotten faster over time. For example, when performing with Trío Reynoso in the 1960s he played “La cuestión” at 140 bpm; with his own ensemble he later performed it at 148. In a more extreme example, Trío Reynoso performed “Hatillo palma” at 141, Tatico at 160. While he did not change the tempi of some other merengues, he and other accordionists of his generation, including Fefita and El Ciego, certainly initiated the acceleration of merengue típico that is so decried today.4 Second, Tatico modernized his ensemble. Following the lead of El Ciego, Tatico replaced the old marimba, a bass lamellaphone (not a xylophone, as in other countries), with electric bass and added congas to the group. Accordionist King de la Rosa (2006) credits Tatico, Arsenio de la Rosa (King’s brother), and El Ciego de Nagua together—­but principally El Ciego and Tatico—­with making the switch from the one-­row to the two-­row button accordion, which expanded the accordionists’ musical possibilities. Third, Tatico made prodigious use of accordion techniques considered “masculine,” filling in melody lines with sixteenth-­note broken chords or octaves and repeated notes. As will be further explored in the next chapter, techniques that emphasize finger agility are thought of as masculine, as are those that require strength in moving the bellows. His solos or botaos, while short, emphasize such techniques (see Fig. 3.4, “La mamajuana”). El Ciego’s tend to do so even more masterfully and are also longer. Why then is Tatico’s playing more often marked as “macho”? While no film of Tatico’s performances exists, I suspect an answer may have been his movement style. Accordionists considered very “macho” or “tíguere” today often use large movements beyond what is necessary to produce sound, for example, opening the bellows very wide and taking a step, bending, or ducking to one side to mark section changes; Tatico also likely employed such bodily showmanship, whereas El Ciego does not. Tatico’s voice is another area singled out as exemplary and as particularly “típico.” He sang in a high range for a man, which is a valued standard in merengue típico and also practical for making oneself heard over the instrumental ensemble. While this practice makes masculine and feminine vocal ranges in típico the same, or close to it, the force required to produce the loud, high tones also indexes Tatico’s vocal production as masculine. Much like his contemporary, Fefita la Grande, whose voice will be discussed in the next chapter, Tatico sang in his own marked cibaeño accent and with a “rough,” untrained sound. The free rhythms and sometimes indefinite pitch in Tatico’s vocal lines make his singing sound more conversational and casual

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F i g u r e 3 . 4 . Tatico’s botao in “La mamajuana.” Transcription by author.

than artistic and practiced. Together these characteristics marked his voice as rustic or homey, provoking a strong sense of identification and pride from many rural listeners, while also differentiating his music from the Trujillo-­ era incarnation of Trío Reynoso, which featured Pedro Reynoso’s clear, dulcet tones. Finally, Tatico’s special rhythmic feel or swing is also frequently mentioned as a revolutionary aspect of his sound. His rhythmic drive is unsurpassable, for instance, in the broken octaves he inserts into the theme of his ever-­ popular “La malla prendía.” His merengues frequently get faster throughout the course of the song, a feature I believe is structural, as accelerations frequently accompany the change from the first to the second part of a merengue; yet this practice also marks Tatico’s music as “típico”: it is characteristic of the style and it helps to encourage dancers. I also surmise that the acclaim his pambiches receive is due to the particular swing he puts on the triplet-­like figures that characterize the form: these could either be written as an eighth

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note triplet in which the first is slightly elongated, or else as an eighth-­and-­ two-­sixteenths figure in which the eighth is slightly shortened. Such rhythms push the limits of Western notation (Fig. 3.4; see also Appendix B). They also recall, probably not coincidentally, the “swing triplet” of jazz—­and the debates over their length and notation (Benadon 2006)—­as well as the “elastic” or “flexible triplet” of the Puerto Rican danza and seis (Kuss 2007, 168). Given all these features, one can see that Tatico did affect the sound of merengue típico, contributing to its new instrumentation, faster tempi, and focus on solo playing, and in particularly solidifying its canonical repertoire. Yet his importance seems to be understood as more symbolic than musical. Domingo Arias (2004) explains: For us musicians the one who is recognized in that time was Tatico, since if one spoke of merengue one had to speak of Tatico. And still, if one speaks of merengue, one has to speak of Tatico Henríquez. So much so that—­look at Bartolo’s repertoire, it is very big but he has to play Tatico’s. . . . The musician who doesn’t play Tatico’s merengues here is not a musician; they always request them. If I’ve made ten recordings, let’s say, of my own [compositions], I won’t play two [of them] in a gig. It’s Tatico’s merengues that people request. . . . As long as típico is heard, they’ll keep requesting them because it is a tradition already. That’s why if one speaks of merengue one already has Tatico in mind.

This view suggests that Tatico is synonymous with the típico tradition, and, in fact, such a statement would not be very far from the truth. As noted earlier, “Tatico’s merengues” make up the greater part of the típico canon: those songs that every accordionist must learn, that are most frequently requested and recorded, that are considered essential knowledge. The merengues called “Tatico’s” include not only those he himself composed but also old melodies to which he put new words as well as preexisting merengues he popularized. For instance, a Dominican blogger, citing his elderly father as the source, writes the following: He [Tatico] was not only an accordionist, he was also an outstanding folklorist, and thus composed unforgettable pieces . . . most, or almost all of his merengues are related to the campo [countryside], love, animals, and he even sang to his best friends; but this was not enough for him, he also gathered merengues enjoyable to recall, and made many his own with his only goal to make them known among the new generation of merengueros; some of these classics were lying in the tomb of forgetfulness as with “Chanflín” and “Juanita Morel,” not to forget “El Telefonema,” authored by the most prolific of our merengueros, the greatest of the great, Ñico Lora. (Sánchez Capellán)

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Such accounts show that the property of Taticoness, and indeed the concept of ownership in merengue típico in general, is based more on performance than on composition: Tatico’s merengues are the merengues we remember Tatico playing, or that we have learned to associate with him, not simply those he “composed.”5 Furthermore, Tatico’s playing has come to serve as the principal model for a masculine sound in merengue típico, due to its sonic and physical qualities and their association with his tíguere persona. In fact, fans describe the core merengues of the típico repertoire as cuadrado (square), derecho (straight), or macho (male) (see Américo Mejía in X. Pérez 2010)—­ and most of these are also considered Tatico’s. Tatico, the Tíguere Tatico’s impact is musical, personal, and gendered; it strongly influences how masculinity is performed in típico to this day. Take Chaljub Mejía’s description of his playing: he had “fluid fingering,” “agile, quick, joyful execution,” and he played with “intensity, force, and feeling . . . [a] masculine accordion,” a “melodic prolongation of [his] feeling and passion” (2010, 192). Descriptions like these demonstrate that Tatico was not just an able performer but the ideal embodiment of típico masculinity. A ladies’ man who reportedly got any woman he wanted, but so friendly and giving to all that he earned the respect of men, too; a strong man who showed his virility through impressive accordion technique; a clever wordsmith who could improvise merengue lyrics in the moment—­all these remembered characteristics made and make him the ultimate tíguere.6 Tatico has become a legend, and a key part of that legend is his tigueraje. Tatico was not the only musical performer to align himself with tigueraje at the time. His competitors in orquesta merengue did likewise. Johnny Ventura, for example, drew on rock-­and-­roll, particularly Elvis’s flamboyant image and suggestive dancing, in creating his Combo Show ensemble, with its format that put the focus on male dancer/singers (Austerlitz 1997, 87). The association with rock-­and-­roll connoted youthful rebellion against the stultified traditional merengue orquestas of the Trujillato and, hence, youthful, urban tigueraje. Ventura’s tigueraje was amplified not only through his attention-­grabbing sequined jumpsuits and constant movement on stage but also via his risqué double entendre lyrics in merengues like “La agarradera” (The handle, in which dance partners hold on to one another so tight that the woman risks dying from a “shot” from the man’s gun; Austerlitz 1997, 85).7 Tatico’s tigueraje is different from Ventura’s: more rustic, rural, earthy, firmly grounded in tradition. His expression of tigueraje does not make a

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clean break with seriedad; in fact, Tatico’s performance of masculinity shows his respect for earlier, rural lifeways and his clever combination of performance modes associated with both masculinities. It is impossible to deny that Tatico exemplified certain key tíguere behaviors, particularly with regards to women; this fact is remembered even by his friends and family. Gaspar describes Tatico as a “tramp” (vagabundo), as well as “cheerful, mischievous, a tíguere in his artistic aspect,” and even “a bit arrogant” and “enamoradizo” (roughly, a ladies’ man). One fan quotes his father, who had frequented Tatico’s parties, as stating, “They say, and I can attest to it . . . that Tatico put so much salero [salt; i.e., spice] in his music that brawls would even break out among jealous husbands and those outsiders of us who visited the places he played” (Sánchez Capellán 2010). And in “Tatico siempre,” Tatico’s widow Elba tells of her naïveté when she married the famous musician. In her innocence, she says, she believed that in taking the marriage vows one was actually swearing fidelity to one’s partner. She soon found out that this was not to be the case. As Tatico sang, When I go to a party No one can stand me I have them in pairs Lined up south to north.

Accordionist Julián Ramírez (2006) explains, “To play a well-­played merengue one must have a beautiful woman, and then one is inspired to play merengue. Tatico had that, that he was inspired by women, because one thing is to play accordion mechanically, play standing there without having anything to do with the audience, without being inspired by anything, and Tatico was not like that.” Ricoché (2006), Tatico’s own sound engineer, adds, “As Doña Elba, the widow, says, there are women who waited for her husband at parties—­I witnessed this—­two blocks away and afterward he would send them home the next day.” Yet Juan Prieto, Tatico’s live-­in accordion tuner and repairman, emphasizes that Tatico’s popularity with women had nothing to do with his looks, describing him as a “short, fat, dark-­skinned man” (Rodríguez 2004; with its history of racial prejudice, dark skin has long been considered an undesirable trait in the Dominican Republic). It was the power of his words, his charisma, and his music that did it—­and, perhaps, his tigueraje. Fan Américo Mejía (2006) explains Tatico’s mystique in this way: “He had an incredible ability, a wit—­in good Dominican, a tigueraje. [He was] a tíguere in every sense of the word. Miro Francisco, who was his saxophonist, would say . . . that Tatico could convince anyone; he would get you wrapped

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up and in half an hour he convinced you. He was a man who loved both who he should and who he shouldn’t. That doesn’t reduce his merit as an artist. He was a Dominican, and what Dominican doesn’t flirt?” Tatico’s merengues are themselves evocative of tíguere lifestyles and ethics. He changed lyrics to many old songs and composed new ones telling about bravery in sticky situations, drinking with friends, and the pleasures of sexual conquest and “other men’s women”: his “Las mujeres ajenas” (Other men’s women) was echoed in a 2004 hit by moderno-­style merenguero Krisspy titled “Me gustan las mujeres ajenas” (I like other men’s women). Still other compositions boast of his conquests. In “La jugada,” Tatico sings with tongue in cheek: Listen, my dear, to how I sing Full of feeling From now until the morning My heart is yours

And in “Recuerdo a Ramona,” he steals another man’s woman, poking fun at his friend: When I saw Ramona In the wagon She took off with Tatico And left Maton

And, another time, in “Me gustan todas” (I like them all): Look what a curse I have with women, That to love them I make no distinction. Be they tall or be they short, Be they white or dark-­skinned, They take my heart away. . . . Because I am like no one else: Lucky in love, And good at getting [women].

Later in the same song, during a call and response section, Tatico adds, democratically, “Cuando no hay muchachas / Vamos con las viejas” (When there are no young girls, we’ll take the old ladies). In lyrics like these, Tatico clearly presents himself as a tíguere, a man with whom young people today can still identify and wish to emulate. As Jorge Duany has suggested for songs like “Pedro Navaja” by salsero Rubén Blades, the continuing popularity of

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such compositions is due to “a deep connection between the writer, the lyrics of his song, and the people for whom he writes” (Duany 1984, 201). Tatico also enjoyed making others laugh. For instance, he gave out many nicknames, including Fefita’s: he jokingly named her “La Vieja Fefa” (Old Fefa) when she was still just a girl. Ricoché’s nickname is also owed to this man, who joked that the soundman was “rico” (rich) after winning fifty pesos on a lottery ticket. Neither was he above having a joke at a “lesser” man’s expense. Fan Papote de León (2006) told me an anecdote about a man in Nagua who had the unflattering nickname of “La Perra,” or “The Bitch.” Tatico once said to him . . . ‘I am going to play on La Voz Dominicana. I’m going to dedicate a merengue to you: go to the television so you can see me.’ . . . He didn’t like when people called him the bitch. And when Tatico said, ‘Ah, I’m going to dedicate this merengue to a great friend I have in Nagua: for Francisco the Bitch.’  .  .  . [Francisco] ran out of the place, because he didn’t expect it to be dedicated to Francisco the Bitch! But Tatico was a great joker.

This sense of humor is reflected in his merengues, some of which also tell about his partying and boldness. His famous song “Tatico y Lalán” (or “La balacera”) recounts a true-­life event: Tatico and Lalán Over in Altamira Spent the night in jail For shooting up into the air. It was a .38 And a pistol The two spent the night There in the lockup. Good old Lalán Though he was a reporter Over there in Altamira He turned into a cowboy.

One fan tells that it was “that same night, [when] still detained, [that] he composed a merengue [to which] even the police had to dance” (Sánchez Capellán 2010). Tatico, it can clearly be seen, was no angel—­or better yet, no santo, the Dominican term for an overly pious, emasculated man. And while it is difficult to find anyone who will speak ill of this idol, El Papillón sees Tatico’s

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tigueraje as harmful (Ortiz 2006). While his harsher judgment of Tatico may stem in part from his belonging to a higher social class, he also believes Tatico really acted worse than most will dare to say: “As a moral person, he was very low, he was insolent. . . . Many times they meant to kill him, because he had relations with other men’s women.” He also suggests that Tatico did this against their will, “kidnapping” the women from the parties where he met and danced with them as someone else took a turn on accordion. The iconoclastic deejay furthermore believes that, in fact, Tatico was not the one who “raised” merengue típico from its lowly position, and that this idea has only been applied in retrospect. He explains, “Merengue típico began to transcend with Agapito Pascual, when he recorded merengue con mambo. Agapito is the pioneer . . . he put merengue into the discotheque. Never did a merengue of Tatico’s play in a discotheque.” Such a view is out of the ordinary, but it is helpful in reminding us that the legend of Tatico is in fact a construction of the present that may not entirely reflect the man as he was in life. In any case, the lyrics of Tatico’s merengues bear witness to his self-­ portrayal as a tíguere and his adherence to a lifestyle of partying, womanizing, joking and wordplay, and male bonding, in contrast to the hombre serio performed by his closest rival, El Ciego de Nagua. But in spite of his apparent devotion to tigueraje—­a product, as we have seen, of the early stages of urban transnationalism8—­Tatico did not simply throw away the values of the past. Tatico was able, perhaps uniquely so, to bridge two worlds: serio and tíguere, rural and urban, traditional and modern. In his homenajes, he recognized and celebrated hombres serios while maintaining the ties of patronage that bound communities together in traditional rural culture. In sending saludos and improvised verses, he helped to cement such bonds and carry them into the present day. Such strategies conferred on him a certain measure of seriedad, which seems to give “serious” listeners a reason to admire him in spite of whatever bad behavior he might have engaged in. Through the honorable acts of singing to loyal friends and patrons in the homenajes described above, he gained the respect of hombres serios; he gained that of tígueres through his sexual conquests and musical career. In so doing, Tatico shows himself to be not a revolutionary, as fans often describe him, but rather a reformer: far from overthrowing the system, he successfully worked within it. Through his mastery of both these guises—­his embodiment of tigueraje and simultaneous respect for seriedad—­Tatico became the most típico of all the típicos. For instance, Gaspar describes Tatico as “the most típico musician,” the one who best embodies “típico quality,” or the values of the merengue típico community (Rodríguez 2006). Tatico demonstrated this típico-­ness

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through his voice, his accordion playing, his repertoire, his humor, and his tigueraje, Gaspar explains: He had a very típico voice, and also his accordion songs had a first and a second [part].9 He had a very típico voice, and his accordion, the rhythm of the music, those characterize him as more típico. El Ciego is more refined, also típico; today El Ciego is the most típico, but when Tatico was around, he was more típico. Because El Ciego has a more refined music than Tatico, with more finger technique. Tatico was more ‘first and second.’ But he pressed the accordion there, yes, with greater force, and the voice too. He was funny; he talked a lot in the merengues. If the merengue was about to finish, he would announce it: ‘Ending!’ [Laughs.] He was a tíguere.

Normally, an accordionist signals the end of the merengue by playing a closing formula that can be more or less showy, depending on his or her skill, experience, and creativity. If the other instruments do not follow along to end at the same time, it signals either a weak accordionist or a daydreaming percussionist, and the performance will be an occasion for laughter and perhaps mockery.10 By shouting “ending,” Tatico subverts the usual codes of performance, making fun of this test of competency. While waiting one day for my accordion lesson with Rafaelito, the teenage student who came before me asked the maestro a question. “Who played better, Tatico or Ciego?” Rafaelito replied that El Ciego has more technique than did Tatico, but that Tatico had a more “típico” way of playing and a more beautiful voice. He also had charisma and “más fuerza” (more strength) so that one really felt it when he was playing. The student nodded heartily in agreement, adding that it just wasn’t right if one went to a party and didn’t hear a single Tatico merengue. For both of them, as well as for Américo, Gaspar, and many other fans, Tatico embodied típico’s intangible, inexplicable qualities—­its spirit, flavor, and feeling—­more than any other musician. Charisma and Community To further pinpoint exactly why Tatico is so central to this musical tradition—­in spite of his perhaps imperfect technique, ordinary appearance, and sometimes immoral behavior—­it will be helpful to further examine the quality of charisma, which is habitually attributed not only to Tatico, but to many “star” performers around the world. In spite of the term’s frequent use among laypeople, however, charisma as a concept has not been well theorized in music studies, and, in fact, surprisingly little literature examines the cultural component of charisma. I propose that looking more closely at

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what charisma is and does in a cultural context will help solve the mystery of Tatico. Charisma is commonly attributed to personality, but I believe this is a minor factor that cannot explain a person’s transformation from an everyday sort of popularity into a legend. As noted above, even other típico musicians suggest that Tatico’s legendary status cannot be attributed to his technique, musical prowess, or behavior, nor to the simple fact of his untimely death (many other noteworthy accordionists have also died young, including Toribio de la Cruz, Siano Arias, and Diógenes Jiménez). Instead, I argue that charisma has to do particularly with three specific aspects of musical performance: performer-­fan relationships, the context of the performer’s emergence, and his or her embodiment of cultural ideals, particularly those related to gender. The concept of charisma arose as a religious one, describing a person who inspired an “attitude of awe” and reverence (Spencer 1973, 342), but today it is more commonly applied to public figures with a kind of magnetic quality. Sociologist Max Weber, the pioneer of charisma studies, described two types of charisma in the 1940s. Weber called the first type “genuine charisma,” and described it as “a personal quality which turned whoever possessed it into an impressive personality” (cited in Greenfeld 1985, 119). For him, it was an innate characteristic that observers may describe as “extraordinary,” “superhuman,” or even “divine.” Those who possess it become leaders because of their “ability to internally generate extreme excitement . . . and thus become objects of imitation” (120). Weber believed that genuine charisma was found principally in the “anti-­institutional personality” (Stark 1969, 189). I prefer the term “personal charisma” for this first type, since it avoids giving the impression that some kinds of charisma are genuine or authentic and others not, and it also emphasizes that such charisma is a property of an individual. I would also add to its definition that personal charisma is usually developed unconsciously, although the possessor is certainly aware of his or her influence over others, and that it is communicated through the body: through gesture, posture, and movement. In a sense, personal charisma is an illusion: the “magnetism” is produced through an affinity with the observer created through techniques like mirroring.11 Weber termed the second type “routinized charisma.” This type may be defined as “proximity . . . to the ultimate values of a society” (Greenfeld 1985, 117), and it shows that personal magnetism can also be created through the effective use of key cultural symbols. Greenfeld emphasizes that genuine charisma can rarely be effective in isolation from this other type, the manipulation of symbols and values (121–­22). Thus does “charismatic authority,” or

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the ability of the charismatic individual to lead, emerge. While Weber saw charisma basically as a challenge to authority, charisma will eventually be absorbed into a society and “routinized,” which frequently means institutionalized, in the way that Jesus’s teachings were later transformed into the institution of the Christian church. I term this other type of charisma “cultural charisma,” because it depends on the relationship of the charismatic individual to his or her society’s beliefs, values, and symbols—­in other words, to his or her cultural context. In terming this type of charisma “cultural,” I am setting up a contrast between the group nature of this type and the individual nature of the other one. Again, I believe the charismatic individual tends to acquire this type of magnetism more or less unreflectively, through the successful embodiment and projection of key values in a kind of feedback loop with his or her audience. These values, I argue, are gendered, and their embodiment is communicated through behavior, action, and wordplay, as well as through bodily habits. At the same time, while Greenfeld points out that genuine (or personal) charisma is only effective when coupled with routinized (or cultural) charisma, I go even further: I question whether these two types of charisma are not really one and the same in many cases. That is to say, if one asks where the “innate” abilities of leaders come from, one will have to ask why these people are viewed as impressive, extraordinary or divine. The answers will be found in culture-­specific notions of what constitutes the divine, impressive, or extraordinary. Weber’s concept of charisma clearly relates to the Tatico phenomenon, and in very specific ways. First, Weber defines charisma as “a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is considered extraordinary and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These are such as are not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as of divine origin or as exemplary” (Weber [1925] 2008, 181). The magic of Tatico’s playing, as we have seen, is sometimes attributed to divine intervention and as such could be classified as charismata, spiritual gifts believed to have been bestowed by God. Second, Weber adds, “Pure charisma is specifically foreign to economic considerations.  .  .  . In the pure type, it disdains and repudiates economic exploitation of the gifts of grace as a source of income, though, to be sure, this often remains more an ideal than a fact” (Weber [1925] 2008, 183). Although Tatico is admired for improving the genre’s economic situation, this act is often framed as selfless, and there is a resistance among fans to attributing economic motives to his actions. Third, Weber further explains, “In traditionalist periods, charisma is the great revolutionary force. . . . Charisma . . . may effect a subjective or internal

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reorientation born out of suffering, conflicts, or enthusiasm” (Weber [1925] 2008, 183). Tatico is an example of the so-­called “revolutionary” figure being transformed into a cultural routine, which in this case is the típico canon and discourse about it, and a key feature of that transformation was the time in which Tatico lived. Up until the 1960s, the Cibao could easily be considered “traditionalist” (and it still often is), with its agricultural economy and hierarchical society formed on patron-­client relationships. During Tatico’s time, however, that traditionalist society was being transformed. Alongside it, the tíguere came to dominate over the hombre serio, just as merengue típico moderno emerged from “perico ripiao” and soon superseded it. It is because of this context of traditionalism in transformation, and not because of any particular acts, that Tatico is described as “revolutionary.” As I will explain further below, because of the historical moment at which he emerged, Tatico is seen as marking the beginning of a new period in merengue típico and, one might argue, in Cibaeño life in general. Weber’s analysis is useful but must also be transformed and expanded in some key ways in order to account for a charismatic performer like Tatico. Theater scholar Joseph Roach has added that charismatic people also embody a conjunction of opposites. Most broadly, charisma includes both radiance, the aura of the person expanding outward to envelop onlookers, and attraction, pulling people in like a magnet (2007, 7). Specifically, the indefinable qualities of charisma, its mystery, result from the charismatic figure’s unification of opposites: “strength and vulnerability, innocence and experience, and singularity and typicality among them” (8). In Tatico, we can pinpoint his combination of the traditional and the modern, the hombre serio and the tíguere, even the musically expert and the technically deficient. As noted, while Weber finds that charismatic authority must be transformed and routinized in order to become permanently embedded in a community, I believe that charisma itself derives from communally held beliefs and values—­in other words, culture. And while Weber’s routinization of charisma produced a religious institution, the principal results produced by Tatico’s charisma were a musical canon, a transnational musical scene, and a particular model of masculinity to be emulated. While these results are specific to the case at hand, I also believe that my model of charisma can be used to analyze all kinds of star performers. Tatico’s personal relationship with fans played a central role in his charisma-­building performance style. Bourdieu can help us to understand the importance of this element by transforming Weber’s individual and religious type of charisma into a communal property concerned with expressive culture. He considered charisma one type of symbolic capital, which is to say,

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a kind of capital not recognized as such. As Swartz summarizes, “Individuals and groups who are able to benefit from the transformation of self-­interest into disinterest obtain what Bourdieu calls a ‘symbolic capital.’ . . . Symbolic capital is ‘denied capital;’ it disguises the underlying ‘interested’ relations to which it is related, giving them legitimation” (1996, 77). Tatico might then be said to have been a master of managing symbolic capital, in gaining materially while not seeming to do so, and thereby acquiring charisma. How was this done? Acquaintances note that Tatico had a special ability to make and maintain relationships with important patrons. Ricoché (2006) remembers that Tatico’s audience was made up of “all the businessmen, the ranchers, the landowners.” He mentioned specifically Papillo Betances, Germán Pérez, Monchi, Juan de León, Papote de León, Radhamés Torres, the late Pedro Chito and his son. Some of these men, such as the de León brothers, are still active in the típico world today, and Pedro Chito owned a típico roadhouse that was still operating in the early years of my research. These would be important allies for any musician, and, as noted, Tatico worked at gaining them using established musical practices such as the saludo or ritualized greeting, the homenaje or precomposed praise song, and extemporized verses. To illustrate, I give several examples provided by those who knew or observed him. Deejay El Papillón explains that the reason Tatico is so legendary is “Because he improvised verses. . . . Tatico noticed that people liked this and he pleased them. . . . He pleased people because of a natural charisma: people liked him, and he knew how to tune in to the public” (Ortiz 2006). Tatico thus played to wealthy people in the audience, and after the party, he might even get in the back of the patron’s car with güira and tambora to serenade the merenguero and his wife or girlfriend. These practices helped him to make important contacts and to sustain relationships with those who could help him in his career. El Papillón continued: “Everyone to whom he sang was a person with money. He wouldn’t sing to just any old person; he would sing to a person he saw had influence” (Ortiz 2006). This anecdote shows how Tatico strategically used the personalized verse in live performance to please people of influence, a practice that continues today. For instance, when I arrive at a performance by a musician I know, the singer may substitute my name for another in the verse he is singing in order to acknowledge my presence and make me smile; this flattering practice is likely to make me want to come to another show in the future. The saludo can also be used in a recording session: La India Canela did so when she mentioned both me and Dan Sheehy, coproducers of her CD, on the Smithsonian Folkways recording Merengue típico from the Dominican Republic.

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Tatico knew how to win over even his enemies with this time-­tested technique. Gaspar (Rodríguez 2006) recalls that when the well-­known saxophonist Miro Francisco decided to give up leading his own group in order to join Tatico’s, one particular fan from La Línea was not happy. He asked Don Miro, “Why did you go with that man?” Miro explained that Tatico was a good guy, but the fan, an important man in the region, was not convinced. Tatico heard of the problem and sent the man a personal invitation to one of his gigs. “As soon as Tatico saw him enter the party—­he had the advantage of being very creative—­he takes off with a merengue with a verse for that man. He made a merengue for him as soon as he entered, and right there the guy went up to the stage and embraced him and asked to be forgiven.” Accordionist Agapito Pascual (2004) further recalls, “That [practice of greeting and sitting down with fans] comes from Tatico Henríquez; he was the one who always did that. He always had his seguidores [followers or fans] and he would say, ‘I’m going to sit with so-­and-­so to eat some chicken,’ and he kept those bonds very strong.” Today, older musicians frequently criticize younger ones for neglecting such bonds. They contend that, having subscribed to the star system that keeps performers and audience separate, the young accordionists are neglecting their community and their tradition. Implicit here is the view that Tatico would never have committed this error. Max Weber noticed long ago that the relationship between leader and followers was a key component of charisma, and thus we can see that charisma is inherently social (Smith 2000, 102; see also Yano 1997, 335). Philip Smith, in attempting to build a cultural theory of charisma, defines this relationship as a predominantly moral one produced by symbolic structures, which in his view are binary narratives of good and evil (2000, 103). In the judgments levied on younger accordionists, we can see that típico fans, too, consider the bond between musician and seguidor to be of a moral character. Yet here, the narrative is not one of good and evil, but of tradition and modernity—­ defending a way of life in the face of cultural change. The second component in my model of Tatico’s charismatic performance is thus historical context, a dimension I feel is missing from Bourdieu’s model. Tatico began performing during the tumultuous years of the 1960s, which were marked by a rapid succession of unsuccessful leaders, a military coup, a US invasion, and the resistance movement Dominicans call the April Revolution. His fame grew during the early years of the Balaguer presidency, years that also saw the assassination of hundreds of journalists, intellectuals, and other dissidents. The dictator was finally gone, but true personal freedom and safety were a long way away. Writing in the 1970s, essayist Federico Henríquez Gratereaux (1999, 147) thought that because of the history

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of dictatorship, Dominicans had the sense that “an independent man with a defined character and with initiative causes trouble.” Published in newspapers, Gratereaux’s thoughts on the Dominican nation received a great number of responses, demonstrating that Dominicans at the time were asking themselves, “What is the Dominican Republic? What do our social and political problems consist of?” (93). Dominicans’ lives were changing rapidly in other ways, too, through the rapid migration and urbanization I described in the previous chapter. During this period of political unrest and changing values, tigueraje became increasingly important. Those whose lives were changing most, the rural-­to-­urban migrants used to working the land but now forced to find new ways of earning their livings in the cities, must have been searching for something that could help to anchor them in their new environment. Someone, perhaps, who could remind them of their rural past, but who could also provide a way to relate to their new situation and a way to find self-­worth when living in difficult circumstances. While sociologist Philip Smith (2000, 103–­5) views an explicit good-­evil narrative as a necessary condition for the emergence of charisma, I would argue that the feeling of being threatened is enough. In this case, the threat urbanization and migration posed for rural Cibaeño lifeways and value systems, an “evil” threatening a “good” way of life, was enough to enable the emergence of a charismatic leader in típico.12 Smith himself points in this direction when he acknowledges that although Bill Clinton did employ narratives of good and evil to justify intervention in Bosnia, and he was considered personally charismatic, he did not become a charismatic leader (2000, 109): this may be because the necessary feeling of direct threat to one’s lifeways did not exist within the general North American public at the time. The third and final component of my model of charisma is the embodiment of cultural ideals, particularly those related to gender. Bourdieu, too, recognizes that artists and musicians are particularly important in legitimating the social order because of their work in producing effective symbols. While Marx would term this ideology, Bourdieu’s explanation stresses that ideology must be constructed by people (in Swartz 1996, 77). In this case, Tatico was about to produce the quality of “típico-­ness” and to tie it to cultural ideals of masculinity, those of the tíguere and the hombre serio, through performance. Although the lack of video footage of Tatico means that I cannot analyze the specifics of his bodily performance, I have nevertheless shown that he did successfully embody an ideal of típico masculinity through anecdotes and song lyrics; that his form of masculinity successfully bridged the

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music’s transformation from rural to urban, and men’s corresponding shift from seriedad toward tigueraje; and that his style of performing masculinity has endured as a model for other típico musicians to emulate. The tie between the performance of gender and charisma is not limited to this example, but, I believe, is key to understanding charisma in musical performance in general (and perhaps other types of performance as well). Charisma is, I think, popularly seen as a sexualized attribute—­that is, a charismatic musician is someone who is sexy, which clearly shows that many laypeople commonsensically connect charisma with gendered performance. Thus, a charismatic performer like Tatico is someone who embodies the type of man or woman the viewer would like to be or have. A more concrete example can be found in one of the only works to focus on musical charisma, Christine Yano’s (1997) study of Japanese fans of enka, sentimental ballads. Yano finds that enka fandom exemplifies traditional Japanese values in its relationships of dependency and reciprocity: “fans support the public figure directly through economic means; the public figure supports the fans indirectly through symbolic means” (336). While gender is not her focus, Yano does state that singer Mori Shin’ichi’s performance of gender and his gendered relationship with female fans is central to his charismatic appeal. Specifically, he “epitomizes the well-­groomed, tuxedoed male enka singer” but has “reached the top of the profession by singing women’s songs” and is therefore considered “sensitive, serious, and vulnerable” and “the image of the perfect Japanese son,” causing motherly responses in fans (338–­39). While these two performers cultivate different gendered relationships—­Mori focuses on mother-­son bonds, Tatico on male-­male friendships—­it is clear that those relationships are central in both their general cultural contexts and in their particular musical communities. And there are other similarities. Just as Tatico is said not to have had perfect musical technique, Mori is seen as having had to overcome a “bad” voice; in both cases, this humanizing feature only increases the star’s appeal. And just as Yano explains that fandom is viewed more positively in Japan than in the West because it stands for “loyalty and dedication, service to one’s public superior, and empathetic support,” (336) one might also note that the affective bonds created through típico performance echo historically important Dominican and Latin American male-­ male bonds. These include compadrazgo or coparenthood, as can be noted in seguidores’ occasional referral to each other as compadres, or even cacicazgo, the presence of a strongman or cacique who lords over a Dominican region.13 In sum, cultural charisma is a concept that we can use to explain Tatico’s continuing influence. Cultural charisma is achieved through the conjunction

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F i g u r e 3 . 5 . Television host Gaspar Rodríguez at home with his painting of Tatico, Santiago, Dominican Republic, 2006. Photo by author.

of an appropriate temporal or historical context, in this case that of a “traditionalist” society on the brink of transformation, with a close performer-­ audience bond and the performance of key cultural values, particularly those gendered behaviors a community considers appropriate or desirable. While charisma has not yet been analyzed in this way in music studies, it is common for laypeople to speak of this phenomenon in terms of someone who “captured the spirit of their time”—­which again emphasizes the importance of the historical dimension in the emergence of charisma. In this case, the conjunction of Tatico’s time and his particular brand of tigueraje provide the key to understanding how the man became a legend (see Fig. 3.5) and how the Tatico-­based canon emerged and became dominant. He provided what his audience needed at a pivotal moment. His bodily performance demonstrated how a man could combine the urban ethics of tigueraje with the rural ones of seriedad. And his music showed how one could maintain allegiance to the rural Cibao and its traditional culture at the same time as one participated in the economic and social life of its biggest, most modern city. As típico began to move even further afield, to New York City, far from losing relevance, such an example would prove to be increasingly necessary.

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Conclusions As I write these words, Tatico has been dead for nearly four decades, but he is a continual presence in the living, communal memory of merengue típico. As Papote de León (2006) explains, “Listening to Tatico is a memory, all of us who listen to Tatico, it’s a memory. ‘Listen to Tatico! Listen, what music! Because music, how music was, it has changed.’ That’s how one speaks when one hears a traditional merengue of Tatico. . . . Everything changes, not only music, everything.” Older listeners continue to request Tatico’s merengues because they remind them of how things were. Younger ones do so because they provide a model of how they would once again like things to be. Lise Waxer tells us that because the emotional meaning of memory relies less on its meaning at the time of the occurrence than on that of the time of recall, to understand collective memory we must look at how memories are selectively chosen and used by a group in the present time as a means of maintaining social identity during times of change (2002, 108). Her study of salsa in Cali, Colombia, shows that in order to deal with the violence of the 1990s, Caleños constructed the salsa scene of the 1960s and 1970s as a time of fun and friendship rather than one of economic struggle, as it undoubtedly was. There, she found that recordings served as “the basis for constructing a selective memory of the past” as well as a means for people to “locate and identify themselves” (10–­11). Remembering the past as good gave them a way to reimagine their city in a positive way and to reconstruct social bonds in the present. In their focus on Tatico, típico fans and musicians perform a similar act of collective remembering. The kind of nostalgia with which típico musicians and fans remember Tatico and his time serve to construct the Santiago of the 1970s as an idyllic time, rather than one marked by uneven development, unemployment, and political violence. Tatico was one of tens of thousands of rural migrants who were then coming to Santiago, where most lived in poverty; many went on from there to New York. For those who shared this trajectory, listening to Tatico commemorates the moment of Santiago’s urbanization, reconstructing it in retrospect as a time of hope and possibilities rather than strife. His music is also, therefore, a way of relating to the urban space of Santiago by nostalgically commemorating the time of its most dramatic urban growth, and of fortifying bonds between those in the típico community through the creation of an internal canon inaccessible to outsiders. And his relationship to that historical-­cultural context is not coincidental: this sense of a threat to traditional lifeways is a necessary condition for the emergence of a charismatic figure like Tatico.

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Remembering Tatico is an act that is also rooted in gendered experiences and the performance of masculinity. As Tatico’s authority as a musician and as a symbolic figure—­a Durkheimian totem—­in the world of típico was being cemented, new values were being established in Dominican society, but because of the importance of a sense of history and continuity to merengue típico listeners, they were always tempered by respect for traditional codes of honor and the bonds of community and patronage. In this chapter, I have argued that Tatico served as a bridge between rural and urban lifeways during a time of massive social change in the Dominican Republic, and that bridging two forms of masculinities was a key way in which he performed that function and became culturally charismatic. Tatico thus serves as a symbol of a particular type of culturally charismatic, class-­inflected masculinity. In remembering Tatico as an archetypal tíguere, master of the urban domain, listeners can create themselves in his image, taking control of their urban environments. Commemorative words and music about Tatico are a way to idealize the rural past as well as to construct a masculine ideal at present. Just as Tatico went from unknown country boy to a king of the streets and the airwaves, but never lost touch with his rural roots, neither do his listeners have to give up their past (real or imagined). If anything, he has acquired even greater power in the típico world after his death because of his successful bridging of worlds—­the rural and the urban, the traditional and the modern, the tíguere and the hombre serio. The kind of nostalgia that Tatico breeds outside the típico community is a different matter. It is a longing for not an urban past but an idealized rural one; it concentrates on ruptures rather than the forging of bonds. Outside of the típico community, he is truly dead, a distant memory of a past that can never return; inside of it, he lives on as a model to be aspired to. As Juan Elpidio Ovalle (2004), a sound engineer known as Junior Mix, told me, “It is better to die with a memory than to die with money. Money gets lost. Memory is forever.” Tatico forever.

4

Fefita the Great

Like the last chapter, and like so much of fieldwork, this one starts with a story about waiting. This time, I was waiting to meet Fefita la Grande (Fefita the Great, born Manuela Josefa Cabrera Taveras; Fig. 4.1), the woman with the longest career in merengue típico and one of the most beloved public figures in the Dominican Republic. I had made an appointment with Fefita over the phone, but as I walked from the main road to her out-­of-­the-­way home on the semirural margins of Santiago, I was a bit nervous. I had seen her perform, and she was so fierce on stage that it was a bit frightening to contemplate conducting an interview with her. I had never seen her smile: her expression while playing merengue típico looked more like she wanted to eat the audience alive than to make friends with them. Was she like that offstage, too? Would she bite my head off? I knocked on the door of her home office at the appointed time, or fairly close to it, and she answered the door herself. Apparently, she hadn’t expected me to be punctual, for here she was, the diva, with no makeup or hairpiece, in house clothes, and wearing reading glasses. This certainly wasn’t what I expected. “Will there be video?” she wondered. No, I was only going to tape record. But I might take a picture. Fefita invited me to wait in her courtyard as she readied herself. “Here’s my granddaughter. She’s American, too. You two can talk,” she suggested, as I settled myself in a rocking chair next to the teenage girl. Perhaps a half hour later, Fefita reappeared, fully made up. This was more like the woman I knew from her shows, from her pinup calendar (more on that later), from the countless pirated DVDs featuring her image. The only difference was that she was smiling as she showed me her office, all four walls entirely covered in plaques and trophies she had been awarded by radio and

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television programs, arts organizations, típico clubs, and appreciative fans. She was nothing but gracious, funny, and friendly the whole time. After the interview had gone on long enough, Fefita turned the tables on me and began asking her own questions. Why didn’t I have a Dominican boyfriend, she wondered? “Porque son machistas y mujeriegos” (Because they are chauvinists and womanizers), I offered, half seriously and half in jest. Fefita burst out laughing and embraced me. “You are exactly right! And I don’t have one, either!” Although we parted on a note of mutual recognition, I didn’t see Fefita again for another two years. That time, I was again waiting: this time to speak with a car dealer and major típico patron. Although I sat there for more than two hours that morning, I never did get the interview. I was half asleep when I saw Fefita walk into the dealership. This was the public Fefita once again, with her stage face on. She was there for business, dressed in tight, camouflage-­ print pedal pushers, a tank top, high heels, large gold earrings, and a matching baseball cap over her red ponytail, surrounded by an entourage. I reintroduced myself and she claimed to remember me, but I was sure she didn’t. She thanked me for the lovely article I had written, but since I was pretty confident she hadn’t seen the latest issue of Ethnomusicology, I surmised it was a case of mistaken identity. Fefita deserves to have lovely articles written about her, however. Perhaps I can make up for it now.

* If Tatico was the ultimate tíguere, Fefita is the ultimate tíguera. The way she presents herself in public exemplifies this status: tough, audacious, sexy, confident, and able to come out on top of any situation (Fig. 4.1). Therefore, it is safe to say that just as Tatico exemplified the masculine qualities valued in the típico scene, so does Fefita exemplify the feminine ones this community most prizes. One of the most decorated artists in típico, and indeed one of the most celebrated in any Dominican genre, she is sometimes described as the Celia Cruz of the Dominican Republic, a “mega diva” who one fan estimates has performed more than ten thousand times (Mejía 2013). In terms of the high status both Cruz and Fefita hold within their respective genres, the comparison is apt; yet perhaps it does not fully explain the complexity of Fefita’s iconic status, not only within the típico world, but also outside of it. Fefita’s musical and bodily performances offer new interpretations of both her genre and her gender. But as my story shows, the private Fefita can be quite different from the public one. And, thus, while Fefita is a tíguera and freely admits it, she is not only that, as she takes care to point out when she talks about her life and career. Fefita offers a model that may inspire not only

F i g u r e 4 . 1 . Fefita la Grande arrives in New York City after a long hiatus. Photograph by MannyZoom.com, 2014; used by permission.

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aspiring Dominican tígueras but also women everywhere searching for ways to balance their public and private lives, their careers and families. And so (also as with Tatico) a good place to begin is with her life story, which shows how the public persona came into being. Fefita, the Woman Fefita was born on September 18, 1944, in San José in the province of Santiago Rodríguez, part of the northwestern Cibao area near the Haitian border termed La Línea and often considered the birthplace of merengue itself. She came from humble, rural beginnings, her father a small-­scale farmer, ladies’ man, and self-­taught típico musician who also repaired accordions. By age seven, she could play merengues and sing. Fefita presents herself as unusually daring and notes that she frequently engaged in behaviors considered masculine: “I always liked boy things: going around with a stick, being with my father in the fields. I didn’t do girl things” (Colombi, n.d.). Merengue típico was another of those behaviors, and one that allowed her scope to develop these bold aspects of her personality. For instance, one of Fefita’s first performances was for the dictator Trujillo’s brother, Petán, director of the state radio and TV stations called La Voz Dominicana. Though just a nine-­year-­old girl from the campo, she won his admiration and a gift of one hundred pesos, though she made additional demands in song (Triculi809 2008): Quiero un revolverito Que me lo dé Petán Para defenderme Si acaso me dan.

I want Petán To give me a little gun To defend myself In case they give me cause.

Later on, a teenage Fefita was taken to play for Trujillo himself. While he was killed just days later, Fefita’s career was only just beginning. When she was a teenager, Tatico himself jokingly baptized her Vieja Fefa, Old Fefa. Around 1962, El Ciego de Nagua came to the town of Mao, invited the visiting Fefita to play with him, and then brought her to the local radio station to play, and from then on, she had a name for herself—­the one Tatico had given her (Cabrera Taveras 2004). Fefita’s career was put on hold when she married and had six children by age twenty-­four. In the 1970s, she began to perform again, getting a fair amount of business simply because she was such a curiosity. In 1982 she moved to Santiago, befriending Antonio Ochoa, the very businessman I was trying to see when I ran into Fefita at the car dealership, who promoted her

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arrival heavily by purchasing a regular radio hour on Santiago’s longstanding típico station, Radio Quisqueyana, now La Super Regional. Soon she began playing alongside the greatest típico stars of the time, eventually touring New York, Belgium, Italy, Spain, France, Germany, Colombia, and Canada. Her first trip to the United States under the name Fefita la Grande was in 1976, the same year Tatico died (Cabrera Taveras 2004). Since about 1980, Fefita has been known as “La Mayimba,” which she now prefers to her previous nickname. Taking this new name, one of her own devising, perhaps was a marker of her increasing independence and self-­sufficiency. In the Dominican Republic, mayimbe is frequently applied as a term of respect to excellent male musicians like Fernandito Villalona, the well-­known orquesta merengue singer originally from Loma de Cabrera, Dajabón province (not far from Fefita’s hometown and also part of the La Línea region). Linguist William Megenney hypothesizes that mayimbe comes from the kiKongo mayombe, meaning “magistrate, great chief, governor, [or] honorary title” (Megenney 2006). In Cuba, mayombe is another word for the Congo-­derived Palo religion while mayimbe refers to the powerful elite (José Luis Llovio-­Menéndez in Arminana 1988–­1989, 213). Today, diccionariolibre. com, an online Spanish dictionary written by users, explains mayimbe as “the maximal expression of the Dominican tíguere.” I believe Fefita may be the first to have created a feminized version of the term, but it has been adopted by the Weltmeister accordion factory in Germany as the name of their own two-­row model, capitalizing on her popularity. Now in her seventies, Fefita is among the most widely loved figures in Dominican music. When I interviewed her in 2004, she had played the night before on Santo Domingo’s malecón (beachfront drive) for the inauguration of President Leonel Fernández, and she continues to appear frequently in Dominican newspapers and on television. Her folksy humor, her audacity, her fashion, her bigger-­than-­life presence all ensure her continued newsworthiness, as well as her relevance for multiple generations of fans. In 2004, at age sixty, she was already a grandmother of fourteen, but had also recently published two sold-­out calendars featuring photos of herself in lingerie. She has been an inspiration for Dominicans in general due to her generous spirit and business acumen, but she is especially important for women in típico. In the biographical details related above, it is clear that Fefita sees herself and presents herself as tough and fearless—­a person who knows how to live in and get the most out of a man’s world. As we will see, she performs this aspect of herself onstage, making brash comments, seldom smiling, with a fierce expression on her face as she gyrates her hips. She also presents herself as a woman not constrained by traditional gender roles: she realizes that she

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performs some typically masculine behaviors, yet there is no question that she is feminine. Throughout Fefita’s career, as we shall see further below, she has been known as much for her wardrobe, dance moves, and personality as for her music. Thus, while her status is different from Tatico’s because she can and still does relate directly to her fans on a regular basis, she too has legendary qualities that are connected to her performance of gender. Fefita, the Legend Fefita is a living legend with an iconic status in Dominican culture today. Her performance of feminine tigueraje shows her to be what Joseph Roach terms a role-­icon, or “a part certain exceptional performers play on and off stage no matter what other parts they enact from night to night” (2007, 39): as we will see, even when Fefita insists that offstage she is just a simple rural woman and grandmother, her public insists on casting her as tíguera again and again. And given her culturally charismatic qualities, perhaps it is unsurprising that a number of parallels can be found between her career and that of Tatico, the masculine icon of the típico world. Both began their professional careers in the 1960s, when urbanization reached a new level and Dominican society began to transition out of the dictatorship; both hailed from rural locations; and both are personally and culturally charismatic. Like Tatico, Fefita is also credited with “raising the price” of típico (Arias 2004). The two even share another personal connection: according to sound engineer Ricoché (2006), Tatico recorded his first album with the entrepreneur Lépido Lantigua, Fefita’s ex-­husband. Neither Fefita nor Tatico are considered the best accordionists from a technical standpoint, but both are seen as exemplary vocalists. However, while Tatico’s impact is mainly confined to the world of típico listeners, Fefita’s is nationwide. She appears in films, literature, and even the visual arts as an embodiment of the tíguera and of merengue típico itself. Fefita’s fan base is large and covers all generations and genders. As típico fan and songwriter Américo Mejía (2006) explains, “She has the merit of possibly being the best-­known contemporary merengue musician in the country, because she has travelled all throughout it, and she has also known how to give her art an aura.” The fact that she reaches a broader audience than do most típico musicians is due to a combination of factors, including her outrageousness, her staying power, her portrayal of a kind of Dominican “everywoman,” and her embodiment of the kind of rurality that is so valued in the Cibao particularly. These qualities have turned her into a national symbol and have gained her some surprising fans. For instance, in 2006, after having spent several days in the hospital with heart trouble, the then-­First Lady

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of the Dominican Republic paid Fefita a visit at home. As a fan blog reports, “Margarita sat on her [Fefita’s] bed and confessed that she and her husband greatly respected and valued her. ‘You are an icon for the [Dominican] people. It is not common for a person to move so many people. My husband and I adore you. For him and for me, you are like the flag’” (Abréu 2006). “Icon” is a term that comes up more and more often in regards to Fefita the older she gets. In fact, her age is frequently exaggerated, even by fans—­a practice that only serves to add to her legendary qualities.1 Fefita’s iconic status can be seen in her appearances on Dominican television, in essays, in art, and in Dominican films including Perico ripiao (discussed below), La maldición del Padre Cardona, and Nueba Yol 3; in the last two, she plays herself. Dominican views on her character are perhaps best summarized by essayist Máximo Vega: Eclectic, eccentric, and joyful, Fefita plays her típico merengues with the perfection of a jazz musician: her improvised accordion solos, the extraordinary speed of her fingers that never err nor tire in spite of age, the lyrics that reflect a bucolic, distant, and ancient life that we are already losing—­a world of folk traditions and moral restrictions, where romantic couples gave each other a first kiss next to wooden fences, beneath guayacán trees, or traded cheesy, ill-­intentioned compliments. But when Fefita plays or sings, the lyrics have no importance or even meaning: what is important is the music, the rhythm, and then the monotonous but giddy dance of the audience, now in the discos among the postmodern sounds of cell phones or the glug-­glug of glasses of Coke, then in the enramada or in empty houses with the furniture removed to the street, as the dancers, moving barefoot, clouded the rooms with the dust from the dirt floors. (Vega 2002)

Here again (and much like Tatico), Fefita embodies times past, rural life, and tradition even when transplanted into an urban, modern setting. And, yet, this image seems to contradict her own self-­presentation as a tíguera, as challenging societal rules and traditional structures. A few years ago, Dominican television aired a half-­hour biographical documentary on Fefita, titled Fefita: An Atypical Diva (Triculi809 2008; Fefita, una diva atípica). The program’s insistence on tying her to rural roots even while emphasizing her “atypical” personal qualities in a pun reveals what is in fact a typical Dominican view not only of Fefita but of merengue típico in general. The documentary begins with announcer Brenda Sánchez meeting Fefita in front of a war memorial in Santiago Rodríguez. Cut to a highway scene with her music playing in the background, the setting growing more and

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more rural as the car turns onto a dirt road and passes a fence made of sticks and barbed wire. They arrive at a tiny settlement called El Orégano de San José de Santiago Rodríguez. Fefita cries when, after a bit of bushwhacking, she arrives in the ruins of a house with walls made of sticks, its thatched roof long gone. This is not even the house where she was actually born, but was made later, since her father still used the land for raising animals and farming after the children were grown and gone. Eerily, though, there are still shoes on the floor. It makes Fefita remember her father, and she stops to wipe her eyes again, saying that he was a person “very, very much like me.” She shows the interviewer where he used to keep hens, where she and a sister would gather eggs, and where they would kill the birds. At this point, a narrator takes over to tell, in near-­mythic tone, a version of Fefita’s “first encounter with the accordion” at six years of age. Her mother would send her and a cousin every day to fetch water from the river. On the way, they would pass by a place where they could often hear merengue típico (we are shown a man sitting in a doorway playing accordion). The narrator surmises that this experience influenced the young Fefita “unconsciously,” until she began to sing the most popular merengues of the time on her own. The voiceover continues, explaining that Fefita’s father also used to play accordion at home for a few hours every day (here we see a little girl observing the man). One day, she came home when he was just finishing up. According to the film’s narration, “She says that something said to her, ‘Play now! Play the song you were hearing for all those days.’” The young Fefita acquired a habit of playing accordion every day in secret after her father was done. One day, the mother was surprised to hear a popular merengue being played. She thought it was her husband playing, but it was the girl. The next scene shows Fefita’s daughter Gladis Yaselyn singing “La chiflera,” a popular merengue Fefita plays at the close of nearly every show, as a man plays the accordion and some others dance. The host then explains that she is there with all of Fefita’s family except for one daughter. Cut to another family party, this one in the United States. In front of a house with an American flag, the announcer explains that, like many other Dominicans, some of Fefita’s children also emigrated to find success. After a visit to her elementary school, the film turns to Fefita’s personal life. In a strangely edited sequence, the interviewer asks her about her marriage, and then if she has any secrets. “I have two that I will take with me to the grave.” “Can we find out what they are?” “No.” Fefita shakes her head for several seconds. Cut. But after the next break, the Fefita we know and love is back. When asked if she has thought about death, she answers in the affirmative. She has already talked to her daughter in New York about what she

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should be dressed in, because, “I need for them to bury me very sexy.” The program then closes after Fefita performs her trademark “La chiflera,” and the narrator gives a summary of her achievements, declaring her an “atypical diva, well remembered in the heart of the Dominican people.” This film tellingly combines images of the poor, rural Cibao area with a comfortable, middle-­class US home and a luxurious Dominican one. These are familiar tropes in merengue típico and in the Dominican Republic in general: the dream of the country boy or girl who makes it big abroad and but returns to the country they love. Fefita is thus depicted as a living embodiment of this dream as well as of all the seemingly contradictory qualities that make típico so special: country authenticity, rural simplicity, and down-­home values, as well as audacity, sexiness, and urban know-­how. Like Tatico, then, Fefita is shown to be uniquely capable of bridging the rural-­to-­urban gap, as well as linking the rural values of seriedad and the urban ones of tigueraje. Her embodiment of these contradictory qualities is a part of what makes her so charismatic. Currently, Fefita seems to be attracting a new audience, one that is prepared to embrace this contradictory nature and to view her not only as an upholder of tradition but also as a cutting-­edge performer who was always ahead of her time. For instance, Greg Stare, a Brooklyn-­based percussionist who became a típico fan through living in proximity to the music, sees her as “the greatest merenguera ever to live” (2013). In addition, my friend Rossy Díaz, a young culture worker in the Dominican Republic, writes, “To speak of a cultural icon is to speak of a creative person, daring, avant-­garde and with a very original style; it is to speak of a visionary and persistent person who creates and believes themselves to be above fashion trends and social prejudices.” Díaz feels that Fefita fits this bill because she has a “very broad, original, and, if you will, transgressive vision; she has been able to negotiate her art over the decades, being one of the típico performers with the greatest penetration in Dominican and world culture, and without doubt, the one who has most influenced women” (Díaz 2011). The talent bookers at the Hard Rock Café Santo Domingo apparently feel similarly. On May 19, 2011, this venue presented a concert titled “De la rancheta a Hard Rock” (From the ranch to Hard Rock) that featured Fefita alongside local rock musicians, the first time merengue típico was ever played in this location. One of the organizers, Julio M. Peña García, commented, “This concert is . . . directed to that audience who has never enjoyed one of Fefita la Grande’s concerts or parties, to that segment [of the population] who refuses to visit a car wash or ranch to dance and enjoy themselves with ‘La Mayimba’” (Anon. 2011). In other words, the concert was specifically directed to upper-­class or upwardly mobile rock fans who would not be caught dead

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in such low-­status sites listening to perico ripiao. The fact that the promoters still felt that the sixty-­seven-­year-­old country woman would appeal to such a crowd speaks to her iconic, legendary, now almost cult status. It is also noteworthy that Fefita’s Hard Rock appearance came a year and a half after another landmark female performer appeared on that stage, Rita Indiana, the lesbian artist who is the subject of Chapter 7: both women perform their gender in transgressive ways, but differently so. Just as the legendary Tatico now serves as a symbol either of tigueraje or of traditional rural culture, depending on one’s viewpoint, so does the Fefita legend index both her musical genre and its tigueraje. For instance, one of her lingerie-­calendar images served as inspiration for visual artist Chiqui Mendoza. He blew it up to a larger-­than-­life size and incorporated it into a mixed-­media work entitled Santa Fefa divirtiendo a unos chivos sin ley (Saint Fefa amusing some “lawless goats,” perhaps better translated as outlaws or simply misbehaving young men; Fig. 4.2). The work could be

F i g u r e 4 . 2 . Santa Fefa divirtiendo a unos chivos sin ley (Saint Fefa amusing some lawless goats), painting by Chiqui Mendoza. Used by permission.

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interpreted in several ways: as an amusing look at popular culture, as a commentary on delinquency in contemporary society, or perhaps as a depiction of a common perception as merengue típico as a music for the “lawless” tígueres of the lower classes and Fefita as the “patron saint” of tígueres. The artist confirms that the lawless goats are “all those Dominicans who violate the law.  .  .  . It is a social critique, [since] to my understanding they are a majority in the Dominican Republic” (Mendoza 2013). He further explains that he wanted to paint Fefita because “she is the best example of a Dominican pop idol. Besides which the whole population loves and respects her. I depicted her in this way because I love mythologies and with this work I try to create new icons for our popular mythologies. Santa Fefa, a new urban deity” (Mendoza 2013). Each of these examples shows that Fefita’s image is in the process of being transformed in a way that Tatico’s cannot be. The quality that allows this to be done can be termed camp. While such a word is not employed in típico circles, it accurately captures the exaggerated, playful, humorous nature of Fefita’s performance of femininity, key components of camp aesthetics as defined by Susan Sontag in her landmark essay on the subject (1964), further explored in Esther Newton’s (1972) ethnography of female impersonators. Campiness is appealing to a sympathetic viewer because it exaggerates to the point of ridiculousness, and thus it is frequently associated with drag queens, although it is not limited to cross-­gendering performances: women like Dusty Springfield and men like Psy (of “Gangnam Style”) have also been considered to fall within the camp aesthetic. While camp has no Spanish-­language equivalent, José Muñoz offers the Cuban term choteo as a partial gloss. It usually means joking or kidding, but is also a kind of hybrid performance style of everyday Cuban life that undermines authority through mockery. While some have portrayed choteo as a pathological shortcoming in the Cuban national character, similar to the Puerto Rican jaibería discussed in Chapter 2, Muñoz sees it instead as “a strategy of self-­enactment that helps a colonized or otherwise dispossessed subject enact a self through a critique of the normative culture” (1999, 136). Thus, choteo can be seen as a kind of strategic implementation of humor and excess by those who feel disempowered. Choteo is not a term used in Dominican Spanish, but Muñoz’s description of choteo strongly echoes my understanding of tigueraje. Both critique hegemonic norms through satirical performances “from below.” Both have been viewed as pathological and threatening by those in dominant positions. In performance, both employ what Muñoz calls disidentification: “survival strategies the minority subject practices in order to negotiate a phobic

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majoritarian public sphere that continuously elides or punishes the existence of subjects who do not conform to the phantasm of normative citizenship” (1999, 4). While Fefita is not a minority subject like those Muñoz discusses (queer Latinos in the United States), she is performing from a subaltern position, as a formerly lower-­class rural person with little formal education, and as a woman in típico; her music, lyrics, and bodily performances all seem to express disidentification with (a) old-­school, middle-­to-­upper-­class Cibaeño society2 and (b) the frequent machismo of the típico world. Yet her use of exaggeration and humor—­her campiness—­makes what might be threatening into something that is instead appealing and has endeared her to a public far broader than her home base of típico fans. In this, Fefita might be seen as a forerunner of the more overtly gender-­bending or queer performers discussed in Chapter 6. (And although I do not know of any drag performers impersonating Fefita, such an act is easy to imagine.) Her age doubtless plays a role, as well: her actions, attire, and movements would likely inspire more acrid responses if performed by a twentysomething than they do when presented through her postmenopausal body; the freedoms she embodies are far more threatening to masculine power when enacted by a still-­fertile woman. Fefita’s brand of tigueraje and her embodiment of a diva persona beg comparisons to another disidentificatory Caribbean diva that Sontag includes in her description of camp and Muñoz later analyzes: La Lupe. Born Guadalupe Victoria Yoli Raymond, La Lupe gained fame for singing boleros in her native Cuba and later emigrated and became known for her recordings on Fania, the New York–­based salsa label. Always outrageous, her excessive performances combined hyperemotional displays, strident vocals that often included shouting and other unsonglike sounds, hyperfeminine makeup, revealing attire, and eroticized bodily performances that can be compared to drag in how they revealed the “artifice of presumed natural gender roles” (Knights 2006, 89). Her ironic lyrical commentaries on machismo, her bodily performance style, and her tragic life story have inspired both queer and feminist performers: I saw a drag queen perform La Lupe’s “Fever” at the Bronx Academy of Arts and Dance in 2002, and Puerto Rican drag performer Nina Flores impersonated La Lupe on RuPaul’s reality television show, Drag Race; New York Puerto Rican salsa singer La India and Dominican vocalist La Duke have both selectively embodied her performance style (see Washburne 2008, 151–­64 on the former and Aparicio and Valentín-­Escobar 2004, 94–­95 on the latter). They do so both in spite of and because of the disdain she often received in her lifetime: La Lupe was sometimes called la loca, the crazy woman (Aparicio and Valentín-­Escobar 2004, 84), a term also applied to queer people of both genders in Spanish and one that resonates with the “crazy” once applied to

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black jazz performers and extended to transgressively racialized performers today, like Shino Aguakate (see Chapter 5). I think it no accident that La Duke, a Dominican woman, has produced what some analysts have termed the most “uncanny duplication” (Aparicio and Valentín-­Escobar 2004, 95) of La Lupe’s sound, image, and stage persona: the exaggerated sensuality of her bodily presentation strongly echoes that of feminine tigueraje in the Dominican Republic. In both cases, outrageous performance styles are related to women’s contestations of local hierarchies of gender, race, and class. While La Lupe was inspired by the performances of that other, better-­ known Cuban diva, Celia Cruz, La Lupe clearly differs from her in that Cruz always comported herself with professional poise and elegance on stage and espoused a mainstream politics that gained her a mainstream following. Furthermore, during the height of her popularity La Lupe publicly embraced the Afro-­Cuban belief system of Santería, from which Cruz always distanced herself.3 Aparicio and Valentín-­Escobar therefore argue, “These contrasting strategies on the part of Celia and La Lupe both resist the eroticizing discourse about black and mulatta bodies at the same time that they represent distinct class aspirations” (2004, 85). The contrast between these two artists clearly provides a Cuban parallel to those between the Dominican women who perform either seriedad or tigueraje, which I described in Chapter 2. Muñoz provides yet another key to interpreting both Fefita and La Lupe in a Caribbean context. He views La Lupe as a supreme figure in the history of chusmería, a term he uses to describe a stigmatized class identity linked to the concept of tackiness through its connotations of class, race, or gender nonconformity and frequently applied to recent immigrants in the United States, especially if excessively nationalistic or flamboyantly sexual (Muñoz 1999, 182). Performance artist Carmelita Tropicana is one who has drawn inspiration from La Lupe’s performance of chusmería, seeing her as a model for a less restricted Latina self, and indeed credits her as the first Latin American performance artist. In embracing “studied excess and overblown self-­fashioning,” chusmas like Carmelita and La Lupe refuse to be shamed for being “too black, too poor, too sexual, too loud, too emotional, or too theatrical” (192–­93). Again, while the terminology and the aesthetics are different, Fefita’s tigueraje has a similar, liberatory effect. It is clear that, like Tatico, Fefita has both personal and cultural charisma and has thereby acquired legendary and iconic qualities. At the same time, the campiness of her stage persona shows that she is a transgressive performer who uses her music to critique traditional Dominican gender constructions and expectations. Her performance aesthetics and the politics of

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her performance are thus different from those of Tatico, even when both draw from the same source materials in Dominican folk culture. In the rest of this chapter, I will examine how Fefita performs her critique of Dominican gender constructions. Fefita’s Accordion In the passage I earlier quoted from essayist Máximo Vega, he describes Fefita’s playing as “flawless.” Such a characterization clearly marks him as writing from an outsider’s perspective. Within the típico world, her accordion technique is, in fact, more often considered unskilled at best. For instance, one day I was practicing a difficult passage on Rafaelito’s porch. I was having trouble holding down my weak fifth finger to make the melody sound out above the notes I was playing with my stronger index and middle fingers. As I struggled along, another accordionist walked by. A friend of mine, he knew he could make fun of my mistakes without me taking offense, and he mocked me by saying, “Sounds like Fefita.” Fefita’s technique has long been a source of debate, and usually derision, among típico musicians and fans. It is true that no one else plays like her. She generally plays relatively unadorned melody lines; at the ends of lines of text, she more often plays simple chords than the more typical rapidly arpeggiated figures; she holds the notes longer, giving her playing a somewhat “sloppy” sound when compared to the prized staccato style of other accordionists; her rhythm is irregular and complex. Accordionist Berto Reyes (2002) told me, “there is one who plays worse than all the rest, and she’s the one who is [best liked]—­la Vieja Fefa. She barely knows how to play, but since she was the first [woman] to start on the accordion, she was the one who taught people that . . . women could also play.” His evaluation is not unique, as I heard the same thing over and over from fans both on the island and in the diaspora. The unusual nature of her playing is recognized even by those who take a more charitable view of it. For example, accordionist “David David” Polanco (D. Polanco 2001) states, “She has maintained one style of playing accordion her entire life, a style that only she can play.” For María Díaz (2004), Fefita “is a tremendous singer and a tremendous artist,” and if she doesn’t play accordion as well as some, well, most audiences don’t know the difference. Rafaelito Román (2004) also emphasized that her greatest talents are her voice and her stage presence, at which “she is the best,” but that “although she plays her accordion well, she never developed in accordion technique.” And journalist Rafael Chaljub Mejía almost entirely avoids the topic of her instrumental technique when he writes, “As far as her quality as a performer, what is most

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noticeable is her stage manner, her showmanship and her sparky relationship with the public. Apart from a good voice, Fefita has a unique style” (2002, 318). Ricoché (2006) added, “Fefita is a special case; she is inimitable and no one will top her style.” Berto and others are quick to clarify that the women who play now are much better, according to their criteria, but the myth of a feminine style has endured because of Fefita’s idiosyncratic technique. It is perhaps puzzling that the woman generally held up as an example of poor playing is the one that has had the most economic success and has won numerous Casandra awards,4 Dominican music’s highest honor. Fefita’s odd technique may be a result of her lack of training, familial or otherwise—­after all, who would have expected a girl to become a professional musician in the 1950s, when she started to play? However, the judgment of her technique as deficient rather than innovative is likely a result of her gender: what might be considered unique, personal style in a man is judged as idiosyncrasy or even aberration in a woman. Similarly, Hungarian scholar Lujza Tari found that female traditional musicians all over Europe told her that “there was no difference [from men] in what and how they had to play,” but that nevertheless they were “put to harder tests to prove their worth than men” (1999, 131). Women have little space in which to create personal styles when they are expected always to “prove themselves” by emulating others. Fefita is fully aware that her accordion playing receives mixed reviews, but defends herself by changing the terms of the debate. She states, “I am not really a musician on the accordion. What I am is an artist. . . . Because for example a musician getting up on stage playing an instrument prettily and all, it’s different from an artist getting up there. . . . That’s something different. [The artist] establishes communication with the audience, knows how to talk to the audience, makes the public feel good. You understand: all those things happen with me” (Cabrera Taveras 2004). In this way she deflects attention onto her other accomplishments, but does not defend her idiosyncratic playing style. Personality and showmanship have always been important for female artists in Latin America. For example, Lise Waxer tells us that Celia Cruz’s status as grand dame of Latin music derives not only from her voice but also from her “extraordinary vitality onstage” (2002, 53). Fefita’s claims to be an “artist” more than a “musician” are a way of reframing the debate in a less masculine way. She asserts that playing music is more than finger technique; it is also dancing, style, rapport with the audience, and emotion. If we accept her proposition and agree to evaluate performers on all these criteria together, we will have to admit that, as Ricoché suggested, few can top Fefita. And, in fact, many of her fans either do not notice or do not care about Fefita’s precision or articulation on the accordion: they seem to agree

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that she ought to be judged as a star persona, not only as a musician. As Vega stated above, digitation is less important than energy and sentiment, and neither are as significant as the communal memories that her playing can evoke. Nonetheless, in spite of her modest comments and the evaluations of her peers, Fefita is still not just any kind of an artist but an accordionist, one with a half century of experience behind her, and she identifies wholeheartedly with that instrument. As she once told an interviewer, “I couldn’t do anything else. To he who is born to be a merengue musician, an accordion will fall from the sky. I only know how to sing and play merengues. Thank God that Dominicans have liked the idea. I like to cook, but when they put an accordion in my hands, that’s when I’m really myself ” (González 2005). So perhaps there is yet a way to recuperate Fefita’s accordion. What, exactly, is she doing? And is it so wrong? To answer these questions, I will compare a recorded solo of Fefita’s to one by acclaimed male accordionist Siano Arias (late brother of the aforementioned Domingo Arias) on the same song, “Chicha” (see complete transcriptions in Appendix B). This piece is frequently used as a vehicle for extended solos, a practice at which both accordionists excel. But while Fefita’s playing is considered the prototype of “playing like a woman,” Siano’s is seen as an acordeón macho, masculine accordion (he even recorded a song titled “Merengue macho”). This analysis will help explain how típico fans understand accordion technique as gendered, and, in turn, how Fefita’s technique has condemned her to be taken less seriously as an accordionist than as a singer. To some típico listeners, this may almost seem an unfair comparison, as this particular recording of Siano Arias is especially extraordinary in terms of the speed, precision, creativity, and unusual affinity between the four players, exemplifying the quality of afinque or tightly locked-­in playing. Yet, as my analysis will show, Fefita’s also has interest and merit, especially if we expand the criteria used for comparison.5 The tempo of the two recordings is almost the same, with Fefita’s slightly faster—­her breakneck 176 beats per minute just surpassing Siano’s 170. Slowed down to half speed, one notices Siano’s extraordinary articulation: rhythmically precise, either falling exactly on the beat or exactly between; clear differences between sharp staccato notes and legato playing. There is constant motion, with hardly any rest in the sound, and in extended passages he uses difficult finger techniques, such as repeated notes, sequences of arpeggios, and broken chords and octaves in unrelenting sixteenths. These techniques fill in and add interest to a fairly simple melody and a harmonic structure consisting only of tonic and dominant chords in a minor key. Additional interest is derived from his frequent use of the note of A-­flat while playing the

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tonic harmony of C minor, partly a result of the configuration of the diatonic accordion, which is not designed to play in minor but also a personal choice. The constant motion, precise articulation, and emphasis on finger technique are what I believe code this playing style as “masculine” for listeners—­they emphasize strength, agility, energy, vigor. Fefita, in contrast, uses chords more sparingly, usually playing just one note at a time. She plays more often off the beat, often avoiding rhythmic resolution for extended periods. Her playing has a more spontaneous feel, for instance where she seems to start and stop one passage several times, each time ending on the supertonic, before continuing on to a tonic resolution. Here and elsewhere, she inserts more rests, which, while very short given the speed of the song, give her performance a more spacious feel. Rather than using difficult finger techniques—­she eschews repeated notes, broken chords, and arpeggios—­she inserts tricky rhythmic modulations. She does occasionally hit a note imprecisely, perhaps sloppily, but Siano makes “mistakes,” too. Rather, her avoidance of showy virtuosity, her spontaneity, her use of rests and frequent evasion of the beat are the features I believe cause listeners to hear her playing as “feminine.” In comparing these solos, it becomes clear that we are not dealing with greater or lesser performers here but rather with two different playing styles: one less showy than the other. While the difficulty of Siano’s solo is more obvious to the ear and, thus, may appear more impressive, fast digitation is obviously not the only way to be a good musician, and perhaps not the only type of virtuosity. In the old jazz adage sometimes attributed to Miles Davis, “the notes you don’t play are as important as the ones you do.” Siano’s accordion aggressively claims space for its player, with no room between its notes for others to enter. But the spaces, the notes not played, in Fefita’s playing seem to open típico for the entry of its historic others. In those tiny breathing spaces, a sense of playfulness emerges that seems better to express her stage persona of a humorous, almost self-­parodying vieja, one so independent that it little matters whether the rest of the group can follow her or not, and we gain a glimpse of the tíguera’s trickster aspect. Her solo offers a take on típico that values the spontaneous over the practiced, and the brash tíguera over the mujer seria bound by convention. Fefita’s Voice Because of Fefita’s unorthodox playing, her accordion style has not been imitated by followers (although perhaps that will yet change). In contrast, her vocal qualities are widely admired and have been highly influential. To

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understand why this should be so, I believe her singing must be analyzed in conjunction with her lyrics and her corporeal self-­representation. Fefita’s voice typically matches the range of male típico singers, is harsh in tone, and clearly displays her rustic Cibaeño accent. One journalist has described it as, “that slightly fibrous voice with which she has made so many tremble, showing, pure and exultant, the most authentic idiosyncrasy of the low [class] people, in the countryside and the barrios” (Colombi, n.d.). Her voice is thus interpreted as a performance of the countryside, an important feature in this traditional (or neotraditional) music, and of a class position that makes her the “authentic” voice of típico. As noted in Chapter 2, the low, rough tones of Fefita’s and other típico women’s voices contrast sharply with the high, wispy, and immature sound of the female bachata voices in popular groups like Aventura and Monchy y Alexandra. Suzanne Cusick writes, “Voices are always performances of a relationship negotiated between the individual vocalizer and the vocalizer’s culture” (1999, 29). Therefore, the differences in vocal production between these two styles indicate a disparity in the roles each genre and each individual singer plays in the larger Dominican culture. A parallel to the típico/ bachata pairing from a different cultural context could be found in the contrast between hard rock and pop rock. Shepherd suggests that women who sing in the manner of “cock rock” with “‘hard’ vocal timbres” are appropriating a male singing style because they are beginning to occupy “male” positions in the social structure and need to display “masculine” assertiveness (in Fast 1999, 286). However, Fast complains that this denies the possibility that those strained vocal sounds might be expressing emotionality traditionally associated with women, or that women might take the same visceral pleasure in music and sex as men do. How can we know if this was men’s or women’s singing “to begin with,” she wonders (286). Fast makes a valid point. It may be that women and men both always sang merengues in a way similar to Fefita, and that the style is therefore neither specifically male nor specifically female. However, in genres as historically male-­dominated as rock or merengue típico, it is at this point impossible for female performers not to evoke male ones or to be compared with them. And, in fact, Fefita’s voice elicits precisely such comparisons—­particularly with Tatico’s voice. Accordionist Julián Ramírez (2006) explained: There are women who play well, but what happens is that a woman can play little accordion but sing a lot. For example, Fefita plays accordion so-­so, but that voice she has makes up for it, and that tigueraje she has. Wherever she

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goes, people immediately get up from their seats. Fefita is like Tatico in the way that it is worth something to have that energy and that throat, and that is a gift from God. Because if you play the accordion and you sing, you inspire [people]; but if someone else sings it isn’t the same, and then it would be a mechanical merengue.

Ramírez here ties both Tatico’s and Fefita’s voices, again, to nature and to tigueraje. Their voices thus contrast with those that are separated from the accordion; this division of labor is often seen in modern-­style, mambo-­based típico groups.6 Fast further notes that vocal timbre must be considered alongside the other aspects of music that are occurring simultaneously (1999, 287). As Fefita is singing, she is also playing in an unusual way, as we have seen, one that is often compared unfavorably with masculine modes of accordion playing. This would suggest either that she is not imitating male accordionists or that she is not successfully doing so. In order to determine which is the case, we will need to examine other aspects of Fefita’s performances: her lyrics and her bodily movements. In Fefita’s live and recorded performances, she expresses a particular viewpoint through her self-­composed lyrics. First of all, Fefita continually reinforces her rural authenticity by referring to her rural childhood. In my 2004 interview with her, for instance, she referred to herself as a “muchacha del campo” (country girl) three times in talking about her childhood. Newspaper articles also emphasize her ties to her hometown, noting that, “In all her recordings, both on vinyl and on CD, Fefita La Grande mentions her hometown and never forgets her origins” (Veras [2007?]). A street was recently named for her in her hometown of Sabaneta, Santiago Rodríguez province (Veras [2007?])), and every year on January 1, the feast day of the town’s patron saint, Fefita returns and plays the merengue “Fiesta de San José” (Ovalle 2004). Second while many women’s lyrics express concern over male partners’ behavior, Fefita is more interested in expressing her own agency in romantic liaisons, as in the verse from “Si quiere venir que venga” (If he wants to come, let him come) quoted in Chapter 2. Another, “Me enamoré en sueño” (I fell in love in a dream), tells listeners: La forma de enamorarme La gente criticará. Ay pero quiero que comprendan En el amor no hay edad.

People will criticize My way of loving. But I want them to understand That love has no age.

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The merengue ends with Fefita achieving her “dream”: Ay, me acosté muy tarde ayer y al amanecer Cuando desperté Me encontré con él.

Oh, I went to bed late last night And in the morning When I woke up I found I was with him.

Or in another of Fefita’s most famous lyrics, “Más vale un viejo caliente / que un joven desanimao” (Better a “hot” old man / than a lifeless young one). Such verses demonstrate that, while the interchangeability of domestic and sexual partners has long been a theme of male musical discourse, such possibilities also exist for the women who are daring enough to take advantage of them and to state it out loud. They further show how Fefita has deliberately built her image around feminine tigueraje, particularly relying upon a racy trope of an older woman taking younger male partners. A Caribbean parallel can be drawn with Trinidadian soca star Denise Belfon, whose self-­presentation contrasts with the female calypsonian Singing Sandra. The latter takes a moral, religious stance, while the former celebrates her sex appeal in her singing and dancing. Rather than being objectified by others, Belfon sings of her own desire: “When he’s hot he’s hot  .  .  . and if he’s not you know it . . . cause I like men when they steamin’ hot.” Dudley explains, “Considered in the context of Trinidadian popular culture . . . Belfon’s challenge to male sexual power and control is at least as threatening and revolutionary as Sandra’s moral criticism” (2004, 98). In the Dominican context, Fefita’s words are still challenging, but they appear to be much more widely accepted than Belfon’s in Trinidad—­at least within the somewhat special world of merengue típico. We might term this cultural difference “the tíguera effect”—­the historical depth and endurance of this female role over many decades, discussed in Chapter 2, had already paved the way for Fefita. Fefita’s voice is thus one way in which she performs the role of the tíguera, but not only that. It is a way in which she ties Dominicans’ idealized memories or imaginings of traditional, rural life to an assertive, sensual, and commanding femininity. By demonstrating that this mode of femininity is not a rupture from traditional culture but a continuity of alternative femininities that have a long history in the Dominican Republic, Fefita legitimizes both her musical genre and her performance of gender. Fefita’s Body Fefita’s bodily performance combines the instrumental playing and vocal attributes we have already explored, along with attire, physical features,

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movements, and gestures. While she sings and plays, she is also dancing and moving almost the entire time; this is a particularly important aspect of her stage persona, and one she is proud of. In our interview, she told me that at her concert the night before they had called her Rompetarima, or Stage-­Breaker, an allusion to the better-­known epithet Rompecama, or Bed-­Breaker. She continued, “I don’t have any reason to envy Shakira. I move a lot, yes, I have a lot of movement. . . . People love my voice, and they love my movement.” It is in fact Fefita’s body, much more than her instrumental technique, that most often commands the attention and respect of both fans and detractors. That fact is emphasized in journalistic coverage, in fan discussions, and by Fefita herself. Observers love to comment on her often outrageous clothing choices, notable examples of which include not only the lingerie ensembles in her calendar but also similar outfits she has worn during public appearances, including a see-­through pink lace unitard with matching bra and underwear, which she wore to the Casandra awards in 2008. And in her historic 2010 appearance with the Cibao Symphony Orchestra, at one point in the show, “She took off part of her clothing, leaving herself in a sexy red leotard” (Eugeren 2011). With his characteristic generosity, típico fan Américo Mejía writes, “her clothing style has always been a mark of her joyful and modern personality” (Facebook post, June 2, 2013). One recent newspaper article (Almonte 2011) was devoted entirely to describing her shoe collection, jewelry, and perfumes. A reader responded to the online version: “La Vieja Fefa is a very special girl [sic], I think she deserves the respect and admiration of all Dominicans, because she has worked very hard and she carries her art with a lot of pride and authenticity. I love that she has made her own style: after all, whoever doesn’t have the ability to put a stamp on what they do, isn’t doing much.” In a television interview (described further below), however, Mariah Collado commented that some people criticize Fefita’s way of dressing. Fefita countered this criticism by stating that young people often tell her, “When I am your age, I’d like to be like you” (Puerta Dorada 2008)—­seeming to say that for many women Fefita represents the freedom to break free from societal expectations related to gender and age. Yet another article reported that Fefita’s custom-­made outfits for her 2010 performance with the symphony would cost more than RD$600,000, or nearly US$20,000 (Veras 2010b; she later stated that this was not true). Such constant public attention to Fefita’s wardrobe demonstrates that bodily adornment, carried out in a particular style, is an integral part of her public persona. She is surely aware that her clothing, far from damaging her reputation, in fact serves to attract further publicity, to enhance her public image as a tíguera, and to ensure that Dominicans continue to talk about her. It

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also demonstrates that tigueraje is not simply a youth culture, but can be performed by any age group. Fans comment not only on bodily adornment, but also on Fefita’s body itself. For instance, one YouTube user who viewed the interview with Collado responded, “Damn, Fefa has a better body than the blond! How embarrassing! Hahaha!” (10Rassengan01 2008). And a fan blog post waxes positively rhapsodic on Fefita’s hips, tying them, rather unsurprisingly, to the Cibaeño landscape: “The emotional improvisations that erupt without subterfuge, clothing her vibrant anatomy, resemble the runaway stampede, and the overwhelming sensuality that dominates every part of her body is expressively demonstrated in her waist, amidst furious, daring, and voluptuous contortions and shakes that remind one of the picaresque innocence of the butterflies that inundate the fields of La Línea with their color and beauty at the beginning of spring” (Reyes 2010). Furthermore, a 2010 article reports on Fefita’s alleged receipt of an invitation to pose in Playboy: the reporter states, “Everything indicates that the merengue típico musician will say yes” (Veras 2010a). Fefita’s age of course also plays a role in the way fans respond to her body. She has, rather unusually for a woman, been a successful and popular performer at every stage of life, and her performance of tigueraje has helped her to enjoy some of the freedoms that men have to age on their own terms—­even though she clearly still feels pressure to dress and style herself in a youthful way, something most older men do not. Given her age and the attention focused on her body, Fefita takes care to assert its naturalness. In my 2004 interview, she stated: “I’m about to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. What I am really proud of—­you can already see how I am. I think, without fear of being wrong, that the only 60-­year-­old woman who looks the way I look is me, the only one. I feel very well. I haven’t done anything to any part of my face or my body. . . . [I have] a lot of energy, a lot of will to live, a lot of fire [lit. blood], a lot of—­well, a lot of boyfriends!” In this quote, Fefita emphasizes characteristics of the tíguera while asserting her bodily authenticity, which in turn allows her to maintain her position as an embodiment of típico, with its own ties to an idealized Dominican “nature.” When one notes the amount of attention paid to Fefita’s attire and physique, it will be no surprise that her movements and gestures are integral aspects of her overall performance, which serve to enhance and even comment upon her singing and playing. Let’s look more closely, then, at one particular performance, which I outline in greater detail in Appendix C. Fefita ends nearly every stage performance with the merengue “La chiflera,” which, as I explained in Chapter 2, is an anthem for transnational tígueres; every live CD sold at her concerts also ends with this song (Ovalle 2004). It was

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therefore fitting that the aforementioned television program Fefita, una diva atípica should also end with a performance of this merengue—­a recording of her band performing the number live with Fefita singing, but not playing accordion. This has become a somewhat frequent performance mode for her over the past decade or so: she recorded a series of popular CDs as a vocalist with Rafaelito Román on accordion, and in some stage appearances she also leaves the accordion out. Doing so allows Fefita to avoid criticism of her playing technique while focusing on her acclaimed singing, but, perhaps more importantly, it gives her greater scope for bodily expression: when she does perform with accordion, she still dances while playing and uses facial expressions to enhance the text, but without the accordion, she is also able to incorporate hand and arm gestures. In this particular performance (Triculi809 2008; see Part 3), Fefita appears in body-­hugging white leggings and lace-­up boots paired with an orange-­ and-­gold, butterfly-­shaped, beaded top that covers only the most necessary areas and ties in back; a belly-­dance–­style hip scarf in the same color with beaded gold fringe completes the outfit and helps to accentuate her movements. Her hair, enhanced by a temporary fall, is red with blond highlights. Upon viewing the video, fans posted comments about her beauty, and one even suggested, “They should renovate the monument in Santiago and take off the famous little figure and put La Vieja Fefa with her accordion.” The statue on top of Santiago’s Trujillo-­era columnar edifice, which stands atop the tallest hill in the center of town, has been variously described to me as representing Trujillo, Jesus, or María Trinidad Sánchez, the Betsy Ross of the Dominican Republic. Whoever it may be, the suggestion underlines Fefita’s status as a symbol of the Cibao, and, incidentally, such an installation would also provide a nice complement to the recently installed statue of accordionist Ñico Lora at the monument’s base. Gesture and movement serve several functions in this performance: they emphasize or reinforce textual meaning, they comment on the text or Fefita’s relation to it, they demonstrate tigueraje, or they establish rapport with the audience. Fefita often repeats gestures, particularly when text is repeated but also when a similar meaning is found in a different line, but never in the same way. Most often, she employs what I term a “text echo” effect, wherein each subsequent repetition is smaller in scale than the last, and often performed lower in space, but serves to remind viewers of the previous iteration. In Appendix C, I offer a detailed breakdown showing how Fefita’s movements coordinate with the lines of text she is singing, and I offer my interpretation of those movements. Fefita employs several of the gestures and movements I describe in many or most performances of “La chiflera”: for instance, running

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her fingers over her body at dulzona, or the small pelvis rolls. These movements become trademarks, while enhancing her overall reputation for tigueraje and showmanship. Many of them employ exaggeration for humorous effect, and thus can be seen as campy. They also allow her to offer a new take on an old text, presenting misogynistic lyrics in an ironic light and empowering herself to sing even the most masculine of típico lyrics. As I showed in Chapter 2, other women have attempted to do the same thing with this same song, but where Lidia de la Rosa gave “La chiflera” new meanings by composing new lyrics, Fefita achieves the same thing here through movement. Fefita’s bodily performance style has been just as influential as her voice. While male accordionists of older generations may not have been expected to move as much while playing as she does, expectations have been changing. It is increasingly common for young accordionists, both male and female, to move and dance on stage as part of their obligation to hacer show, to entertain. Those who are less confident in doing the two things simultaneously use their backup singers to fulfill this function, and they often perform fairly elaborate choreographed moves. Those who do not incorporate movement into their performances may be criticized, particularly if they are women. For instance, seguidor Papote de León (2006) has criticized some of the female accordionists that have emerged after Fefita for not knowing how to move and to use the stage in the way Fefita does: “that shake, that hip movement, that has already become a tradition.” It may even be that the use of dance movements on stage is itself a feature of tigueraje, both masculine and feminine. El Papillón explains that this was another feature that united Fefita with Tatico. Tatico “was not static” on stage, “he was a show on stage . . . like Francisco Ulloa, that’s how Tatico was; and Fefita—­the best as a woman. She doesn’t know how to play much, but she dances a lot. She is a show woman” (Ortiz 2006). Those accordionists who are more “static” on stage and do not move as much, such as Rafaelito Román and El Prodigio, are often considered more serious musicians (hombres serios), and would seldom if ever be described as “tígueres.” Julián Ramírez (2006), an accordionist of approximately the same vintage of Fefita using the stage name “El Viejo Tíguere” (The Old Tíguere), agrees that bodily expression is central to tigueraje, and he ties this aspect to nature, as Fefita herself did above: “One is born with that, because that is what’s important, the carameleo. Fefita has carameleo and that is what people like. Also, that is the obligation of an artist: to motivate people in the moment that you are playing.” When I pressed him further, specifically asking if Fefita was a tíguera, he stated unequivocally, “Yes, because being a tíguere is having movement and a lot of energy.” His statement clearly underlines the centrality

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of bodily movement to the performance of gender, and Fefita’s successful performance of this transgressive female role. Fefita, the Tíguera My analysis has shown how Fefita’s strong voice, defiant lyrics, accordion playing, and active, sensual body all combine to create a unified performance of the tíguera. The performance is enhanced by Fefita’s comments to the press, but, even there, she makes clear that this tíguera is created specifically for her musical performance: “On stage I am a ‘tíguera,’ but outside of that I am different,” she stated in a recent interview (Eugeren 2011). As she told me, “I don’t know why; I get out on stage and I am transformed” (Cabrera Taveras 2004). Nonetheless, the article’s author emphasizes that “her way of dressing, the energy her body emanates on stage and her preferences in a partner corroborate the statement [that she is a tíguera]” (Eugeren 2011). This statement demonstrates that Fefita’s performance of the tíguera is convincing in spite of her protestations, and precisely because of its multifaceted nature that combines body, movement, clothing, voice, and instrument. As I have mentioned, aspects of Fefita’s self-­presentation—­her tigueraje—­ have been emulated by many later accordionists. The first of these was María Díaz (2004), who began her professional career about twenty years after Fefita and claims to play better than she does, “just like a man.” Like Fefita, she used “La chiflera” to help make a name for herself, recording an eight-­minute version called “La chiflera moderna” based around an extended mambo section with multiple new accordion riffs and percussion breaks. She explained that this merengue con mambo was a “mixture” inspired by her group’s frequent tours to the US, where they “had to play for another audience that is different from the one here” in Santiago (Díaz 2004). The competition between Fefita and Maria enhanced the tigueraje of each, especially when they recorded battle songs taunting the other. In her well known pambiche “La pimienta es la que pica,” Fefita advises típico fans to accept no substitute for her own peppery, spicy performances: No se lleve de ilusión ni de carita bonita cuando se habla del sazón la pimienta e la que pica.

Don’t get carried away by an illusion Or a pretty face When we’re talking about spice, Pepper is the one with bite.

María responded with a merengue whose lyrics joked that if one is sick one can call the doctor, but that there is no cure for old age. A Santiago taxi driver spoke admiringly of María to me, calling both her and Fefita “controversial”

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and explaining that a reporter friend of his once interviewed María on this topic. According to him, she said that a woman has three ages: “la que diga, la que tenga, y la que aparenta” (the one she says, the one she is, and the one she looks). Like a true tíguera, and like Fefita, María plays the game of fame according to her own rules, and fans like this taxi driver love both women for it. In addition, María is even more explicit in her critiques than most other performers, even recording merengues with overt messages about Dominican gender roles and addressing violence against women in her “No soy mala” (I’m not bad).7 In the 1990s, other accordion-­playing tígueras emerged. The strong and rough vocal style of all the women, particularly Fidelina Pascual; the gyrations of Raquel Arias (discussed further in Chapter 5); and María Díaz’s and Lidia de la Rosa’s brash lyrics all owe much to Fefita. So, too, do those few other women who perform the tíguera outside típico. In orquesta merengue and merengue de calle, for instance, Juliana O’Neal has become known for songs like “Todos me miran” (All the men look at me), “Mujeres beban” (Drink up, women), “Antes muerta que sencilla” (Rather be dead than plain/modest), and her equally boastful spoken assertions midsong, like “Sé que te gusto” (I know you like me [sexually]). When performing her popular merengues de calle, she typically wears short shorts or miniskirts with tight tops that emphasize her large chest. Her gestures similarly emphasize her feminine attributes, for instance when she places a hand on a hip while leaning slightly forward and pushing the hip back, or when she touches her long hair, moving the hand down to rest on her rib cage just next to her chest while giving a sultry look into the camera. Her movements similarly veer into the realm of tigueraje, for example, when she places her feet wide apart and makes pelvic thrusts toward the microphone stand she is holding. Perhaps tellingly, when she performs romantic songs in a more conservative orquesta style, she switches into mujer seria mode: she moves less, standing with her feet close together, perhaps just tapping a foot in time; her face is less expressive, shunning the sultry looks in favor of smiling while gazing into the distance or raising the eyebrows earnestly; her gestures emphasize particular lyrics (e.g., tapping the head for “mente,” mind) rather than inviting the audience to flirt with her. In such performances she seems to draw on Milly Quezada’s model (see Chapter 2) rather than Fefita’s, thus underscoring the link between genre and gender performance. Even some men seem to have been inspired by Fefita’s self-­presentation. Típico innovator El Prodigio has cited her as an influence in interviews: “About Fefa I can say that she is a legend in música típica and I consider her an example; I admire her for being a woman and a hard worker, and she is a

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great performer on stage” (in Perdomo 2003). David David’s dramatic performance style, which combines dance moves with accordion playing and the attention-­grabbing arced stretching of the bellows at section changes, is strongly reminiscent of Fefita. Fefita has thus been as influential as Tatico, but in different ways. Both combine cultural charisma, through the embodied performance of archetypal gender roles, with personal charisma, exhibited both on and off stage. As Ricoché (2006) states, “People like her because of how she is, for the movements she has, and for her charisma. People want to see her movements, her gracefulness. She is an artist . . . [and] what matters in an artist is her charisma and her friendliness, [being] obliging with the audience.” Other fans, including her truck driver, Junior Mix (Ovalle 2004), also commented on her obliging nature: “I admire her because she is a very good person.” Like Tatico, then, she has known how to combine an exciting performance style with relationship-­building activities; she, too, has recorded numerous homenajes to wealthy patrons throughout her career. But while Tatico’s influence has been noted more in the areas of accordion technique and repertoire, Fefita’s lies in voice and movement. At the same time, it is possible that Fefita has made a musical impact, but in ways that are less often recognized by fans than are the innovations of Tatico and El Ciego. For instance, seguidor Juan de León (2006) told me, “she had a style of merengue that perhaps is the one that has now been popularized, which is faster.” While he distances himself from that style as a traditional seguidor, the possibility that Fefita’s accelerated tempi and danceable riffs enabled the later development of merengue con mambo is an intriguing one. One could say that Fefita even enabled my own field research. During my work, I felt surprisingly accepted by my male musical colleagues, and I believe this acceptance was partially due to my own sometime performance of the tíguera role, which, as I have shown, owes much to Fefita. Musicians tended to view my adventures with amusement rather than disdain. My performance of a strong, independent, music-­loving, and party-­going femininity while doing fieldwork in ranchos típicos fit into a role musicians already know well, one perfected by Fefita. On many occasions, they told me that I was a tíguera, or explained me and my presence in the masculine típico world to friends with the same word (although in the next sentence I might be referred to as a mujer seria, lest anyone get any ideas). Audiences love to watch Fefita perform on and offstage, as her antics provide ample fodder for gossip, humor, and amazed incredulity. My adventures in the field often did the same for my acquaintances. Insofar as they are entertaining for others, then, both Fefita’s and my behavior are permissible.

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But performing the tíguera is much more than just partying and having fun. It is about having or creating authority for oneself; it is about personal mobility and freedom; it is about finding a way to combine a successful public career with one’s private roles as mother, wife, or lover. Just as the tíguere is clever enough to know how to come out on top of any situation, so does the tíguera know how to use her own feminine wiles to get where she wants to go. In taking the name of “La Mayimba” and in her continual rhetorical switching between the mujer seria—­the homebody, the sedate grandmother—­and the tíguera, Fefita is demonstrating that women do not have to choose one or the other, but can successfully enjoy both their public and private lives. The mayimbe, in fact, can be seen as sharing certain characteristics with the tíguere. According to José Luis Llovio-­Menéndez, mayimbes in Cuba have “great facility for transfiguration and intensive training in changing directions instantaneously” (in Arminana 1989, 213). Both are tricksters who are able to inhabit contrasting roles simultaneously, or to easily and quickly switch between those roles, just like Fefita. One recent televised interview (Puerta Dorada 2008) focuses less on Fefita the musician and more on Fefita as a woman, and thus deals with the question of how she is able to embody both the mujer seria and the tíguera. The interview begins tamely enough in Fefita’s living room. The interviewer is Mariah Collado, a blonde bombshell from Dominican television. Collado begins by asking Fefita about religion and family. Fefita explains that she is very Catholic, and describes the difficulties of having raised her children with no man around. She reveals that her favorite meal is the down-­home dish of moro de guandules con guinea, rice with pigeon peas and guinea hen. After a commercial break, the interview resumes in a very different tone and a new setting: in Fefita’s Jacuzzi bathtub, previously immortalized in the infamous calendar. The two women both wear blue bikinis, large gold hoop earrings, and full make-­up. Collado begins this segment by talking about Fefita’s musical career, but after just a few questions, changes tack: doesn’t she have a boyfriend with whom to enjoy her spare time? Oh, no, Fefita protests, then adds in a quiet voice, “Between you and me, there is—­in a little while, I’ll give him a call.” Louder again, she explains that she spends her free time quietly, in her home, watching television, reading, doing puzzle books, or cooking. “I do my housework. . . . As I told you, I am really a homebody.” But Collado won’t let her get away with such a tame statement. “I’m going to ask you a funny question. Once someone told me that you said, ‘For an old man of forty with a cane, [I’d trade for] two of twenty with bibs.’ Is that true?” Fefita claims she never said any such thing, but, really, “what woman doesn’t like to have a young man at her side?” Those who won’t admit that are simply hypocrites,

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she states. And it’s not her fault if young men like her more than old ones. Now Fefita knows what game she is playing, so she is not surprised by Collado’s next question: “Fefita, do you have an erotic fantasy?” Yes, she answers: “Making love in my Jacuzzi.” A similar and yet more recent performance can be noted in Fefita’s 2011 recording of “Más mala” in collaboration with MC Jay. In this piece of dembow music, the local variant of popular reggaetón, Fefita presents herself as an urban tíguera when she teases her younger collaborator, “Come, touch my breasts.” In the titular refrain, she describes herself as “the baddest” (la más mala). Blogger Bad Dominicana writes, “if thats not her [Fefita’s] version of dominican old ass sinverguenza [shameless] feminism, ionno wut is” (Bad Dominicana 2013; original spelling and punctuation), clearly illustrating how and why some young Dominican women identify or at least sympathize with this older role model. Ever outrageous, Fefita knows how to achieve a delicate balance in a way that few other women can: to be the good mother and homemaker (the mujer seria), as well as the sensual flirt, or the tíguera. And instead of being tamed by age, if anything, she has become brasher. In fact, it may be that Fefita has grown more and more into this role with age precisely because older women are uniquely suited to inhabiting the tíguera role in Dominican culture. As I showed in Chapter 2, older women or doñas have long been those accorded most freedom in rural Dominican society, and older women have long been making appearances in merengue típico lyrics as tíguera-­like viejas que bailan. The older women depicted in típico lyrics enacting typically male behaviors of partying, smoking, and drinking are a well-­known and widely accepted part of the típico world. Here, their age is an asset: their confidence, comfort in their own bodies, relative freedom, and life experience make them more likely tígueras than most young women—­though perhaps also less threatening ones, whose rebellions are perhaps more symbolic than actual. Conclusions As I began drafting this chapter, Fefita came up in the news yet again. The Cibao Symphony Orchestra was preparing to perform the aforementioned show titled “Symphonic Fefita” together with her and a number of other típico artists on June 5, 2011, in celebration of her forty-­five years as a performing artist. However, the organizers decided to postpone the show for a month in order to devote more time to rehearsals. According to the caption on the photo accompanying the article, “Fefita doesn’t ‘fit’ with a symphony” (Anon. 2010). The fact that this event was planned at all shows the mass

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appeal this artist has, but the somewhat disdainful caption demonstrates that her musicianship continues to be questioned. As I have shown in this chapter, her instrumental technique is one part of an overall bodily performance of a gender role that perhaps does not “fit” either typical views of Latin American gender roles, or even middle-­to-­upper-­class Dominican ideals of womanly behavior, but which proposes a specifically Dominican kind of feminism. The tíguera, as its etymology demonstrates, is in part a female enactment of a male role, but it is not only that. It is also a recreation of a historical female role that is not simply derivative of male roles, as well as a way for female performers to create their own voices. As Fast suggested of female hard-­rock singers, Fefita is not simply emulating or copying male models. Her particular forms of bodily performance and instrumental improvisation, coupled with the point of view expressed in her lyrics, clearly demonstrate that fact. The reactions she elicits—­from young, artistic viewers’ admiration of her campiness to traditional típico fans’ disdain of her playing—­show the uniqueness of her musical and gender performances. The tíguera is in some sense a character to be acted, an over-­the-­top, stereotypical portrayal of the hard-­partying or sassy woman, as Fefita herself acknowledges when she discursively separates her “home” self from her “stage” self. But the tíguera could also be considered a sort of cultural archetype or prototype for a woman who refuses to be boxed in—­in the home, in an exclusively nurturing role, in a Marian ideal. Fefita’s idiosyncratic technique is not limited by masculinist notions of virtuosity; her body is not constrained by notions of modesty; her words express an individualism and lighthearted sensuality that might more typically be considered masculine. In all these ways, Fefita offers the tíguera as a viable model to other Caribbean women. That tíguera is both traditional, in that she has a history in the Dominican Republic and in típico music that predates this particular performer, and original, in that it is Fefita who has brought her to the stage, given her a voice and a body. Even as Fefita continues to inspire young women to take up the accordion, and, I would argue, to open the way for queer performers as well, in the next chapter I will show that transnational male musicians are creating ever more male-­centered típico styles. It would seem that we need Fefita now more than ever.

5

Filosofía de Calle: Transnational Tigueraje

Early in my second long period of fieldwork in Santiago—­on September 24, 2005, to be precise—­I went to the Centro de la Cultura, the downtown, state-­funded cultural center, to attend a rehearsal of its ballet folklórico, or folk dance group. When I arrived, I asked a man sitting at a desk near the entrance to direct me. He turned out to be the center’s choral director and was interested to hear what I was doing in Santiago. I explained to him that I was a doctoral student doing research on merengue típico music. At this he scoffed and informed me that merengue típico “isn’t music,” that “they don’t even know how to sing but they sing anyway.” In his opinion, modern típico, like other forms of modern music (especially reggaetón) was “vulgar,” and he was dismayed that traditional patron saint festivals1 around the country were now dominated by “non-­music” like merengue and bachata. Típico itself, the man continued, wasn’t what it used to be. When I asked him to explain, he gave an example: “A guy comes in from New York in his fancy clothes [here he pulls on his shirt collar to indicate this clothing] and says, ‘I paid for Geovanny Polanco for my town.’” For him, both the clothing purchased in New York and this particular accordionist’s music were both pretentions, and both equally bad for the development of Dominican music. Unpacking the anecdote further, we can see that the clothes are a metonym for the immigrant experience and the foreign culture and consumerism it brings into the Dominican Republic, while modern-­style merengue típico represents the contamination of traditional Dominican culture by those immigrants. Boasting about one’s financial success, both verbally and by paying a top típico star to play at one’s hometown’s patron saint festival, was likely part of what this man saw as “vulgar” in the music.

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Such attitudes were frequently expressed to me during my field stay. And even those who appreciated the music I studied viewed New York Dominicans as fundamentally different from islanders like themselves. For instance, in September 2005 I had this conversation with another observer at the ballet folklórico rehearsal, after telling him I had been learning to play merengue típico from accordionists in New York: Him: But they’re not as good in New York as they are here. Me: But they’re from here! They just went there later! Him: I know, but it doesn’t matter. They lose it after they’ve been there a while. The night before, I had had a similar conversation with a schooled musician and a fashion designer at the National Book Fair in Santo Domingo. They asked if I had ever dated a Dominican, and I admitted that I had. Them: You dated someone here? Me: No, in New York. Them: Well you have to date someone from here. The problem is that you haven’t met the Dominicans who are educated (cultos). Me: But they are from here! They grew up here and then went there. Them: I know, but they’re not the same. It has to be someone from here. The common view, then, is that Dominicans are fundamentally changed by moving to New York, and, by extension, so are the cultural artifacts like music that they bring with them and then reimport to the island. Since Dominican migration to the United States began, musicians have been bringing island music with them and playing it in the States, and return migrants have brought US-­made music like rock and hip-­hop back with them to play for their friends. More recently, new ideas generated by musicians and fans in New York worked their way into típico, exerting influence even on how the music was played back on the island. The flow was constant and worked both ways yet remained, until recently, largely invisible to the mainstream media in the Dominican Republic as elsewhere. But in the new millennium, típico’s transnational popularity has grown enormously, apparently surpassing that of orquesta merengue. US-­based Dominican ethnomusicologist Angelina Tallaj even credits Dominican Yorks’ preference for bachata and merengue típico with having brought these styles into the mainstream on the island (2006, 6). Modern-­style merengue típico has at times been the focus of controversy, presumably for its embrace of new sounds, but more pertinently for típico musicians’ performance of transnational tigueraje2 and what

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that urban subculture represents for those concerned with the Dominican identity. As Dominican music scholar Rossy Díaz argues, those writing about today’s popular merengue generally view its modern variants as “the decline of the merengue genre, a limited and prejudiced view that hides a musical phenomenon that flows alongside a progressive Dominican identity of the twenty-­first century” (2011, 23). However, musicians and fans of these new urban styles identify with them because they more closely reflect their lives and concerns, while displaying filosofía de calle, the tíguere’s street smarts: education of another sort. In this chapter, I employ the widely used term Dominican York (also written as one word) to refer to Dominicans who reside or have resided in or around New York City. While the term has been used pejoratively, both it and the people it describes are increasingly accepted on the island, a development Tallaj credits in part to former president Leonel Fernández’s efforts to incorporate the diaspora into Dominican political culture and focus attention on migrants’ educational and economic achievements (Tallaj 2006, 7). I use the term with this new, more positive sense, but I must also emphasize that it is impossible or at least unfair to generalize about this group. Dominican Yorks as a whole entail over a half million people comprising all age groups, skin tones, gender and sexual orientations, and young dominicanas/os both on and off the island embrace a variety of pop cultural orientations, from metálicos (metalheads) to raperos (hip-­hop fans), merengueros to salseros (see Padilla 2007, 85–­89 on the first two and their unlikely temporary alliance with gays in Santo Domingo; on the last two see Díaz 2013). I do not attempt to speak of this group as a whole but rather focus on a particular subset of this community—­young men involved in a new style of merengue típico—­in order to examine a particular musical and bodily style that has emerged since the 1970s as a result of their transnational experiences. Intriguingly, while women form a substantial portion of fans of modern-­style merengue típico, few play it themselves (more women play the neotraditional style). The bodily performance of típico moderno (or merengue con mambo) is quite masculine, at times veering into hypermasculinity. Young típico musicians’ and fans’ transnational tigueraje further shows how gender and genre are aligned, in that new ways of performing masculinity developed in conjunction with new ways of playing merengue típico, and these also correspond to new ways of thinking about race in the Dominican Republic. Furthermore, the successful performance of both típico moderno and transnational tigueraje depends on the body, as fans today evaluate artists not only on their musical sound, but also—­sometimes even principally—­on bodily cues like posture, gesture, dance, and dress.

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Gender, Race, and Style in the Tíguere Transnation Tigueraje has grown as a result of economic transformations linked to capitalism, as I discussed in Chapter 2; the transnational tíguere subculture is more specifically tied to neoliberalism. Tigueraje today is somewhat different than in the past, not only due to economic transformations but also because of young Dominicans’ experiences of gender and race, which have been strongly affected by their transnationalism. At the same time, there are distinct points of conservatism in transnational tigueraje, which I point out further below; these demonstrate it to be what García Canclini (2005) might call a “hybrid” of local conceptions of tradition and modernity, much like the típico moderno music these tígueres produce and consume. While the links between gender performance and economics may not be immediately obvious to the outside observer, they are very much present. In a landmark study of male sex workers in the Dominican Republic, health scholar Mark Padilla explains that “for young Dominican men, the contemporary field of gender performance is quite different from that of their fathers, now accommodating a range of ‘imported’ attitudes, styles, identification practices, and income-­generating activities” that are “emblematic of the growth of a distinctly globalized tigueraje” (2007, 71–­72). In the neoliberal economy, traditional sources of masculine employment like factories and agriculture are drying up, and new ones associated with tigueraje, like sex workers or escorts, beach hustlers, or drug dealers, take center stage—­at least in the national imaginary (see, e.g., Dominican-­made films like Sanky-­Panky or Washington Heights). The corresponding new kinds of masculinity are further tied to Black Atlantic cultural and musical forms that link Dominican men quite consciously with people of color around the Americas and beyond. For instance, in his study of the resort town of Boca Chica, anthropologist Stephen Gregory reported that some people (especially “those with weak claims to citizenship”) went so far as to “fabricat[e] transnational pasts patterned after the migration experiences and transnational networks of others” (Gregory 2006, 172). Young men might supplement this “imagined transnationalism” with the use of English and hip-­hop aesthetics, which had the additional benefit of connecting them with a valued transnational blackness, one in sharp contrast to Dominicans’ typically “deracialized” identities (Torres Saillant 1998, 134–­36) and their frequent conflation of blackness with Haitianness (Gregory 2006, 172). Dominican Yorks are more often than not the culture brokers in these transformations: they are more likely than island Dominicans to see themselves as black than “indio,” the Dominican euphemism for dark skin,

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and are believed to be more likely to listen to rap alongside merengue and bachata (Padilla 2007, 184; although local rap has existed in Santo Domingo since the 1980s [Díaz 2011, 26]). Intriguingly, just as they are transforming popular music by incorporating Afro-­Dominican sounds, they are also transforming the tourist economy by offering iconographies of tourism different from the official ones, ones that value and even commodify blackness over the rather whitewashed “folkloric dance performances and merengue dance lessons” ubiquitously offered in resort hotels (Gregory 2006, 68). While a revalorization of Afro-­Dominican culture has been underway since the 1970s through the efforts of activist-­performers like the members of Convite, folklorists like Fradique Lizardo, or popular musicians engaged in fusion projects like Juan Luis Guerra, which in turn engage with the international popularity of Afro-­Caribbean music since the 1970s, these new forms of Black Atlantic identification initiate within the lower classes. They differ from those promoted earlier by the cognoscenti, particularly in the points of contact they emphasize, which are primarily those of international hip-­hop culture. The employment of strategies of identification with transnational youth culture, for instance through the adoption of hip-­hop fashion, Afro hairstyles, English or Spanglish (or the local Dominicanish), and foreign music, may be advantageous for gaining capital among a peer group and for building positive feelings about blackness, but it also has drawbacks. For example, Padilla found that hip-­hop fashion gave the men he studied cultural capital among their peers, but simultaneously excluded them from higher-­status professions and social circles by marking them as tígueres (2007, 72). Even their citizenship has become suspect. A gift-­shop owner told Gregory that such people “were born here, but they are no longer Dominicans,” in part because of their preference for rap music (2006, 67); this sentiment echoes those from my own fieldwork described above, where those who leave the country for extended periods of time become non-­Dominican. In spite of the widespread perception that today’s tigueraje is a rupture with older lifeways, in fact it exhibits some continuities with them. For one, Dominicans have always had a notable tendency to play with language and adopt vocabulary from foreign languages in a way that prefigures modern tígueres’ bilingual, bicultural speech.3 And the term tíguere gallo (see Collado 2002) can easily be viewed as an urban reinterpretation of the older lifeways of the rural hombre gallo. The common handgun, for example, seems a throwback to the armas blancas of the hombres gallos who always carried these “white weapons” (blades, apparently so named for the way they flash in the light) as a point of pride, and hombres gallos also placed a high value on their powers of seduction.

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Even the consumer culture of today’s tigueraje is not particularly new, regardless of appearances. Simonson (1994) suggests that older Dominicans may be shocked less by tígueres’ reputed violence than by their focus on consumerism, since prior to massive transnational migration only the wealthiest could afford items like watches and other jewelry, and even those who had them seldom displayed them since they feared being labeled a comparón or show-­off. To Simonson, this shift in priorities indicates the emergence of “new processes of selfhood” related to the gradual integration of the Dominican Republic into the transnational capitalist system, in which the new emphasis on “identity” is constructed and displayed through selective consumption of commodities (190–­95). However, Lipe Collado emphasizes that tigueraje was born in the Trujillo era, when the curtailed possibilities for foreign travel fed tígueres’ desire for foreign culture—­and consumer goods. A poem of the time by Francisco Domínguez Charro, titled “El tíguere,” describes the youths’ desire for new Packards and the foreign food they acquired from American and European sailors (reprinted in Collado 2002, 52–­53). Collado also describes extravagant jewelry and the devotion of great attention to personal appearance as a decades-­old part of tíguere culture (2002, 158). What is new about the transnational tígueres is thus not the fact of their audacious behavior or consumerism, but simply their style. The outward appearance of participation in hip-­hop culture has a tendency to incite moral panic in both the United States and the Dominican Republic, but in the latter the focus is on hip-­hop as an expression of the encroachment of US culture, while US critics focus on its racialization. Nonetheless, in thinking about the influence of hip-­hop culture on Caribbean youth cultures, it is important to note that even before it arrived in the islands, it was already serving as a point of contact among Caribbean youth of diverse backgrounds in New York, who themselves contributed to its development. Also, marginal youth in Caribbean cities like Santo Domingo were dealing with social problems similar to those confronting their New York counterparts (Díaz 2011, 26). During my research in the 2000s, New York tígueres favored a hip-­hop–­ inspired look of baggies, pricey sneakers, and baseball caps; natural or braided hair, often tied with a do-­rag; and still the oversized T-­shirt or sports jersey. Some in Santiago tended instead toward a more clean-­cut look of belted slacks, slim-­fitting button-­down shirts, carefully styled hair, and long-­toed leather or faux-­alligator shoes. Yet already there was a trend toward a more overt display of US-­influenced forms of consumerism, exemplified in a flyer used in 2004 to advertise a new group called La Organización Típica. The group dressed in matching suits with fedoras, likely influenced by Fulanito’s use of a similar look on their 1997 album (discussed below), while performing

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F i g u r e 5 . 1 . Front and back of promotional flyer for Santiago group La Organización Típica, 2004. Collection of author.

crossed-­arm dance steps evocative of mafia toughs. The flyer was double-­ sided and printed in color to emulate a one-­hundred-­dollar bill (Fig. 5.1). For all styles of Santiago tíguere, a gadget-­filled cell phone was a popular accessory, and those who could afford it drove late-­model SUVs, complete with shiny new pistols in the glove compartment.4 These transnational tígueres seem to fit the description of Collado’s tíguere cinturita, a kind of dandy and ladies’ man (2002, 111–­13), though they adopt certain postures of the tíguere gallo. The musical sound of the new style of merengue típico is a similar blend of the neotraditional típico of Tatico and Fefita with new, transnational influences, although its hybridity may not be obvious to outsiders. This style is known by a confusing array of labels, including merengue con mambo (emphasizing its focus on the riff-­based, danceable mambo section), mambo swing (used mainly by accordionist Geovanny Polanco to describe his group’s style), típico moderno (used more broadly to refer to recent forms of típico), and in some cases merengue de calle (street merengue, which also refers to

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a counterpart played by orquesta-­type groups)—­and even these labels may refer to quite different musical sounds. To distinguish the various forms of típico discussed thus far, I propose a fourfold typology: Traditional típico: the style performed in trios (accordion, güira, and tambora, a group often called perico ripiao) or quartets (with the addition of marimba or saxophone) by foundational accordionists like Matoncito and groups like Trío Reynoso, now heard mainly in rural areas or informal gatherings. Such groups typically play at slower speeds with few or no percussion breaks and more repetition; pieces seldom if ever change rhythm, so merengue and pambiche rhythms predominate. Instead of riff-­based playing, accordionists typically play melodies that are longer and more resemble vocal melodies. Neotraditional típico: the updated style with an expanded ensemble created in the 1960s and 1970s by musicians like Tatico Henríquez, El Ciego de Nagua, and Fefita la Grande, and now generally described as traditional. Rafaelito Román also upholds this style today. Its musical characteristics are described in greater detail in Chapter 3. Típico moderno: Also merengue con mambo, a style that began to develop in the 1990s through the efforts of musicians like Agapito Pascual, Fidelina Pascual, or El Prodigio. It makes use of the maco tambora rhythm (Fig. 5.2) and emphasizes riffs called mambos, played in very tight conjunction by accordion and sax. Supermodern típico: Merengue con mambo with significant influence from transnational popular musics like hip-­hop or reggaetón; its practitioners also make frequent use of styles from the broader Black Atlantic in their personal appearance. Developed by groups like Aguakate, Krisspy, and others.

Each of these styles can still be heard today, although they emerged at different times; all four share many aspects of form, instrumentation, and style, in spite of the sometimes contentious borders between them. Musicians playing the new forms of típico have introduced significant innovations even while continuing to play within the tradition by focusing on the Tatico-­era canon and lyrical references to the rural Cibao. In brief, these changes include an expanded instrumentation, including a bass drum played

F i g u r e 5 . 2 . Tambora rhythm for merengue derecho (top) compared with that of maco (bottom). Transcriptions by author, based on instruction received from Rafaelito Román.

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by the güirero, congas, timbales played by the tamborero, and occasionally keyboards, guitar, or even trombone; the bifurcation of the bandleader’s role into two or more people, an accordionist and one or more lead vocalists; extremes of tempo, mainly very fast but sometimes also very slow, and also including tempo and rhythm changes in the course of a single song; and, above all, the predominance of the mambo section as well as the maco rhythm in the tambora. In this context, “mambo” refers to the catchy riffs played by accordion and sax in unison, usually prerehearsed but sometimes created in the moment, punctuated by cortes or percussion breaks, and enhanced by vigorous dancing both in the audience and by singers on stage; it also refers to the section of the piece in which the riffs occur. The significance of this new focus is trifold: it has altered the traditional merengue form in such a way that the first, verse-­centered part of the traditional two-­part merengue has practically disappeared (see Fig. 5.3); its faster tempi and short phrases have led to the predominance of the shorter maco rhythm over the traditional merengue rhythm for tambora (see Fig. 5.2); and it has created a stronger focus on danceability. This last is particularly significant in that danceability is likely one of the features that has helped típico moderno to attract audiences beyond neotraditional típico’s largely masculine fan base. While the onstage performance of modern típico focuses on the male image, off stage things look quite different. Even though women have been entering the genre in ever-­greater numbers as accordionists and bandleaders since the 1960s, the ratio of women to men in the audience of traditional típico gigs (with the possible exception of Fefita’s) is typically very low. The high incidence of young women—­many of whom might be described as tígueras—­at shows by modern groups is thus noteworthy.5

F i g u r e 5 . 3 . Comparison of forms for merengue derecho and merengue con mambo.

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Típico impresario Aureliano Guzmán (2006) explains the importance of female fans to merengue con mambo: Straight-­ahead merengue [merengue derecho] is liked by adults, but merengue con mambo is liked by young people, women, and everyone. So it becomes commercial because people consume it and buy it. For me to be able to promote it I had to add new ingredients like the mambo, dancers in front to attract attention. So straight merengue doesn’t have that, but merengue con mambo is heard all over, in any disco, rancho, everywhere. . . . Today those who are on the scene are young people and women who like that a lot, and they enjoy that music, and also young people go where there are women. And older men are working on weekdays, so they don’t have time to go to [these] parties.

These women have a real impact on the sound of the music and how it is performed. As Aureliano sees it, women listeners have different preferences and priorities, which, in his view, are focused on the corporeal and the visual over the aural: they want mambo for dancing, and dancers on stage to look at. By primarily attending clubs where merengue con mambo is played, and by inducing young men to follow them there, female fans ensure that the music is played in more prestigious sites (discos and ranchos rather than car washes), increase economic support for that style, and influence the direction the music takes. Some musicians even consider the modern style of típico as a whole to be feminized. Fidelina Pascual (2004) is one accordionist who offered such a view. She began her musical life playing tambora, and told me that it was hard at first to switch to the accordion because, “I had to play a very masculine accordion. And the male had to play a really super-­masculine accordion.” However, “now it’s a little easier, because for the old generation that already learned to play masculine it’s a little harder to play softer merengue, since now it is [mostly played with] mambo.” Her view of merengue típico as evolving from hard to soft, from a masculine to a feminized style, seems to parallel not only the emergence of female musicians in típico but also the anxieties over changing gender roles in the larger society as women have taken on more prominent roles in education, politics, business, and more. Fidelina (2004) also connects the new style of merengue with the New York immigration experience, further demonstrating the intertwining of changing musical styles, transnationalism, and gender performance. She spent two years in New York and formed a modern-­style group of which she was very proud; then in 1999 she attempted to move back to Santiago and establish a similar-­sounding group there, “But the people here [in Santiago] were not prepared for me. They still did not accept me as a [female] musician.” Her style of music was as much a problem as her gender: “Back

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then it was already modern [in New York], I had a lot of followers. Here, not yet. . . . [When I came back to Santiago] it was uncomfortable for me. Because my style was smooth; I play like this [taps a slow tempo]. But I didn’t know that here they were playing [taps in double-­time] fast.” Another problem was with audiences, who were less conservative in New York. In that city, “they give everyone a chance. That is, if you play them a heavy [modern] merengue, fine; you play them a merengue from the old times, fine.” But by 2004, Fidelina believed that Santiago had become more musically “modern” than New York, due to the rising popularity of groups like El Prodigio, Geovanny Polanco, and La Selección Típica. For a time, at least, women seemed to be at the forefront of the innovative modern style. In 2002, reporter Susana Veras (2002) commented that women accordionists in particular “embrace new times . . . with the mambo and innovation in their recordings.” And it is true that more and more female accordionists are emerging all the time (see Chapter 4), most of them performing the mambo-­based style. In the 1990s, female accordionists seemed to emulate Fefita’s brand of tigueraje in voice as well as bodily movement. One such example is Raquel, daughter of Julián “El Viejo Tíguere” Ramírez. During a 1990s televised performance (fariseo007 2012; see Table 5.1), Raquel enhances the mambo riffs played between verses by dancing suggestively. Wearing tight black hip-­hugging pants and a midriff-­baring silver top that ties in back, she turns her left side toward the audience as the song begins, bending her knees and executing pelvic thrusts as she moves up and down. Continuing with the same eight-­bar accordion riff, she switches into a basic merengue step, exaggerated by twisting her knees to alternate pointing right and left and swinging her hips side to side accordingly. While doing this move, Raquel turns her head away from the audience and looks back at them with a smile. She then signals the start of the verse by taking two steps to face the audience square on, her feet hip distance apart as she approaches the microphone. Her expression while singing is confident, and she often smiles and tilts her head while maintaining her gaze on the audience. To return to the mambo riff, after the first verse Raquel turns to face left and again performs the descending pelvic thrust, now to the other side, returning to face front as she again begins to sing, this verse emphasizing that “all men look” at her when she plays. As if to add emphasis, when this verse ends, Raquel does her pelvic thrusts toward the audience. In the third verse, Raquel brings her voice and facial expressions into play. In this and other televised performances, Raquel performs the tíguera through her use of sexual innuendo in her facial expressions, bodily movements, and flirtatious lyrics, and particularly her focus on the pelvic area

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T a b l e 5 . 1 . Movement and Gesture Analysis of Raquel Arias Performing the Third Verse of “Raquel” Text

Movement/Gesture

Interpretation

Me llamo Raquel / Me dicen la estrella

Not visible on screen

1) Me llamo Raquel My name is Raquel

Extends the “L” of her name over two beats while opening her mouth wide, allowing her tongue in its L-­position to be seen; simultaneously slides the pitch of her voice downward and takes a short dip with her knees

Sexual innuendo

2) Me dicen la estrella They call me the star

Raises eyebrows after “estrella”

“I’m not the one who says it; don’t blame me”

3) que tocando acordeón since while playing accordion

Sinks slightly into her knees while playing a soft chord on the accordion after “acordeón”

Reinforcing textual reference to the instrument

4) Yo soy coquetera / 5) Tocando acordeón / yo soy coquetera I am a flirt

Bends slightly down toward microphone while slightly moving hips to the beat

Demonstrating flirtatiousness

Yo soy coquetera / tocando acordeón

Dances a larger merengue step, lifting R knee up

Structural emphasis: return to dance-­centered mambo

Mambo riff with sax solo

Half turn to R; full turn L, pausing briefly to look at audience when facing them; then dances merengue with back to audience

Purposefully focusing attention on her figure and, particularly, her rear end; demonstrates control over sexuality and hence tigueraje

Note: Follow along with the video, fariseo007 2010.

through dance movements and directional choices. Her tigueraje draws on Fefita’s but extends it into the realm of mambo by emphasizing dance as an aspect of musical performance and amplifying those movements, for instance, by using a wider stance.6 Raquel has since abandoned her tíguera persona due to her embrace of evangelical Christianity, but she recently took up the accordion to record a new album and returned to performing. Her new orientation is marked by a distinctly more conservative femininity, clothed in a long-­sleeved, ankle-­length black dress, and most notably, without any of her signature dance moves. It is clear that her interpretation of the bodily performance of faith entails erasing any remaining vestiges of the tíguera, principally through eliminating movement as much as possible. Raquel’s trajectory also shows how she has passed through different femininities at different life stages. Given (1) the presence and impact of earlier mambo-­playing women, (2) the fact that the moderno style is considered more feminine in sound than the neotraditional, and (3) the increased presence of women in moderno

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audiences, it may seem puzzling that supermodern típico (and even much típico moderno) now seems more male-­centered than ever, even hypermasculine in its bodily performances. Popular modern-­and supermodern-­style groups like Banda Real and Urbanda, analyzed below, now place their several male vocalists at the front of the stage just next to the accordionist in order to focus audience attention on the male singers’ dance moves. Some of the focus on the male body may be due to the demands of female fans, as Aureliano Guzmán suggested above, but the specific movements and gestures mambo artists perform on stage might also be understood as a reaction to the increasing female presence in típico spaces, intended to project a virile image and reinforce the genre’s masculinity in the face of a perceived feminization of the style. A possible consequence of this move toward hypermasculinity in típico seems to be that while more and more women are playing, fewer of them are successfully performing the tíguera persona, both cause and effect of the underrepresentation of women in the substyles of merengue de calle or merengue con mambo.7 A not insignificant corollary is that these modern artists create visual and kinetic linkages to other Black Atlantic musics, particularly hip-­hop. Urban Típico and the Performance of Transnational Tígueraje As a “roots” music with a limited audience, típico has for the most part stayed within the bounds of its genre. Most típico musicians have had little interest even in playing their music for non-­Dominicans. And notwithstanding all the rhythmic changes in merengue con mambo, genre-­crossing fusions remain comparatively rare. Nonetheless, Dominican musicians in New York have influenced musical taste and practice on the island. Regardless of one’s opinions of their quality, there is no doubt that moderno groups did the important work of bringing típico to a new public of transnational tígueres, thus expanding its audience, increasing its economic impact, and revitalizing young people’s interest in the style. These musicians run the gamut from those born and raised in the city of New York, to those residing there for long periods, to others who move back and forth frequently to play to audiences in both locations, though usually maintaining their primary residence in Santiago. At this point, I must note that transnational tigueraje is performed in other Dominican musical genres, as well. Most or all groups performing orquesta-­ derived merengue de calle are considered tígueres; these include Omega, Amarfis, Mala Fe, Tulile, Toño Rosario, and many others (the last three are discussed in Chapter 6). In bachata, the former New York–­based group Aventura birthed a new, transnational form of the music with crossover appeal in the

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early 2000s. Combining bachata guitar with R & B–­style, bilingual vocals, and a romantic, boy-­band image, Aventura drew fans not formerly interested in the style, particularly women and non-­Dominican listeners. They also popularized a Dominican York clothing style of New York street wear—­such as sports jerseys or sleeveless undershirts worn with gold chains—­that formerly had been disdained on the island (see Tallaj 2006, 9–­11). While Aventura are now better known, típico fusion group Fulanito’s use of such styles predates Aventura’s; supermodern típico group Aguakate’s is contemporary with Aventura. In any case, there was certainly significant interchange between New York–­ based Dominican groups, whatever their genre; many or most participated in the transnational tíguere subculture and wore the clothing associated with it. I focus on típico and típico-­based groups here in order to continue the narrative begun in previous chapters, extending my analysis of gender performance closer to the present time, and also because such a focus allows for a productive discussion of the role tradition plays in urban, transnational contexts. In this section, I will examine the musical and bodily performances of four transnational típico-­oriented groups representing a range of styles and life experiences. Their chronology does not fit what some readers might expect: rather than evolving toward more fusion, they show a general tendency away from it. First is Fulanito, a fusion group formed by Bronx-­born children and nephews of traditional típico accordionists Arsenio and King de la Rosa, whose first album was released in 1997. Fulanito is known for their típico-­style “merenhouse” music but not considered a típico group themselves. Second, I look at Aguakate, a group formed mainly of island-­born Dominicans who were long-­ term residents of New York, in existence from approximately 2003 to 2006, and at Shino,8 the group’s former front man who has increasingly moved away from típico in his current solo career. Aguakate innovated by using hip-­hop and reggaetón styles, and their music can be considered supermodern típico. Third is Geno, a Lower East Side–­born accordionist who began his career in the mid-­2000s as leader of the groups Geniswing and T-­Urban. Geno began playing a traditional Tatico repertoire but has come to use R & B and electronic sounds in his music. Finally, I examine Santiago-­based Urbanda, led by accordionist Nixon Román, son of my teacher Rafaelito Román. This group plays a straight típico moderno style. While Nixon himself performs the hombre serio, or perhaps the bacano like El Prodigio (discussed in Chapter 2), backup vocalists enact the tigueraje required in live performances. The various mixtures these groups have created have been both controversial and compelling, each showing a different way of relating to urban, transnational Dominican life. Together, my analysis of their modes of performance will show how transnational tigueraje and típico urbanity—­a phrase

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that might once have been considered an oxymoron—­are performed; it will also demonstrate how this new style continues and advances earlier projects of masculinity, frequently extending into hypermasculinity, but through a new conception of Dominican racial identity. Fulanito Fulanito’s first album, El hombre más famoso de la tierra (1997),9 catapulted the group to fame and fortune with the hit “Guallando,” where rap vocals by Rafael Vargas overlaid the accordion riff from “La chiflera.” Although they do not play a traditional típico repertoire, and the group has moved away from its early típico sound in more recent albums, Fulanito brought the típico accordion to a wider audience through world tours and opened the door for típico hybrids. The story of this group provides a good example of how some New York Dominicans relate to típico, as well as the obstacles this music faced in gaining an urban audience. One of the group’s founders, Winston de la Rosa, was heir to a típico accordion dynasty that stretched from his grandfather, Yan de la Rosa, composer of típico standard “La rubia y yo”; through his father, Arsenio de la Rosa, and uncle, King; down to his cousin, Lidia. None of Arsenio’s or King’s New York–­born children played típico or listened to it—­instead, they grew up surrounded by the South Bronx’s nascent hip-­hop culture. They did, however, inherit musical talents and affinities, and several went on to make hip-­hop music. Winston and his eldest brother Joe became sound engineers, even getting to know Afrika Bambaataa and Jazzy J through their work, while Joe is also a producer and a keyboard player who worked on Fulanito’s later efforts. The other of the group’s founders, Rafael Vargas, was a rapper who had already had a hit with the club song “Wiggle It.” Vargas met Winston in the studio, and was excited to find he had a Dominican sound engineer. The two soon partnered up to form the hip-­hop duo Two in a Room and later the 740 Boys, a group that had success in Europe. Then they hit upon the idea of combining merengue típico with rap, and created Fulanito. Its “meren-­house” style resembled that of the earlier NYC group Proyecto Uno, but with a típico twist. Joe de la Rosa (2006) recalls the moment in which the group’s sound was born as a result of finding some old DAT cassettes in Winston’s studio one night: We put on King [de la Rosa]’s stuff first and the first song that came on was . . . ‘Si Mateo Se Muere.’ . . . That song came on and we were like, ‘Whoa, this is pretty good!’ and it was like all my cousins and all my brothers, like ten of

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us, and we’re just hanging in my brother’s studio, and we listen to this stuff for the first time since we were five, six years old. . . . We stopped the session. The whole night we just listened to King and my father. Perico ripiao. You know, nobody ever played that stuff, other than when we were kids, and we just started getting into it, and we were like, ‘Man, listen, this is off the hook!’ We started playing it, and we started playing tambora and güira, and I grabbed the accordion. I mean, you know I play piano, I don’t know how to play the accordion. But I started mimicking . . . ‘La Chiflera.’

Although they had hated the music as children, as they matured they found they could appreciate their father’s and uncle’s musicianship. It was natural, then, for them to invite Arsenio and King to record accordion tracks for their project. The initial difficulty was a musical one. Joe explains, “Perico ripiao is like 160, 170 BPMs [beats per minute] and hip-­hop is like 95, 90, around there.” Therefore, they decided to keep the merengue beat, and add rap over that. The group then created a one-­bar rhythmic loop and recorded Arsenio playing an incredibly difficult and fast accordion riff over that. Next, the rhythm was altered, and breaks were added. “We went through that song note by note. Cause my father would sometimes, you know, miss a note or play it a little late or a little early, so we went note by note, and whenever we heard an error, ‘Oh, just move this here’—­or sometimes he would play a wrong note and I would pitch it up or pitch it down to where it would be the right note. . . . So if you listen to ‘Guallando’ there’s no errors at all.” Today, however, Joe thinks this approach makes the song sound too “digital.” In his productions he now tends to move notes so that they fall slightly ahead of or behind the beat, so they will sound “live, not so computerized” (2006). There were also cultural obstacles to overcome. Rafael Vargas (in Wald 1999), further explains: The other [merengue/hip-­hop hybrid] groups, like Proyecto Uno, Sandy y Papo and Ilegales, they were doing it with more of a big-­band [orquesta] merengue. But I was like, let’s try and go even farther back to the thing that started the whole thing off. And that was the accordion, what they used to play up there in the mountains. People really dig that—­when you play perico ripiao people just go bananas, but it was more of an underground thing. It’s the typical folk music of the Dominican Republic, and no one [on the pop scene] was touching that stuff with a ten-­foot pole.

Vargas clearly recognized the symbolic power merengue típico wields among Dominican transmigrants and, thus, decided to defy the conventions that kept the style from reaching a broader audience. Joe (2006) explained that his

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cousins and others of his generation initially felt that the two styles were like “oil and water,” but the idea eventually caught on, leading to extensive tours on which Arsenio accompanied the group; it was so popular in the DR that the group “couldn’t walk the streets” because of the swarms of fans. Fulanito’s video for “Guallando” further demonstrates how the group repackaged merengue típico to make it more appealing to a young, US-­born population that, like the group’s members, probably disdained the music if they knew it at all. It alternates between scenes of Fulanito performing on stage in their then-­trademark white suits with fedoras, each of the five members with microphone in hand, and a house party scene where young people dance to the music of an accordion in a crowded apartment. A supposedly Arab neighbor (signified by his black and white keffiyeh, head scarf) angrily awakes due to the noise, but ends up joining in the dancing, supplying a thin narrative framework. As Rafael raps, “vamos juntos a la montaña en mi patria dominicana” (let’s go together to the mountain in my Dominican homeland), the video briefly cuts to various images signifying “típico”: a painting of a rustic, rural Dominican house and a pair of dancers in “folkloric” costume; a man (shown, but not heard) playing Dominican marimba (the bass lamellaphone that was used in early merengue); and scenes that appear to be filmed in Queens típico restaurant Rancho Jubilee. In contrast to those folksy images and lyrics, the rappers’ bodily attitudes, hand and arm gestures, and some dance moves instead reference hip-­hop culture. For instance, when Rafael says “martillo” (hammer) the five performers on stage bring one or two fists to chest level and pump them downward in time with pelvic thrusts, a move not part of the traditional merengue dancing in which the performers engage elsewhere in the clip. When Winston shouts the chorus, he points at the viewer, then opens his hands and fingers wide, palms down with fingers pointing left, one about chest height and the other reaching out at head height as he leans slightly away from his extended arm—­a gesture familiar from 1990s rap videos. In another moment, as he says “Yo me voy a quedar,” I’m staying, he emphasizes the words by raising both hands slightly above his head, index fingers pointing down with palms facing him. The visual juxtaposition of merengue dancing with African American-­ derived gestures reinforces the auditory musical fusion of rap vocals, house beats, and accordion playing, and the gradual integration of the folk dancers into the house party tells viewers that típico is not a dead relic of the past but a cool resource on which young people can draw. Meanwhile, the hypermasculine attitudes that reference mainstream, commercial hip-­hop show group members as part of an Afrocentric transnational tigueraje.10

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A g ua k at e a n d S h i n o Aguakate was a comparatively short-­lived New York–­based group of the mid-­ 2000s, whose impact has outlasted the group itself. Because I knew many of the musicians involved before the band was formed, I was able to watch its development from the beginning and interview several of those involved. In the early months of 2003, I watched Aguakate rehearse in a soundproofed basement studio in Washington Heights, and later, I sat in the studio as they recorded their first album. Aguakate’s first CD demonstrated their intention to innovate in a way that would appeal to a broad audience rather than to traditional seguidores (típico fans). Titled De otra galaxia, (From another galaxy) the CD opens with spaceship sound effects, and announcements tell us we are headed for collision with an “Aguakateroide” (avocaderoid). On realizing the ship is entering another galaxy the captain shouts for Sergeant Tambora to activate the “mambómetro” (mambometer), and this launches us into their set of original songs, many of them penned by Shino with his trademark punning and double-­entendre lyrics, though with numerous tongue-­in-­cheek musical quotes like the Woody Woodpecker opening to “El pájaro loco” (The crazy bird, as the cartoon is known in Spanish). The most innovative piece was perhaps “Reggaetón ripiao,” which, as the title suggests, combined típico with that new trend by alternating between the electronic beats typical of reggaetón and a tambora playing the same rhythm. While típico album covers and videos are usually refreshingly free of scantily clad women (cover images are usually a simple head shot of the accordionist), this video primarily shows women dancing in short shorts and tube or halter tops. The song alternates between Chino’s rapped verses and a female chorus singing lyrics that focus again on the female body as well as on the music’s transnational appeal: Baila tu reggaetón ripiao Puerto Rico hasta el Cibao Don’tcha see now está pegao y mi cuerpo está sudao

Dance your reggaetón ripiao Puerto Rico to the Cibao Don’tcha see now it’s a hit And my body is sweaty

The group’s live performances often went even further in their use of multiple musical styles. For example, in a live recording made at a gig in Puerto Plata, Aguakate quoted from four different genres in one set: a rock song by Colombian star Juanes, a pop merengue by orquesta musician Toño Rosario, a Tego Calderón reggaetón, and a Joe Veras bachata. Songs from the traditional típico repertoire like “Más maíz mamá” and “La muerte de Martín” were also played. Two merengues featured major tempo changes with significantly slower

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middle sections; in traditional típico, it is common for songs to gradually speed up, but abrupt shifts in tempo are not permissible, as they disrupt the dancers. The rhythms played included first and second part merengue, pambiche, maco, guinchao, and even a chachachá. In addition, the group often used quotations from international pop music like “Eye of the Tiger” as intros or outros. Aguakate’s rhythmic manipulations were met with some resistance by traditional típico fans, but Shino’s lyrics were even more broadly controversial and made the group appear as both a moral and a cultural threat. Shino made heavy use of thinly veiled double entendres and is also famous for using expletives on stage. As a result, Dominican blogger Remo reported in 2004 that the government division of Espectáculos Públicos (public spectacles) banned Aguakate’s “El caramelo” that year because of its “threat to women’s dignity and the good manners of society” (Remo 2004a). Shino has used his music as a platform to express explicit and acrid commentary about Dominican social and political issues. One example is the 2004 song “Usted se lo pierde” (You’re missing out). Shino composed the song in response to the New York–­born Dominican Yankees player Alex Rodriguez’s (A-­Rod’s) comment that he considered himself American rather than Dominican. Shino’s onstage commentary about the song was explicit and controversial. At one performance, he exclaimed, Let’s go to the Cibao! Although there are people who don’t want to go to the Cibao because they say they are Americans. This is especially for my friend—­my ex-­friend—­Alex Rodriguez, who was once Dominican and now isn’t Dominican, and what do I care? We have seventy-­five truckloads of Dominican ball players as good as he, because he is good, the bastard. . . . If you don’t want to be Dominican like me, Alex Rodriguez—­[begins to sing] Usted se lo pierde, usted se lo pierde. Si usted no siente en el alma el merengue, usted se lo pierde. . . . Si usted no emociona cuando vea a una mulata . . . Si dice que usted no escucha bachata . . . Si usted no se emociona con un plato de concón . . . Si dices que tu sangre no tiene sabor, Usted se lo pierde. . . .

You’re missing out, you’re missing out. If you don’t feel merengue in your soul You’re missing out. . . . If you aren’t excited when you see a mulata . . . If you say you don’t listen to bachata . . . If you don’t get excited by a plate of concón [crunchy rice] . . . If you say your blood has no flavor, You are missing out. . . .

Here, Shino defines Dominicanness around key symbols like music and food, as well as race and (hetero)sexuality. Well-­known Dominican blogger Remo (2004b) put the recording on his site and readers responded vociferously. One bachata fan strongly disagreed with

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the song’s sentiment and commented, “Agua-­caca, you are disgusting. You can’t deny that you are a damn peasant without education because only an ignoramus like you could take what Alex Rodriguez said in a bad way. [Expletive], they asked Alex where he is from, and he is American, born and raised here, you bastard. Whatever he is, he owes it all to the United States. . . . He has never denied his roots; what’s more, he always has been and will be more Dominican than the plantain.” This fan uses the plantain as a metaphor for Dominicanness, as indeed many Dominican Americans do—­and besides being a food highly symbolic of the Caribbean, it is also one with sexual connotations. Another reader halfheartedly defended the singer, writing, “I have a lot of friends from el sur y el este [the south and the east] and they say that nosotros (cibaeños) privamos en americanos [we Cibaeños act like we’re Americans] (maybe cuz of the large white population, but that’s besides the point). . . . But you know how it is: some of us have a pious devotion to our province (and who more than cibaeños?) and can be easily (although not always justifiably) offended.” Still another agreed with Shino about A-­Rod’s guilt and, tellingly, used music as a litmus test for citizenship: “Yo, what Alex is is an [expletive]. . . . Just because you’re born in New York doesn’t mean you are a gringo. How the hell does he know Spanish if he’s not Dominican? Ask him what he listened to when he was a kid—­merengue or rock and roll??” (Remo 2004b). Dominican New Yorkers, conscious of what island Dominicans thought of them, were extremely sensitive to debates over Dominican identity and were themselves uncertain as to what defined that identity. More certain was the important role that music played in that definition. Shino’s personal style was another important aspect of the group’s presentation and either the attraction or distaste many Dominicans felt for them. While the band members usually appeared in matching, button-­down shirts and slacks, like other contemporary típico groups, Shino most often wore New York street styles, particularly oversized sport jerseys and long shorts. His hairdos ran the gamut from frizzy ponytails or teased-­out Afros to Coolio-­type stand-­up braids (Fig. 5.4). Shino’s embrace of African hair is very much at odds with typical Dominican views, as such hair is commonly described as “bad,” and the ire his style provokes can be viewed in the sometimes racist comments that appear after YouTube videos of his performances, some questioning whether the singer could even be Dominican. Shino further promotes this identification with the realm of the street and those who spend their time there in lyrics that deal with transnational tigueraje using the vocabulary and grammar unique to that culture. They often refer to the blackness he has embraced and sometimes to the more controversial and stereotypical aspects of Dominican Yorkdom, like conspicuous consumption

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F i g u r e 5 . 4 . Shino on the cover of the 2006 album Crazyssimo by Aguakate, released by Universal Music Latino. Collection of author.

and drug dealing. For example, the first two verses of “Está jodío” (which could be translated at various points as either “It’s screwed up” or “You’re screwed”): Tu salías con la mujer del vecino y preñada quedó ella en ese lío la vecina y el vecino son blanquitos y el niño, como tú, salió negrito diez años estuvo preso el vecino por asesino y se enteró que fuiste tú, está jodío. . . .

You were going out with the neighbor’s wife And she ended up pregnant from the mess Both the neighbors are white And the child, like you, came out black. Her husband was in prison 10 years for murder, and he found out it was you. You’re screwed. . . .

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I advised you a thousand times, buddy, give up the street And a thousand times you told me to shut it You wanted to buy a house and an SUV It was going to be your last sale so you could retire. You were happy as you were going to deliver the goods You’re screwed: you sold it to a fed.

Shino is also known for his improvised battle songs (tiraderas) with other merengue singers, a skill undoubtedly honed during his work doing radio comedy but which strongly echoes traditional African American insult games like “the dozens” and Afro-­Hispanic Caribbean competitive improvised verse like décimas. Indeed, few vocalists today have the ­improvisational skills of Shino. One example comes from a recording made with the famous pop merenguero Sergio Vargas titled “Esa mujer,” which plays on differences between the two tied to Shino’s embodiment of transnational tigueraje: Sergio: Compadre, le digo que ella es mía, es ella mi alegría, la voy a enamorar. Yo tengo verbo para encantarla y con mi romanticismo su amor voy a ganar.

Sergio: Buddy, I tell you that she’s mine. She’s my joy, I’ll make her love me. I have verbs to enchant her And with my romanticism I’m going to win her love.

Shino: Yo tengo filosofía de calle. Escuche con detalle cómo le voy hablar: Oye loca, echa pa`cá y mira que buena tú ‘tá, a tí te quiero agarrar y darte lo que te mandan, de tí yo quedé afixiao desde el día en que te vi y loco yo me quedé con las líneas de tu jean. . . .

Shino: I’ve got street cred (lit. street philosophy). Listen carefully how I’ll talk to her: Hey girl, get over here and see how good you look, I wanna grab you and give you what’s coming to you. I was hot for you since the first day I saw you And I went crazy over the line of your jeans. . . .

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Sergio: Te regalo las estrellas y te llevaré a París, te daré mi corazón si tú me dices que sí.

Sergio: I’ll give you the stars and I’ll take you to Paris, I’ll give you my heart if you say yes.

Shino: Ni las estrellas ni un viaje te podría yo pagar, te llevaré a Boca Chica y te daré un pote de Brugal.

Shino: I can’t afford the stars or a trip for you, I’ll take you to Boca Chica [Dominican beach town] and I’ll give you a bottle of Brugal [popular Dominican rum].

Sergio: Hablándole de esa forma usted acaba de perder, con su lenguaje vulgar nunca tendrá su querer.

Sergio: Talking to her like that You’ve just lost, With your vulgar language You’ll never have her love.

Shino: Lo siento mucho mi pana se acaba de equivocar. Con ella salgo esta noche: ya me dió su celular.

Shino: I’m very sorry, pal, You’ve just messed up. I’m going out with her tonight: She already gave me her cell number.

Shino ends up winning the battle and the fictional girl’s love by virtue of his superior “street cred” (filosofía de calle) and in spite of his purported lack of financial resources, demonstrating his success as a tíguere. Similar themes have appeared in non-­típico street merengues, such as “Loca con su tíguere” (Crazy for her tíguere) by El Cata (later appropriated by Shakira). The song’s chorus, “Ella tá por mi y por tí borró / y eso que tú tiene to’ y yo ni un kiki” (very loosely, She’s with me and she forgot about you / even though you have it all and I don’t have a cent), similarly reinforces Shino’s tigueraje by describing the singer as economically challenged, but also showing that lack of money is no obstacle to a tiguere’s success with the opposite sex. It is no wonder that such songs appeal to so many Dominican youth dealing with economic hardships, whether in New York or on the island. Several YouTube videos of Shino engaged in other battles show that he uses body language and particularly dance moves to enhance his verbal play. For instance, in a battle with Julián of the famous merengue de calle group Oro Sólido (Junkoencendio 2006), Shino follows each verbal jibe with a different way of exaggeratedly dancing to the merengue beat of the chorus. First he lifts his fists just above waist height and swings them lightly back and forth as he

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picks his feet up to dance merengue in almost a jog, turning his back on his adversary. After his second attempt, he sings along to the chorus with the microphone in his right hand, opens his feet to a wide stance with bent knees, and moves forward and back toward his left knee while bringing his left arm up to head height and swinging it down toward his hip in time to the beat, punching his fist forward at hip height to emphasize the word duro, hard or tough, in the line “Yo soy ma’ duro” (I’m the toughest). The third time, Shino lifts his knees high as if doing aerobics and then brings one foot quickly behind the other in a skipping step, alternating feet, and returning to the high-­knee step and then his wide-­leg stance at the end—­a trademark move. The fourth time, he calls upon the audience to support him by turning toward them, raising his straight right arm to just above head height, palm facing slightly out, and jumping up and down to the beat, which causes the crowd to jump while pumping their own arms in the air. In each of these cases, Shino’s dancing exceeds the more sedate, compact nature of traditional merengue and serves to punctuate his humorous insults. He engages the audience by directing his gestures to them and emphasizes his street-­tough character with a wide stance and punches. Together, words and movements allow him to embody the trickster aspect of the tíguere, the transnational twist signaled by his New York–­style attire. Aguakate broke up in 2006 and Shino, rebaptized Shino Aguakate to capitalize on the group’s name-­brand status, embarked on a solo career.11 After about 2010, Shino turned from merengue típico to merengue de calle with orquesta instrumentation. Accompanying the change in genre, he has found a new compositional voice. Shino’s 2010 hit “E’ pa’lante que vamos” used then-­ president Leonel Fernández’s well-­known and often-­mocked slogan, “We’re moving forward,” to critique corruption and the government’s inattention to the problems of the poor. The video juxtaposes images of Fernández with other hated political figures like Fidel Castro, Osama bin Laden, and George W. Bush as Shino takes on the personae of politician, plumber, construction worker, male nurse, waiter, and machetero—­perhaps not coincidentally bringing Concho Primo to mind—­to accuse a presidential impersonator who ignores him throughout. The video climaxes with Shino apparently urinating on photos of Fernández and Castro, although he is later revealed only to be squirting water from a plastic bottle. Shino reported that the song was banned from some Dominican stations and that he even received threats of bodily harm from Fernández supporters (Bueno 2010). Not a free reed to be heard here, perhaps the song’s piano-­, bass-­, and sax-­ heavy arrangement relates to the típico world’s habitual avoidance of politics since the fall of Trujillo, a reaction against the dictator’s requirement that all musical groups compose and perform paeans to his achievements. The saxes

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play short, punchy riffs; the bass sits heavily on a single note (played on beat four) for most of the song; the tambora sticks to a moderate-­tempo maco rhythm; and the güira plays in machaca’ (pounded) style, with heavy downward strokes on the beat, switching to offbeat upstrokes when the trumpets enter late in the song. These musical features mark the tune as a merengue de calle, while the minimalism and heavy feeling of the bass and güira add weight to Shino’s words—­here remarkably free of strong language. Shino’s habitually prosaic vocal style—­ in a comfortable midrange, unadorned, restricted to just a few notes and using speechlike timbres and rhythms—­ also makes the embodiment of the Dominican “everyman” his costumes suggest more credible. Again, his trickster-­tíguere persona is conveyed through humorous onscreen actions and merengue dancing, while the more serious nature of this song is demonstrated by his atypical wearing of a business suit in the scenes that address the president. Interestingly, a Dominican Christian rapper, Redimi2, recorded another song with the same title, “E’ pa’lante que vamos,” which he uses to question the prevalence of tigueraje among young Dominican men: ¿Cómo echamos pa´lante? Dime cómo, si aquí al hombre serio le llamamos palomo, ¿cómo echamos pa´lante? Dime cómo, si votamos por el candidato que nos dé más romo. Cómo echamos pa´lante, mi hermanazo, si el mayor sueño del menor es ser un tiguerazo . . . ¿Cómo lo hacemos?

How do we move forward? Tell me how, if here we call the hombre serio a sucker, how do we move forward? Tell me how, if we vote for the candidate who gives us the most rum. How do we move forward, brother, if the biggest dream a kid has is to be the biggest tíguere . . . how do we do it?

Redimi2 here seems to blame young people for adopting the tíguere as a model, while Shino’s song instead blames politicians for serving as that same model. Thus, while Redimi2 expresses legitimate concerns about Dominican futures, he ultimately seems more naïve than Shino about the (principally economic) causes for the rise of tigueraje. While several groups today have made songs incorporating sounds from bachata, techno, and other genres, none have gone as far as Aguakate in the extent of their fusions or use of transnational Afro-­diasporic styles. From the beginning, Aguakate was advertised as “el grupo más loco” or “the craziest group,” the adjective “crazy” being most often applied to Shino. The term referred to everything from his stage behavior and use of strong language to his sense of humor and his hair. Their second album, whose cover pictured a red-­tinted picture of an upside-­down Shino with teased-­out Afro, was even titled Crazyssimo (Fig. 5.4). Although the description was used with both

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positive and negative intention, the band embraced it. (The use of this term also connects with accordionist Agapito Pascual’s experiences: often credited with having birthed merengue con mambo through his 1980s hit “La vieja y su pipa,” he recalls that people thought his music was “crazy” [2004].) Jazz scholar George Lewis states that bebop musicians were also called “crazy,” a term that was “often assigned to oppositional forces, either by the dominant order itself or by members of an oppressed group who, however onerous their present situation, are fearful of the consequences of change” (Lewis 1996, 95). We have already seen how Shino represents opposition to typical Dominican beliefs about African heritage and about Dominican Yorks. The group as a whole, through its combination of symbolically powerful típico music with morally suspect transnational genres like reggaetón, likewise represents opposition to dominant Dominican ideas about traditional culture and change. Jorge Duany explains that for Puerto Ricans the choice between salsa, disco, rock, or some other style “represent[s] where one stands on the acculturation/resistance spectrum” (1984, 201). Among these, “Salsa is above all a symbol of resistance to the loss of national identity, whether through the migration experience or the cultural penetration of the island” (199). Merengue típico serves a similar function for Dominicans both in Santiago and in New York. Therefore, Aguakate’s mixture of típico with foreign rhythms and Shino’s aggressive promotion of a politicized transnational tigueraje is symbolically perplexing, confusing, and “crazy.” G e n o a n d T - ­U r b a n Emerging around the time of Aguakate’s demise, Geno or Genito Peralta seemed poised to become the first US-­born accordionist to make it big in típico back in the Dominican Republic. When I met him in 2006, Geno, who grew up on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, was playing with Geniswing, a band formed entirely of first-­generation Dominican Americans under twenty years of age. In 2007, the famous tamborero/impresario El Viejo Puro (Juan Robles, also known as Purito) took the then twenty-­one-­year-­old Geno under his wing, bringing him to Santiago to make his first recordings. By April, his first single was playing constantly on La Super Regional, Santiago’s main típico radio station. Geno’s prodigious technique and perfect command of Tatico-­era repertoire are all the more surprising considering that he had had no accordion teacher. His learning was facilitated by technology: he used a computer program to slow down típico recordings, learning each merengue the whole way through, note for note; he then honed his skills playing for block parties in Brooklyn, like one I observed in 2006 (Fig. 5.5).

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F i g u r e 5 . 5 . Geniswing (Geno Peralta, accordion) perform at a block party in Bushwick, Brooklyn, 2006. Photo by author.

While Genito’s early style was straight típico moderno à la Prodigio, his group’s recent work seems more influenced by their New York upbringing. By 2010, it had renamed itself T-­Urban for típico urbano, emphasizing their new musical and social orientation and, probably, their hopes to play hip nightclubs rather than neighborhood get-­togethers—­even as they continued to perform the típico canon and to compose homenajes for businessmen-­ patrons, just like their more traditional colleagues. T-­Urban’s reorientation was signaled by several television appearances and music videos released around that time as well as a new Facebook page that defined urban típico along linguistic lines, explaining, “TÍPICO URBANO is the mixture of lyrics that defines the novel musical concept that rejuvenates the traditional rhythm of merengue típico with the influence of novel and contemporary sounds.” The group’s aim, they continue, is to integrate English-­language lyrics into the genre by using short words that are “easy for Spanish-­speakers to pronounce” and learn (T-­Urban 2010). I observed Geno play on several occasions in the summer of 2006. While his accordion playing was widely praised by observers even in the típico testing ground of Macorís restaurant in Brooklyn, the group’s vocalist attracted criticism. In my field notes, I wrote that one rather drunk seguidor at Macorís loudly complained that the singer was out of tune, saying that it “wasn’t out of

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disrespect” but he “knew a thing or two about music and tuning” and “someone had to point out the truth.” The young man was forced to step down and surrender the microphone. However, I discussed the situation with several other attendees and we agreed that, although the singer was indeed young and had a few things to work on, we had heard far worse, even in that very location. I suspected that the complainer was less annoyed by the singing itself than by the fact that the singer was American-­born and not yet a part of the tightly knit family of seguidores and musicians that made up the transnational típico scene. In their later efforts, T-­Urban did not try to duplicate the sound of traditional típico, but instead took a page from the book of New York bachata superstars Aventura. For instance, in their song “Tu lindo amor” (Your sweet love), Victor’s smooth R & B vocal sound and the bilingual romantic lyrics addressing a female love interest are intended to appeal to the female audience often associated with merengue con mambo, as well as to replicate Aventura’s romantic, R & B–­influenced bachata style. Aside from that, the music is a straight merengue con mambo, enhanced in its moderno feel by the addition of keyboards, chimes (played by the conguero), and smooth male coros. A rehearsal video posted on YouTube by the group’s label (Ripiao Records 2010) emphasizes the group’s new name, showing the group rehearsing in a sound studio in typical city headwear like baseball hats or black woolen beanies, strolling the streets of midtown Manhattan, and working on a laptop with earbuds plugged in. Here, group members, particularly Victor, enact what Collado would term the tíguere cinturita, the suave ladies’ man, in its transnational variant. Their tigueraje is clearly transnational and urban in its orientation, yet it differs from Tatico’s tigueraje in more than that. While Tatico’s music addressed other male listeners and was aimed at cementing male-­male bonds, T-­Urban’s addresses merengue con mambo’s female fans and focuses on heterosexual romantic relationships. T-­Urban claims that their “Hay party” (There’s a party) is the first típico song (almost) entirely in English, and its performance reveals how the group conceives of masculinity and lo urbano. In a Halloween presentation on Univisión 41 television station (MerenYola 2008), all members except for the staid bass player seem to move constantly—­even the tamborero moves his rib cage and head side to side as if he were dancing along with the saxophonist to his right. Geno bends his knees deeply to accentuate the hip movements of his merengue dancing, taking a wide stance with his back to the audience at one point to focus attention on his hips’ side to side movement, much like Raquel’s move described above. Meanwhile, the singer punctuates his words with gestures drawing from transnational hip-­hop and R & B (Table 5.2).

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T a b l e 5 . 2 . Movement and Gesture Analysis of T-­Urban Performing the Beginning of “Hay Party” Text

Movement/Gesture

Interpretation

The club is on and popping and we’re going tonight / looking fresh with the outfits here, we’re bagging tonight

Singer not visible; accordionist dances merengue, turning so back is to audience

Merengue dancing signifies partying and having a good time

All the ladies goin’ crazy and the singer’s all right

Accordionist exaggerates merengue hip movement with back to camera; singer holds R hand in a relaxed position, palm down, marking the beat by moving it outward and bending knees on “ladies” and “crazy,” bringing L knee up, then circling index finger near temple on “singer” while continuing to bounce slightly in the knees on the beats

Exaggerated hip movement and “crazy” hand sign suggest the ladies are going crazy specifically for the musicians

We popping bottles, got those dollars

Singer extends fingers of R hand and moves it toward audience and back in double time

Demonstrates that action is underway, for instance the transfer of money

Now we ain’t here to fight

Accordionist dances merengue in a circle, returning to face audience with an open-­mouthed smile; singer wags R index finger while looking into camera

Accordionist lets audience in on the joke of his hypersexualized movement; singer reinforces “no”

Music pumping, people dancing and [we doing] this just right

Singer turns slightly to R, takes an upright posture while tilting torso slightly side to side and hitting the beats with R hand just above head height, palm toward the singer, fingers together and thumb perpendicular to the others, dropping hand to rest in front of belly at the end of the phrase

Emulates club dancing

Let yourself go crazy cause there’s rhythm inside

Singer leans back with L knee raised as the raised R hand’s wrist rotates in a flicking motion away from the singer, then brings the R palm to his heard on “rhythm inside” while bending forward from the waist

Gesture suggests letting go, freedom, then emphasizes an inner feeling

Vamos a bailar y a gozar (We’re going to dance and have fun)

Singer bends more deeply toward L knee, keeping R hand close to his chest and closing eyes, opening hand and closing again on “a gozar”

Closed eyes and interiority of posture suggest “deep feeling” of enjoyment, as well as performances by singers of romantic bachata or R & B

Y yo quiero verte vacilando (And I want to see you party)

Singer opens eyes and looks into camera, taps chest twice with fingers on “y yo” and points repeatedly with index finger at camera on “verte”

Reinforcing text for those whose Spanish may be shaky

Note: Follow along with the video, MerenYola 2008.

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Notable textual features include the use of urban slang like “popping” and “bagging,” the prevalence of Black English grammar, the presumed female listener, and the depiction of the clubbing experience, all juxtaposed with a switch into Spanish to depict the couple having a good time. This text combines with the sounds of típico accordion, orquesta piano, the heavy bass of merengue de calle, and electronic sounds to project the group’s interpretation of típico urbanity. Meanwhile, their bodily performances clearly situate T-­Urban within the realm of transnational tigueraje. Nonetheless, some seguidores ultimately found this piece unconvincing. For example, knowing Geno and his preference for Tatico-­era merengues de fiesta, Freddy Peña and Peligro (José Mateo) found his adoption of the urban style inauthentic, and when we watched this particular video together in December of 2013, they also commented that his exaggerated merengue dancing looked like something he was unaccustomed to doing. The perceived mismatch between Geno’s onstage and offstage personae made for an unsuccessful performance of tigueraje. Urbanda Geno’s is far from the only típico group to proudly declare itself “urban” in the past few years. Another is Santiago-­based Urbanda, a more recently formed popular group that tries to achieve the delicate balance between pleasing traditionalists and mambo fans at the same time. Urbanda’s Facebook page explains their goals: It is a new advance of the times. We have reviewed the feelings of the seguidores of música típica, who show us the new challenges that separate the attention of the seguidores from before and the new ones. We immediately adopted these needs as our own. Thus we proposed a new stage in music and began to fuse a new style to fill the demands of the new seguidor, but never forgetting the essence of a quality merenguero. (Urbanda, n.d.)

With these aims in mind, until 2014 the group featured accordionist Nixon Román, who guaranteed the authenticity of their traditional repertoire as the son of traditional típico maestro Rafaelito Román, alongside a guitarist, pianist, and several male backing vocalists who together signified urbanity and modernity. (In 2014 Nixon left the group and was replaced by Julio Swing.) Like many other típico moderno and merengue de calle groups, Urbanda’s performances seem to acknowledge the large numbers of women in their

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audience by focusing attention on male dancers on stage or in videos.12 A 2012 performance at Santiago’s Andy Ranch posted on YouTube (Almonte 2012) displays the interplay of the bodily performance of tigueraje and verbal transnationalism when the group plays a new version of the 1950s tune “El picoteao” with the added stanza: Los dominicanos allá en Nueva York “El picoteadito” lo bailan mejor

Dominicans Over in New York Dance the best To “El picoteadito”

In its reinterpretation of a típico tradition, this self-­referential verse underscores the links between body movement, transnational tigueraje, and merengue típico repertoire and performance. As is common for many típico moderno groups, Urbanda’s vocalists have different specializations: one, Chico Torres, focuses on traditional repertoire; the other two provide more modern sounds. Their dress also varies: in this same performance Torres, at stage right, wears jeans and a short-­sleeved, button-­down shirt with a Western feel; in contrast, the singer on stage left, Jorge Lewis, billed as bandleader, wears sunglasses and tight, bright pink pants with a horizontally striped top, and the one in the middle wears even tighter jeans, a large silver belt buckle, and a formfitting gray plaid shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal the tank top underneath. The two modern singers sport bright white sneakers, while the traditional one wears shiny black leather shoes. The reference to dance in the verse above is sung by Torres, the traditional specialist, but its meaning is amplified by the movements of the two modern singers during the mambo section that follows. Through the entire mambo sequence, Torres roughly coordinates his movements to theirs, but only minimally, preferring an understated style more similar to traditional típico dance even while moving at the same time as the others. In other songs, originals in the new mambo style, Torres actually leaves the stage altogether, as if to emphasize the transition. To begin the mambo section following the aforementioned, newly composed verse (from approximately 10’30” in the referenced video), the two modern singers shout “One, two!” (in English) together with accordionist Nixon, then transition into a coordinated dance step that Lewis introduces by first straightening his body into an upright posture while kicking his right leg forward almost casually, then leaning forward and swinging both arms right as he steps onto his bent left leg. The singer in the middle then joins him, spreading his legs wide apart and stepping onto his right foot. Together,

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the two perform a step-­tap/step-­tap on alternating legs, with their feet about a yard apart and knees slightly bent. With each weight shift, they lean slightly in the direction of the active leg and bring the corresponding hand to about chest height, the other remaining in a relaxed state down by the hip. They lean slightly forward and look at each other’s bodies as they move, apparently responding to their partner’s movements by intensifying the step, springing off the ball of the foot and raising the knee after each tap. After about eight sets, Lewis changes the movement and his gray-­shirted counterpart follows. Now they sink deeper into their knees and stretch their arms forward, bringing their two fists close together mid torso and pulling them back to the hips as they simultaneously tilt their pelvises forward. They grind their hips smoothly back and forth while continuing the side-­to-­side motion of the previous step, looking first to one side, then the other. Lewis varies the step slightly by moving his hips in a forward-­facing “C” shape, circling across the back rather than simply moving his pelvis back and forth. Next, they take the step-­tap motive in a different direction, tapping each heel to the front before bringing the foot back, the feet now a moderate hip distance apart and the arms swinging easily across the body and back down to a relaxed position as the percussionists begin their solos, later opening again to the more vigorous step-­tap and wide stance when the percussionists return to their basic rhythms. Soon the accordion and saxophone intensify the mambo by together hitting the leading tone four times and the tonic three times, all on the beat, in contrast to their previous offbeat playing. Lewis matches their intensity, at one point by pumping his head forward on those beats, later by clapping together with the offbeat riff. The piece finishes with the usual típico tag ending, which Lewis mirrors by stopping his dancing, raising his right knee while turning away from the audience, clapping once, then dropping his arms into a relaxed position while returning his gaze forward. Finally, he raises his right hand overhead while kicking his right foot in time with the band’s unison hit, grasping the microphone to urge the audience, “¡un aplauso!” (Applause!) Throughout this mambo, the contrast between the sedate dancing of the traditional vocalist and the vigorous, often overtly sexual movements of the modern vocalists visually and kinetically delineate the differences between the gendered performances of traditional típico’s viejetes and the tígueres of modern típico. We might even be able to say that bodily presentation and corporeal motion not only relay those differences in value systems to viewers, but actually help to create the very categories they represent (viejete/ tíguere, traditional/modern) through their embodied performance of those values.

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While the camera presents a circumscribed view of the action, elsewhere in the recorded show we can observe how the bodily performance of tigueraje is not limited to the onstage action. The audience at Andy Ranch is mostly seated, but during a particularly intense mambo earlier in the show (5’22” in the video), one man rises from his chair, places his feet far apart and, lifting his knees high in an exaggerated merengue step, rolls his shoulders forward in alternation while pumping his fists rhythmically and rolling his head from side to side. He slows his step in order to exaggerate a pelvic circle as he rolls his eyes, opening his mouth and his hands, palms upward. His companion at the small table eggs the dancer on from his seat by stomping his right foot, raising his arms overhead with palms open, and moving them back and forth to the merengue beat. Meanwhile, two neighbors look on while smiling, laughing, and raising their eyebrows. This performance (probably fueled by the large bottle of liquor standing in an ice bucket on the dancer’s table) enacts tigueraje, although its exaggerated sexuality, with facial expressions that almost resemble possession, goes beyond what is socially acceptable and thus causes laughter. For instance, one YouTube user poked fun in a comment that likened this man’s dancing to the infamous 2013 viral video phenomenon, the “Harlem Shake.” Audience members participate in the bodily representation and construction of tigueraje and lo moderno, sometimes even to a greater degree than the onstage performers. The dance sequences of Urbanda’s singers serve to accentuate the rhythms of the dance-­centered mambo section, build excitement, and focus attention on the bodies of the male singers—­particularly those singers associated with lo moderno, a quality communicated through their vocal style and clothing as well as these movements. The focus on the male body as spectacle within Dominican music goes back to Johnny Ventura’s Combo Show of the 1960s, but the inclusion of male dancers into típico shows is quite new. Throughout this section, we have seen how the gestural and movement styles of típico moderno vocalists (and, to a lesser degree, instrumentalists, as well as audience members) work together with or sometimes in opposition to musical sounds to accomplish several goals: they can accentuate the complex structures and novel arrangements of modern típico, they can serve as a tie to other Black Atlantic cultures, they can enact various aspects of tigueraje from tricksterism to sensuality, and they can bridge tradition and modernity. In particular, performances like Urbanda’s allow participants to embody modernity and, through it, their desires for personal socioeconomic advancement and for a Cibao that is integrated into the global system but still maintains its unique identity.

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Conclusions In previous chapters, I showed how merengue típico serves to anchor many Cibaeños in a local space in the midst of confusing spatial and cultural disjunctions, and how the debate over típico’s changing musical sounds and place in society therefore grew in the 1970s, a period of rapid urbanization and migration. As transnationalism put its stamp on the traditional musical genre at the turn of the twenty-­first century and economic difficulties again plagued both emigrants and their families on the island, the performance of típico transformed further and such discourse returned in a different form. Young, second-­ generation Dominican Americans and Santiago-­ bred tígueres may not have experienced migration firsthand, but they are nonetheless affected by its results. Within the típico world, the debate over “traditional” and “modern” musical styles reflects seguidores’ differing views on the effects of migration, so that such labels correlate with musicians’ levels of transnational experience; their integration of foreign musical components, mainly those borrowed from other Afro-­American musics like salsa, rap, reggaetón, and sometimes jazz;13 and with differing performances of gender. It is important to note that not only does típico borrow from other Dominican and Black Atlantic styles, but so do they borrow from típico, or at least refer to it as a symbol, a strategy by which musicians can ally themselves with típico’s strong sense of regional, national, and gender identities. In the introduction to this book, I discussed how Maluca used a silent accordion in her video for “El tigeraso” in just such a way. Bachata group Aventura, too, has pursued a similar strategy. For one, they recorded a song with típico accordionist El Prodigio (“Pueblo por pueblo,” Town by town) that is rife with the place-­name references common in traditional típico, but spans the entire country, not just the Cibao. In the live performance of another song, “Mi niña cambió” (moyinsito 2009; My girl changed), a silent accordionist stands on stage as Aventura admonish a fictitious emigrant Dominican woman, “They say New York will even change your skin / but don’t forget the campo [village or countryside] that you were born in.” In this performance, the accordion serves as a visual reminder of merengue típico and, through it, of rural life in that campo the song’s addressee is accused of having forgotten. Típico moderno and New York bachata often share an audience, and for this audience both styles provide not only culturally specific escapism but also emotional orientation, a focal point for identity building, social ties for a divided community, and a sense of history for those with little knowledge of familial roots. These connections

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and concepts are so powerful that they can be sensed even in the music’s absence—­merely by gazing at a silenced accordion. The urban forms of merengue típico are both controversial and extremely popular precisely because they show the impact of urbanization, capitalism, and transnational migration on a style still perceived as the most traditional of Dominican popular musical genres, and also because that impact entails new conceptions of Dominican blackness, masculinity, and femininity. Many observers interpret the changes transnational musicians have made in típico as a manifestation of various processes, usually nefarious—­from urbanization to modernization, capitalism to foreign cultural imperialism. For instance, Rafael Chaljub Mejía specifically cites merengue típico as a primary tool for the expulsion of foreign cultural influence, capitalism, and globalization, and the concurrent revitalization of Dominican culture. For instance, he told a reporter that cultural, ideological, and stylistic “remittances” had “debilitate[ed] the social base of merengue,” and that his book on merengue típico was a way of saying, “Here [in merengue típico] there is no globalization” (Álvarez 2005). For those who hold similar views, modern-­style típico is all the more disturbing: while the damage to orquesta merengue has presumably already been done, these critics seem to think that perhaps típico can still be “rescued,” so protecting típico traditionalism is all the more urgent. Although the correlation of sonic and stylistic alterations with changes in gender roles and racial attitudes is typically not remarked upon, these factors are no less important in interpreting the gut reactions of many Dominicans who reject urban merengue. Unlike these critics, I do not think típico needs rescuing. In fact, what is most striking to me in looking at típico moderno is not how much has changed but, rather, how much has stayed the same. I know of few traditional musics that enjoy the widespread support that típico does on its home turf, and even fewer that are seen as hip among young people. In spite of the new arrangements, rhythms, styles, and instruments found in modern típico, the core repertoire, lyrics, instruments, and techniques remain intact and important to participants. Bonds between musicians and fans remain strong, encoded in the practices of saludos and homenajes that many still maintain. Even the ultramodern Shino, an epitome of transnational tigueraje with his street attire and harsh language, is in a way upholding Black Atlantic and Cibaeño tradition through his verbal creativity, as one of the few vocalists still able to extemporize verses—­an ability for which Ñico Lora and Tatico Henríquez were both revered. Each of the elements of típico performance described here demonstrates musicians’ and fans’ abilities to adapt

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to changing situations without losing their cultural bearings. The new acceptance of black roots, manifested primarily in the bodily reorientation toward a transnational tigueraje, accomplishes a similar end: while the style of these performers is a modern one, they have succeeded where previous generations have failed (see Tallaj-­García 2015 for a more detailed analysis of blackness in recent Dominican music). By creating linkages to transnational black genres like hip-­hop and reggaetón, as seen here, as well as to national ones like gagá and música cocola (in the work of groups like Amarfis y su Banda de Atakke or Tulile), one could argue that they are also helping to uncover and embrace the Afro-­Caribbean roots that were long ignored or hidden, but have always lain under the merengue típico tradition.

6

Temporary Transvestites: Cross-­Dressing Merengue, Bachata, and Reggaetón

When I began to study Dominican music in the early 2000s, I was surprised to observe a spate of cross-­dressing male merengueros, whose over-­ the-­top performances in feminine attire were proving hugely popular. Prior reading on gender in the Caribbean had not prepared me for the reactions I observed: rather than homophobic machismo and condemnation of the gender-­bending musicians, it appeared that most Dominicans I encountered interpreted these men’s performances as a humorous form of play. Some, more expectedly, questioned the men’s sexual orientation, but a surprisingly large number of people did not appear to associate their transvestism with homosexuality. While the trend never became a more general one (it was limited to a handful of performers, some of whom have since dropped the practice), as did the tígueras’ brash personae, these temporary transvestites were one more indication that gender in the Dominican Republic was far more complex and allowed a much greater range of possible performances than previously thought—­though perhaps more on the stage than in other areas of Dominican life. The popularity of cross-­dressing performers does not necessarily translate to a greater acceptance of alternative lifestyles. Homophobia continues to be rampant, although it is becoming less socially acceptable. In one egregious recent example, the writer and tiguerologist Lipe Collado published a virulent tirade against the new US ambassador to the Dominican Republic, openly gay James “Wally” Brewster (Collado 2013; see also Pérez and ­Shoichet 2013). In the face of widespread criticism of Collado’s piece, its publisher, the magazine Acento, retracted the article and removed it from its Internet site, citing reader reactions and the “hate-­inciting language” Collado had used (Acento 2013). The editors did not explicitly apologize, but the fact

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that readers’ more tolerant opinions won out suggests that while the establishment (and thus the elite) may be slow to change, opinions “on the street” are being transformed. Here as elsewhere attitudes toward gender and sexuality, and the relationship between the two, can vary significantly, from everyday tolerance to exceptional violence. For instance, when I encountered transvestites while with Dominican friends in everyday life, their reactions were typically amused. Men frequently stopped to look and comment on the travesti’s outfit. Sometimes, they made some kind of joke, to which the transvestite would affably respond in kind. Everyone would laugh and continue to go about their business. During the day, and among friends, cross-­dressing seemed acceptable as long as it was amusing. The relationships between transvestites and casual acquaintances might therefore be seen as an example of a joking relationship, a form of social relation widely studied by early anthropologists like Radcliffe-­Brown. I occasionally saw transvestites at nightclubs. Once, one walked into a women’s restroom at the rancho típico La Tinaja as I waited in line, on break at a performance by a típico group. The women in line looked at each other, mouthing things like, “That’s not a woman!” But in the end everyone shrugged their shoulders and went about their business, the casual attitude suggesting that the occurrence was neither particularly unusual nor offensive to the women present. Also at night, at Santiago’s central monument (an enormous column erected by Trujillo on the highest hill and simply known as “El Monumento”) I saw well-­dressed hombres serios engaged in more serious conversation with cross-­dressers in short skirts and high heels, making me think that some kind of solicitation was going on. Certainly, many transvestites work in the Dominican Republic’s burgeoning sex trade, as they do in other Latin American countries. The association of transvestites, transgender people, and homosexuals in general with sex tourism and the AIDS epidemic is one factor impeding their acceptance in Dominican society (Tallaj 2009, 225). And cross-­dressing can be risky: during my nine-­month stay in the country during 2005–­2006, I twice saw articles in the newspaper reporting on transvestites who were killed in the capital. In both cases, it appeared that the cross-­dressers had been too successful in their charade, and the killing occurred during a Crying Game moment.1 It seemed to me that Dominicans accept transvestites as long as they understand that cross-­dressing is taking place. But a person with male genitalia successfully “passing” as a woman is not perceived as funny, only threatening. On a milder but still damaging level, Linden Lewis notes that insults shouted at feminized men and at perceived

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lesbians are “used as a form of social control” in the Caribbean intended to enforce gender-­normative behavior (2002, 524). For many Dominicans, cross-­dressing and effeminate masculinities are acceptable as a performance, but homosexuality is not acceptable as a practice or an identity. Again, these views can differ sharply between classes. Tallaj (2009) explains that homosexuality has long found greater acceptance among the lower classes than the upper in the Dominican Republic, given the predominance of Catholicism and Hispanic codes of morality among the latter, Afro-­Caribbean beliefs and practices among the former. Perhaps the failures of the Acento editors that published Collado’s offensive piece can be attributed to these class-­based prejudices. In addition, while cross-­dressing performers are now widely accepted across classes, Tallaj finds that this acceptance of appearances does not always translate to an acceptance of lifestyles: “Dominicans of all social classes have come to accept crossdressers as entertainers but have not really accepted homosexuality as something that could be a ‘respectable’ way of life” (2009, 222). It is true there are still few possibilities for living openly homosexual lifestyles in the Dominican Republic; compulsory public heterosexuality remains the rule. Nonetheless, there is quite a wide range of possibilities for the performance of gender in the Dominican Republic, from masculine women to effeminate men and various shades of gray between. In my own experience, as I was exposed to Afro-­Dominican religious practices and also began to participate in Santiago’s carnival, I came to realize that there are multiple spaces in Dominican society that allow for gender play. When Dominicans are possessed by deities of the opposite sex in religious rituals, when men dress up as a robalagallina (a traditional, humorous transvestite character) at carnival, and when women put on the attire of a lechón (a typically masculine masked figure symbolic of ­Santiago carnival), they all dress and act in manners associated with another gender. When women perform the tíguera in merengue típico, one could argue that they are not only performing aspects of a masculine role but also creating a new role. For me personally, it was liberating to take on the assertive, vigorous role of the tíguera even though I did so only in very circumscribed moments and situations—­such as when playing accordion or dressing as a lechón for carnival. While cross-­dressing is thus not particularly unusual in the Dominican Republic, it did not have a place on the popular music stage until the specific moment that I am describing, the early 2000s. I believe it is not unrelated to the success of tígueras and the increasing dominance of the transnational tigueraje described in the previous chapters: cross-­dressing plays to the tíguere’s sense of daring, exhibitionism, and tricksterism. The fact that

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acceptance of gender play exists alongside condemnation of homosexuality suggests that Dominicans do not always consider sexual orientation and gender performance to be closely linked. I also argue that while the popularity of cross-­dressing performers at the turn of the twenty-­first century did not immediately lessen homophobia, it nevertheless did aid in opening the doors for yet more daring performers, including some that US theorists would describe as queer. While the term queer is not often used locally, either in its “street” sense of homosexual or its academic/activist sense of a rejection of the limitations of traditional sexual or gender identities, it can nonetheless help us to study the efforts of recent Dominican artists who do work to break down those limitations, one of whom I analyze in the following chapter. If masculinity and femininity are configured in relation to one another, looking at those who question or redraw the borders between these two genders can help us see how and where lines are drawn, what behaviors are considered to be specifically gendered, and how much leeway exists in gendered performance in a given society. Writing of another Caribbean genre, Ramón Rivera-­Servera observes that “queering” salsa by rearticulating its texts according to nonheterosexual perspectives “may in part be facilitated by the performative excess of salsa. The over-­the-­top sexuality of the genre allows for the demystification of naturalized gendered or sexual positions. Through a playful reassignment of gendered categories these excesses undo the compulsive heterosexuality of the salsa script” (Rivera-­Servera 2012, 163). In other words, the fact that salsa already draws on emotionally demonstrative genres and representations of gender that are both excessively sensual and extremely stereotypical in the femininities and masculinities they imply somewhat paradoxically allows salseros space for creatively playing with those conventional ways of performing gender. The very conventionality of those roles, and their repetition ad nauseum, almost demands critique and parody. While merengue típico stands out from the pack here for the central presence of tígueras, what Rivera-­Servera says of salsa could as easily be said of merengue, bachata, and reggaetón, since each of these has its own similar traditions of gendered performance. Thus, my findings here likely also apply to other Caribbean styles, from salsa to dancehall or soca. In this chapter, then, I examine the surprising trajectory of cross-­dressing musicians in the Dominican Republic, principally since 2000 but also in history. I also examine musicians who do not literally cross-­dress but who question binary gender and the heteronormativity of Dominican popular music in other ways. Appropriately enough, this exploration takes me outside the conventional bounds not only of binary gender but also of the musical genre on which I have thus far focused. I suggest that just as social change creates

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musical change, so does the reverse occur. In other words, the need to perform other gender identities necessitates the creation of new musical genres, just as new musical genres demand new kinds of bodily performance. This argument will become still clearer in Chapter 7. Historical Roots of Dominican Transvestism As with the comparatively large number of successful female instrumentalists, the success of cross-­dressing male performers confounds stereotypes of Latin American machismo while raising further questions. What has enabled their unconventional performances of gender? Also like the case of female accordionists, male cross-­dressing has a prior presence in Dominican culture that may have contributed to its acceptance in popular music. In particular, cross-­dressing may be more visible, and more commonly accepted, in the Dominican Republic than in other places (like the United States) because of its historical presence as a part of religious practice and of carnival. A greater sense of gender complexity or flexibility, manifested, for example, by the existence of more than two gender categories in some parts of the country, also plays a role. This gender complexity in turn shows up in musical practice, and not only in the more obvious kinds of cross-­ dressing already described: even in traditional merengue típico, ideas about instrumental sounds reveal a sense of gender that runs beyond the usual binary categories. Each of these practices evidence the historical depth of the “new” kinds of staged transvestism I describe below, which in turn express a deeper truth about the complexity of gender constructions in the Dominican Republic and beyond. I have noted that attitudes toward cross-­dressing and homosexuality vary widely by class; race is another factor. Transvestism is sometimes associated with Afro-­Dominican religious practices. During the rituals of Dominican vodú (a term used only by academics; practitioners term it devoción a los misterios or la 21 división), men may be possessed by female spirits and vice versa. Describing his childhood in Miches, writer Diógenes Abréu remembers a female cousin being possessed, and her voice turned into a masculine one (Abréu 2004, 40). I attended a palos party in the southwestern town of Barahona in 2006 where both the santero and a male attendee “mounted” by feminine deity Anaísa fulfilled their obligations as spiritual consultants while attired in frilly dresses; outside in the yard, two men danced together. Therefore, although I didn’t agree with the sentiment or how it was expressed, I was not too surprised when one wealthy, light-­skinned traditional típico fan expressed the view to me that palos was a music “for homosexuals.”

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It is important to note that African and Afro-­diasporic religions in general frequently provide greater tolerance than Christianity, even including prescribed roles for cross-­dressers and homosexuals. Cross-­dressing homosexuals were in fact so common in the Congo-­Angola region at the time of slavery that there was a term for them, jin bandaa (Sweet 1996, 189), a term that appears to survive today as quimbanda, an Afro-­Brazilian religion—­perhaps a result of the jin bandaas’ special spiritual significance. James Sweet argues that the third gender category that exists in northeast Brazil today is in fact an echo of that African tradition: bichas are effeminate men who are the receiving partner in a homosexual act, and “Both within and outside the religious houses, it is common knowledge that the majority of mediums and pais de santo are bichas” (198). In a related case, that of the Afro-­Brazilian candomblé religion, “the most powerful orixas (deities) of Candomble are characterized by their sexual ambiguity” (199). Barbara Browning further notes that, “in the northeast of Brazil, homosexual men play a significant role in the worship of African divinities and spirits” (1998, 161; see also 1995, 52). Others have found similar cases in Yorubaland, where the concept of being “mounted” by a spirit is considered receptive and feminine (Lorand Matory, cited in Browning 1998, 214; see also Conner 2004, 22), as it is in Haiti and Cuba, and also as Ruth Landes (1994) earlier had argued for Brazil. In Haiti, as in Brazil, many powerful deities have ambiguous gender or sexuality: for instance, Legba is both male and female; Ezili Freda is a patroness of homosexual men, Ezili Danto is occasionally considered a patroness of lesbians or else herself a hermaphrodite, and Ezili Taureau is perceived as transgendered female-­to-­male; Nido appears in drag; and Baron Samedi is the bisexual, sometimes androgynous leader of the Gede/Guede family (see Ferguson 2015, 51, Conner and Sparks 2004, 52–­64). Here, not only is gender complexity temporarily expressed when an opposite-­gender spirit possesses a practitioner, but certain spiritual dances are performed by both heterosexual and homosexual couples, like the banda, which simulates intercourse, or the hip-­grinding gouyad (also gouille) step of carnival, which is linked to cross-­dressing and other transgender behavior (Conner and Sparks 2004, 94); indeed, some Haitian carnival bands are made up of a majority of cross-­dressing gay men (McAlister 2002, 75). Some practitioners believe gay men can gain protection from oppression by belonging to a house of Lucumí (a Yoruba-­derived religious society) (see Conner and Sparks 2004, 107–­12), and Lydia Cabrera reports that lesbians long had the androgynous healing orisha Inle as their patron (1993, 59); recently, some gay and lesbian US Latinos have also adopted this patron (Arguelles and Rivero 1995, 164).

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In Dominican society, Angelina Tallaj argues that Afro-­Dominican religions provide more “sexual freedom and gender equality” in that perhaps 80 percent of all mediums and spiritual leaders are women or homosexual men; heteronormativity and patriarchal religious structures were imposed by Europeans, but still are not accepted by everyone across the Black Atlantic (2009, 229). Sweet would concur, since he argues that “this [historical] link between homosexual transvestism and the spiritual world has enabled some Africans to resist the Western Christian notion that all homosexuality is sinful” (1996, 186). It is thus not coincidental that many drag queens come from lower-­class, darker-­skinned sectors of Dominican society, and that urban, higher-­class, and lighter-­skinned Dominicans are those who most stigmatize homosexuality (Tallaj 2009, 229–­30). Carnival is another area in which cross-­dressing is common and expected. During carnival season, one can never be sure who is engaging in a momentary reversal and who is a full-­time cross-­dresser. In Dominican carnival, anyone can cross-­dress as anyone else, but there is also a traditional transvestite character that is a particularly beloved part of the celebration. Robalagallina (also Roba la Gallina or “Steal the Chicken”) sports enormous padded buttocks and breasts, all covered by a flamboyantly colored dress. She carries an umbrella and a bag of treats, which storeowners at various points along the carnival route refill in response to a traditional rhyme. Robalagallinas are followed by throngs of children who sing out the appropriate rhymes and consume the candy she collects. Boys often start dressing as this character at a very young age, especially when from a family with other Robalagallina members. In recent years, some women have begun to perform Robalagallina as well, producing a sort of metaperformance of gender and drag. Men who perform the Robalagallina are, in my experience, often effeminate in their everyday lives as well. I knew two of these men well. One is a well-­known television and public personality in Santiago, who was my neighbor and is widely known to be gay although never explicitly labeled as such. His flamboyance is performed both in public and private, as I saw whenever I was invited to his house, where an entourage of men—­many young and attractive—­were always in attendance. Another, since deceased, was professedly straight, a married father, but delicate of stature and effeminate in his postures, gestures, and speech. Flamboyantly gay reggaetón vocalist La Delfi, discussed further below, released a song titled “Lassy” in 2013 that explicitly deals with carnival cross-­dressing, and in its video he appears part of the time as a Robalagallina. Interestingly, in much of the Dominican Republic, both Afro-­Dominican culture and homosexuality were formerly only celebrated in carnival; that both are now escaping from those confines suggests that

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an important restructuring of society is underway, one which may lead to a greater acceptance of both alternative sexualities and African roots.2 Complexity and flexibility in Dominican gender performance, as well as the inconsistent correlation of performed gender and anatomical features of sex, is also hinted at in studies of a third gender category in one part of the Dominican Republic. Anthropologists and doctors have described a sizable population of pseudohermaphrodites, individuals born and raised female who gain a male anatomy only at puberty, in several southwestern Dominican towns. After puberty, these individuals may decide whether to live as men or as women. Whatever their choice, covillagers recognize them as a fully separate category they term machihembra (male-­female) or güevedoce (balls at twelve) (see Herdt 1990). Although this is an isolated case that probably has little effect on the broader society, it nonetheless suggests that, in general, Dominican society has greater tolerance for gender ambiguity than does the United States, where such flexibility is hard to imagine. In addition, the appearance of this third category recalls the cases of jin bandaas and bichas discussed above and may thus relate to the aforementioned acceptance of homosexuals, cross-­dressers, and other “third genders” in prescribed roles in various West African cultures. Merengue itself can, through its instruments, be seen as inhabiting a liminal space between two genders. The button accordion, which is variously labeled with the masculine or feminine article (el or la) by different speakers, produces its sound through the combination of a pair of reeds for each note. These reeds are painstakingly retuned by specialized craftspeople. Berto Reyes (2002), an accordionist and accordion tuner in Queens, New York, told me that the retuned instrument should sound “hard” and “strong”—­like the tígueres who play them, one might infer. Yet that strength, he continued, comes from the combination of “feminine” and “masculine” reeds, which together create a “mascufeminized” sound in which the feminine reed adds aesthetic appeal and “shine” to the “hard” masculine sound. It is noteworthy that the word he used to describe the paired reeds, machihembriado, matches that used to describe the third gender category just mentioned. Furthermore, many people recognize the tambora, whose rhythms provide the base on which every merengue is built, as being of two genders, because (ideally at least) one of its heads is made of the skin of a female goat and the other from a male. Each skin produces a different sound, but it is only through the interaction of the two that a merengue can be played. In the combination of tambora and accordion sounds, the merengue itself seems to occupy an “in-­between” space and to thus express either a meeting of two genders, a confusion of genders, or perhaps even a third gender like the machihembra.

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Given these precedents, fans may see cross-­dressing merengueros as being as harmless as the fun of carnival, or (for rural people in particular) as familiar as folk religion. However, it is significant that cross-­dressing has now left the bounds of the private spaces of religious practice or the circumscribed time of carnival, entering everyday life through the popular music heard and seen constantly via mass media. While carnival temporarily naturalizes that which in other spheres of life is considered supernatural or unnatural, cross-­ dressing merengueros erase the boundaries entirely and bring gender issues into the collective consciousness by placing formerly fringe behaviors at the forefront of popular culture. Cross-­dressing Merengueros During my early fieldwork in New York, several merengue performers, mostly in the orquesta genre with one from típico, appeared onstage in feminized attire. If, as Judith Butler writes, “Drag is subversive to the extent that it reflects on the imitative structure by which hegemonic gender is itself produced and disputes heterosexuality’s claim on naturalness and originality” (1993, 125), then we can see these men’s performances as subversive in the ways that they force viewers to confront their expectations of gendered performance and question the male-­centeredness of Dominican popular music. At the same time, motivations matter: Were they consciously contesting restrictive conventions of gendered performance? Were they simply looking for new ways to construct a rebel image? Or were they commercially motivated to create visual novelty in whatever way they could? The answer may be some mix of the three, but I argue that the effects of these performers have been greater than they might have intended. They have allowed many Dominicans to reimagine the ways in which gender is represented, on stage and off, not only due to their choice of attire but also and perhaps particularly because of how they have allowed their own sexual preferences to be publicly discussed and questioned. Toño Rosario is one of these men. Former lead vocalist of the Hermanos Rosario, one of the defining groups of orquesta merengue in the 1970s and 1980s and the one credited with creating the maco rhythm (see Chapter 5),3 Toño went solo in 1990. Since then, he has become known for his eccentric performances and over-­the-­top clothing, an area in which he continues to push the envelope even at sixty years of age (in 2015). On some occasions, Toño has been known to wear skirts and earrings and paint his nails. More recently, while skirts have not featured in his wardrobe, he has appeared onstage in a black fishnet bodysuit with dominatrix-­like lace-­up gloves or in a

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transparent plastic jumpsuit with white hot pants underneath, to give just two examples. Toño’s music ranges from songs with a more traditional orquesta sound to fast, driving merengues de calle like his popular “Kulikitaka.” The song features almost no lyrics except for the rhythmic syllables of its title and “‘tá cruzao,” or “it’s crossed.” Here Toño is specifically referring to the “crossed rhythm” he himself is producing by rapidly repeating the triplet of the lyrics across the quadruple rhythms of the merengue, but a listener might as easily think of a second meaning here (and indeed, as we have seen, double meanings in merengue lyrics have a long history) in that Toño’s own appearance is similarly “crossed” in terms of his onstage performance of gender. A second example is Tulile, a saxophonist and vocalist of the generation after Toño Rosario. While in recent years Tulile (thirty-­nine years old in 2015) has toned down his attire, he was long famous for his outlandish getups, appearing on the cover of his debut solo album La cuca dressed in a kilt-­ like, red plaid skirt and, on a later live album, in a wedding dress (Fig. 6.1). Although his clothing choices were controversial, his music was and is hugely popular, even though some old school merengueros have characterized Tulile as “the one who ruined merengue” for his mambo-­heavy arrangements. Perhaps recognizing his power not only to attract attention but also to represent today’s confusing gender issues, director Ángel Muñiz cast Tulile in his 2003 merengue típico-­themed film Perico ripiao as the pimp to Fefita’s madam. Tulile’s choices of attire in the mid-­2000s varied widely, and were often hard to interpret. In 2004 performances I observed him dressed as an Egyptian pharaoh and as a baby in diapers with pacifier, and his choices for televised presentations included outfits reminiscent of togas, monks’ robes, and priests’ cassocks. His band was at times similarly clothed. In one appearance posted on YouTube, Tulile wears a plain, black, ankle-­length robe while his band wears pajama-­like outfits with pinstripes and skull caps, evoking a prison confessor and his inmates. In another, Tulile sports a red cassock with buttons down the front while his band wears brown and white habits and head coverings that on some men resemble a nun’s wimple, on others an Arab man’s keffiyeh. While some of these items reflect ongoing orientalism in Caribbean music (examples of which deserve an article themselves, and include Wilfredo Vargas’s 1970s merengue group’s name, Los Beduinos, and his album El jeque, The sheikh; the Alí-­Babá Dominican carnival music groups; Willie Colón’s salsa number “Asia”; and others), others clearly poke fun at the Catholic establishment in the Dominican Republic, and all question typical popular-­music performances of masculinity. Tulile might even be considered to embody the in-­between or third gender described above.

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F i g u r e 6 . 1 . Cover of 2005 live album Tulile . . . from the beginning, collection of author.

Tulile’s music follows a similar trajectory to some extent. “Chacarrón,” for example, a mid-­2000s tune he still performs frequently today, is somewhat more adventurous in its sound and demanding of its performers than his more recent works (see Table 6.1). It is a cover of a nonsense song then in wide circulation around Latin America, which has no words at all in its original form, only onomatopoeic vocalizations; in Tulile’s version they include sacadó, sacadó, sacadoqui; chacarrón; racatán; or dan, dan. These syllables are performed in a kind of Sprechstimme, between speech and song, where indeterminate, sliding pitches simply outline a long descending line or emulate the sounds of percussion. These vocal sections are accompanied by percussion instruments and a monotonic bass line, followed by a characteristic descending chromatic trumpet line and a variety of mambo riffs from the saxophones. (Tulile’s version differs from the earlier version by Panamanian reggaetón artist El Chombo in its more percussive, rhythmic vocal delivery and use of melodic instruments.) Each time the chromatic trumpet line

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T a b l e 6 . 1 . Structure of “Chacarrón” as performed by Tulile (D minor, performance ca. 2006) Section

Vocals

Instruments

Movement

A

None

Two saxes play a rhythmic mambo on three pitches outlining a first-­inversion tonic triad in minor. Three trumpets play a chromatic descending scale from a to a’

Patting movement accompanying trumpets (described above)

B

Tulile: four-­measure descending line of offbeat vocalizations on dan, more spoken than sung, sliding between each syllable and ending on two repetitions of sacadó, sacadó, sacadoqui. 2 backing vocalists join at the end singing chacarrón

Tambora, güira, congas, and a monotonic bass

Walking in place (as basic merengue step)

A

Occasional shout-­outs to audience

Repeat of sax mambo and chromatic trumpet line

Patting motif

C

Tulile and coro together: monotonic racatán, racatán on F. Tulile speak-­sings so, yo, yo, yo sliding upward with each syllable to return to B

Bass responds to racatán with two emphatic Ds on beats four and one

Walking merengue step; Tulile accentuates bass response by shaking right index finger in time and so yo yo by using same finger to outline a circle rolling forward

B

Dan . . . sacadó . . . chacarrón

As before

Walking merengue step

D

Tulile introduces section by shouting “Dame mambo, ¡dame mambo!” (Give me mambo!)

New mambo for brass section

Speeded-­up version of the patting motif

C

Racatán

As before

Note: Source: streetforce22 2006.

returns, Tulile and his backup vocalists (one male, one female in the performance analyzed in Table 6.1) accompany it with a particular movement: with palms down, hands about waist height, and elbows pointing out, they make a patting motion on each note of the descending scale, moving their hands toward the left, the right, and back again. And not only does this occur each time in one particular performance, but in each and every performance of the song over the course of many years. Table 6.1 outlines the form of this song as it appeared in a mid-­2000s performance (streetforce22), for which Tulile appeared in a greenish suit accented with sunglasses, a red newsboy cap, and matching red feathered boa. In a performance from 2007 (ElCongueroRD 2010), the overall form is the same but there is an additional return to the B section at the end: ABACBDBDC,

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instead of the ABACBDC from a year earlier. As can be seen, the structure is somewhat similar to a rondo form.4 Overall, this song encapsulates the transformations of the new merengue de calle or con mambo style. For one, the song could not easily be said to be “about” anything other than rhythm, given that each instrument in the ensemble, including the voices, resembles nothing so much as percussion. This is true because of the use of onomatopoeia, because the vocals and the bass stay on single pitches throughout most of the song, and because (aside from the chromatic descending line) even the horns use no more than three pitches in each mambo section. Second, the fact that the same movement sequence accompanies the first mambo section in each and every live performance of the song indicates that it is an integral part of the musical phrase. Dance and movement are central to the mambo style. Third, Tulile´s use of cross-­dressing and other forms of attention-­getting attire show how challenges to traditional modes of gender performance are an important aspect of the tigueraje of this new style, one that complements its musical transformations. Both sonic and visual aspects are intended to be transgressive. Krisspy, lead vocalist for a group called El Bombazo Típico, brought cross-­ dressing into the realm of merengue típico at about the same time. Like Toño and Tulile, early in his solo career Krisspy attracted attention and criticism not only for his style of music and suggestive lyrics but for his outrageous stage persona. Typically dressed in flamboyant clothing, he also had long, flowing hair, often dyed and sometimes done up in elaborate braids. Krisspy was also occasionally seen with painted nails, wearing dresses and even a kimono. In 2006, this artist appeared in a Dominican movie titled Un macho de mujer (A Man of a Woman), which explicitly deals with the issue of changing Dominican gender roles. This comedy tells the story of three machista work buddies who habitually party and cheat on their wives, at least until a witch doctor—­ played by Krisspy—­intervenes and changes their roles around, thus giving the men a taste of their own medicine. Roberto Ángel, one of those who funded the movie, explains, “What it’s about, besides how fun the movie is, is bringing a message to couples that equality and respect should prevail. The movie is machista at the beginning, but later the story changes and we [men] end up the injured parties” (Cruz Hierro 2006). Here, the típico musician with long hair serves as the negotiator between the two genders, while he himself inhabits the space in between them. Perhaps it is not surprising that Krisspy has professed admiration for Fefita both verbally and in song, through El Bombazo Típico’s “Homenaje a Fefita,” a sort of medley of her hits. Krisspy’s music is much like that of other merengue con mambo artists, but his bodily performances emphasize his own conception of tigueraje. As

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an example, we can take a 2013 televised performance of “Cójelo que eso es tuyo” (elhijodemaria01 2013; Grab it, it’s yours), a merengue also played by Toño Rosario and Aguakate. It begins with the familiar opening melody of “La rubia y yo,” a canonical merengue written by Yan de la Rosa, and moves into a modern mambo style with the full complement of típico moderno instruments—­keyboards, timbales, even a second saxophone. For most of the number, Krisspy dances to the music with a standard merengue step, but near the end his backing vocalist and two professional female dancers move closer to him to form a line. At that point, he turns the merengue step into a sort of jog in place, pumping his arms and kicking his feet out behind him; the second singer and one of the dancers join him in this movement. Toward the end of the third eight-­count of this step (each eight count corresponds to one repetition of the mambo figure played by the saxophones and accordion), Krisspy raises his right hand and indicates that a circular move should follow by tracing that shape in the air with his index finger. The move that follows is quite a silly one: looking up and pinning his left leg in place, Krisspy pivots around that anchor with small hops in his right foot, producing a limping effect5 while marking the beat with his arms—­palms open and fingers slightly apart, they move up and down from waist to head height, the accent on the upward movement. The others join in, one by one. When the piece ends with an abrupt and surprisingly dissonant low note on the sax, Krisspy runs off camera in an apparently spontaneous moment, followed by his backup singer. The dancers stay where they are and can be seen laughing in a return shot. It is hard to say how much of this performance was planned, but whether spontaneous or rehearsed, the element of humor and surprise shows Krisspy to embody the trickster aspect of tigueraje that Shino Aguakate, described in the previous chapter, also employs. Although Krisspy is dressed in a masculine-­ looking black jacket, vest, and pants for this particular performance, his occasional cross-­dressing can be seen as an extension of his trickster persona. It is perhaps unsurprising that some viewers questioned these men’s sexual orientation based on their flamboyant attire. Each has professed to be heterosexual, and two have defended themselves by describing their cross-­ dressing as good fashion. Of Toño, for instance, one reporter writes, “To him, it matters little what people think of him and the doubts that could arise with respect to his virility”; Toño simply enjoys this style of dress, which he describes as rockera (rock style) and one that “young people like.” He further defends his custom-­made clothing on the grounds of its quality: “Everything I put on is very expensive and exclusive. Now, if I dressed badly, with poor-­ quality clothing . . . but I know I look good and I don’t care who criticizes me” (E. Torres 2001). Similarly, when Krisspy appeared on a TV show hosted by

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journalist Carlos Batista Matos, the interviewer inquired whether his outfits reflected his sexual preferences. Like Toño, the singer insisted that this was not the case, that his new look was the work of a respected designer who was helping him to fulfill the public’s desire for a “different image.” As to his audience, the singer joked, “All kinds of people go to my fiestas, including homosexuals, decent people, and ‘expensive’ [rich] people like Carlos Batista” (O. Méndez 2004). By and large, each of these men seemed willing to allow their sexual orientation to be questioned, perhaps feeling that this questioning draws attention to them and that all publicity is good publicity, but also demonstrating that defending a traditional conception of masculinity is not their concern. I believe it is no coincidence that all of these men play mambo-­heavy merengue, which, as mentioned in the previous chapter, is itself often viewed as feminized. The emergence of cross-­dressing behavior coincided with the rising popularity of merengue con mambo and the birth of merengue de calle. Both developments followed on the heels of massive social and economic changes in the Dominican Republic related to neoliberalism, which impeded many young men’s economic progress while bringing more and more women into the work force and the public sphere. These societal changes required renovations and innovations in popular/traditional culture: new genres necessitated new performances of gender, and vice versa. Because these artists’ interventions were limited to the stage and generally not directly connected to sexual orientation, they reinforced the notion that effeminacy for men is just another mode of performance, rather than a component of identity. In addition, Tulile and Krisspy both changed their appearances as they became popular and their music similarly became tamer, a fact that suggests their experimentation was more publicity stunt than a serious critique, while underscoring the link between musical sound and the performance of gender. Nonetheless, if, as Ruth Behar writes, “the true liberty is when any woman writer can tell the story of a lesbian without having to fix her own identity” (in Chancy 2012, 236) the same is surely true for men as well. We can then read these men’s performances as an attempt to free Caribbean men from having to fix their sexual identities, no matter how they perform gender. The simple appearance of these atypical masculinities on stage is important, and even though their verbal discourse was not particularly progressive, their performances seem to have changed something: as we will see, a dialogue about gayness (as a term, a sexual orientation, and an identity, not simply as homosexuality) is gradually emerging, not only but most effectively in the realm of popular music. It is also important to note that these men are drawing on traditional ideas and role models in their performances,

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including that of the third-­gendered trickster. Finally, these men’s performances and the discourse about them further serves to delink gender performance from sexuality, creating possibilities for further experimentation. Masculine Women and Feminine Men With few exceptions, merengue típico moderno remains firmly the province of tígueres and tígueras, while hombres serios and mujeres serias are more often represented in the neotraditional style, with both the possibilities and the limitations these roles entail. Yet men and women in several other Caribbean musical genres have been pushing the limits of normative behavior, appearance, and sounds for their genders and genres. The motivations for such boundary-­pushing performances may run from personal aesthetic choices to the desire to communicate a political message or to the demands of the market. Some of these performances reflect a new grappling with homosexuality, in particular, as homosexual identities have become more accepted in the United States and elsewhere. However, “gayness” is understood very differently in the Caribbean, which has its own history of strongly class-­inflected homosexualities. As Tallaj writes, “In the context of the Dominican Republic ‘Gay’ is an identity totally opposed to that of the indigenous maricón, who has always been associated with lower and darker class effeminate cross-­dressed men who display flamboyant behavior and are supposedly guilty of various transgressions” (2013). Maricón can even be used as an insult, not only among heterosexuals but also between homosexuals; even stronger insults for the latter include maricona and mariquita, feminized terms used “to remove the most minimal vestige of masculinity” (Ramírez [1993] 1999, 93). Race, class, gender, and sexuality are intimately intertwined, and in this context, “gay” is a higher-­status, transnational identity that is somewhat of a luxury to pursue, given that typically only light-­skinned, wealthy homosexuals aspire to it (103–­4; for a discussion of the same dynamic in Puerto Rico). Nonetheless, masculine women and feminine men in popular music challenge traditional performances of gender through attire and behavior, reaching a broad audience that crosses boundaries of race and class. Within the world of orquesta merengue, we have already seen casual cross-­dressers, like Toño Rosario and Tulile, who have not attempted to make any statement about sexual or gender identities (at least verbally). Yet other performers have gone so far as to comment on these topics, both musically and in interviews. Most notably, perhaps, merenguero Mala Fe (Bad Faith, the stage name of Javier Gutiérrez, who incidentally began his musical career

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as a percussionist in his brother’s merengue típico group) released a pro-­gay song called “Pluma Pluma Gay” (Gay feathers) in 2006. A merengue remake of a Spanish parody (“Pluma Gay” by Los Morancos) of a Moldavian pop song (“Dragostea Din Tei” by O-­Zone) popularized by a New Jersey teenager’s YouTube video (“Numa Numa Dance” by Gary Brolsma), the travels of this song merit their own article. The transformed lyrics of Mala Fe’s merengue celebrate the very identity mocked by Los Morancos in the Spanish-­language, Euro-­pop version of the tune, urging gays to come out of the closet, declare their sexuality with pride, and party: Qué oscuro es un armario Sal de ahí (sal de ahí) y vente aquí Tu destino es ser feliz.

How dark the closet is Get out of there (get out of there) And come over here Your destiny is to be happy.

In the video, Mala Fe cavorts in feathered accessories with a posse of drag queens, first in a dressing room and later on stage. The singer jokingly calls upon Toño Rosario and other musicians to come out of the closet while wearing tight leather pants, a lace-­up vest, and a rainbow-­colored boa, an outfit he has also employed in televised live performances. Here, the feathered boa relates to the song title, and both title and attire to Hispanic Caribbean expressions where “having feathers” denotes being flamboyantly gay (recall, also, Tulile’s performance of “Chacarrón” in a boa). While Mala Fe’s overacting in the video and vocal performance allows for both ironic and literal readings of the lyrics, and is thus open to more than one interpretation, some Latinos have embraced Mala Fe as a gay icon of sorts. The celebratory reading of this song is reinforced by the album cover, where the shirtless singer appears against a pink background next to the statement, “Me liberé” (I freed myself; Fig. 6.2). Mala Fe’s iconicity seems particularly strong in the United States, where his reference to “gayness” is presumably better understood. One YouTube video of a live performance shows a succession of men climbing on the stage to dance shirtless next to the singer in response to his exclamation, “¡Libérate!” (Free yourself!) In spite of this statement of freedom, Mala Fe himself has not been particularly forthcoming about his own sexuality, preferring to leave it an open question. In an interview, of the lyrics he says only, “they speak for themselves” and that his message is one of “presence,” to note that “gays are not invisible.” As the reporter repeatedly presses Mala Fe to define his sexuality, he deflects the question every time, describing his sexuality as “none of the above” and “a question mark”: “It doesn’t matter to me if they think I am gay,

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F i g u r e 6 . 2 . Cover of 2006 album Me liberé by Mala Fe, collection of author.

whether I am or not.” At the end of the interview he concedes that “up to now” he is not gay, but he doesn’t know what will happen in the future, since “many times one figures things out late” (“El merenguero Mala Fe” 2006; Tallaj 2009, 232). One could take a cynical view of these statements, given that the singer himself admits that his motivations were partly commercial. Mala Fe recognizes that homosexuals are good consumers of his music, stating, “No merenguero has sung to this community. I have received massive support from them; they appreciate that I remember that they exist” (“El merenguero Mala Fe” 2006). His ambiguous answers could therefore be intended to reap the commercial benefits of allowing a wider public to identify with him. Another reading is possible, however: refusing to be labeled is not only a refusal to bring private behavior into public view but also a refusal to concede power to

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the interviewer. Labeling others is a powerful tool for maintaining hierarchies and enforcing norms; reserving that power for oneself prevents others from turning the discourse against the gay or potentially gay actor. Queer theorist José Quiroga, recognizing “silence [as] part of a political and aesthetic praxis,” thus favors “the melancholic subject who refuses the confession, the subject who chooses to mask it, while at the same time showing us the mask,” a strategy he finds both fairly common and effective in Latin America (2000, 19). Haitian-­Canadian literary scholar Myriam Chancy has made a similar argument with regards to Caribbean women who write fiction with lesbian characters: “The irony, then, is that it is the very silencing of lesbian lives and women’s overall sexuality that may birth a new consciousness—­a truly revolutionary one in which liberty of individual choice and control over one’s sexuality will take precedence over fixity. Though visibility has its advantages, it also has its drawbacks; physical and ideological backlash and, in some instances, violence, may constrain individuals to the same degree as that imposed by mainstream identities” (2008, 52–­53). In other words, the refusal to verbally “fix” one’s sexuality may result in greater freedoms for everyone, particularly for those who have historically been marginalized. A similar argument has been advanced with respect to Andy Peña, an effeminate bachata musician. Bachata has historically been even more heteronormative and machista than merengue, and indeed it has roots in the similarly gendered Mexican ranchera (see Pacini Hernández 1995, 168). Thus, the recent song “Quiero volar” (I want to fly) by this orquesta merengue vocalist turned bachatero attracted a great deal of attention, with its lyrics about a gay man suffering the disapproval of his father and society. In spite of bachata’s machismo, its history as the voice of the dispossessed in the Dominican Republic provides the possibility of a “more direct and open social critique than other musical genres,” as Peña here focuses on a “critique of patriarchal, heteronormative Dominican society,” literary scholar Danny Méndez argues (2012, 209–­10). Perhaps for this reason, in transforming from a merengue singer to a bachatero, Peña changed his look, often wearing makeup and tight, pink clothing that “parodies the vision Dominicans have of homosexuals” (Méndez 2012, 209–­10). Singing in a high range throughout this song, Peña clearly tackles homosexual desire with the lyrics, “No one knows what my skin feels / when I brush against him,” continuing, “If anyone is to blame it is fate / that wanted me to be born this way.” The refrain boldly announces, “What I want is to fly . . . I want them to give me a place in society.” There seems to be no official video for this song, but there are numerous live performances available for viewing (see e.g., ElCongueroRD 2012), as well as parody videos. While the parodies feature gay stereotypes, like a barrio drag

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queen (almacigueros 2011) or a man with exaggeratedly effeminate gestures and postures (harisondemora 2009), Peña himself moves little when on stage, encumbered as he is by his guitar. Much as with Mala Fe, televised interviews with Peña have focused on how much the singer identifies with the persona of his song; also like Mala Fe, Peña deflects the questions. In a 2009 interview, he flatly states, “I am not going to say,” adding that he would prefer to make a statement while on tour in New York—­possibly counting on greater support from the US gay community. The farthest he will go is to admit that “whoever records a song like this has to feel it from the inside” (Kilsy183elneko 2009). Yet it seems that the bachatero never did make the promised statement. In a television appearance from the following year, interviewer Michael Miguel criticized Peña’s “eccentric” style and suggested that in this “conservative society  .  .  . very powerful sectors will want to bury you alive” (Méndez 2012, 211). But Miguel and cohost Brenda Sánchez both understood that Peña’s performance may, in fact, have been just a performance, and therefore they pushed him to define his own sexual orientation. Like Mala Fe, Peña refused, and this, Méndez says, is significant: “His identity as a queer man is not necessarily defined beginning with the public admission of his homosexuality.” Peña leaves the closet door ajar but refuses a more precise admission, which, rather than being liberating, “would be one more pretext for homophobia and ridicule” (213). Instead of identifying himself publicly as part of a gay community, it is therefore significant that in many of his live performances, Peña calls out “to all the tígueres” or asks the “tígueres” in the audience to sing the chorus with him. In this way, the bachatero allies gay men with the broader transnational tíguere subculture, rather than setting them (and himself) apart from it.6 Reggaetón is a musical style based on Jamaican dancehall riddims with rapped or sung Spanish lyrics and influences from techno, hip-­hop, and occasionally various Latin genres like bachata or salsa. One of the most popular Latino/Latin American musical genres today, its origins are often traced to the Panamanian artist El General, but its current form is defined by the often contentious relationship between Puerto Ricans and Dominicans. For instance, while most of the best-­known performers are Puerto Ricans, the most influential producers of the music in the new millennium have been the Dominican-­born duo Luny Tunes, who produced albums for Daddy Yankee, Ivy Queen, and many others. Many others involved in the music have ties to the Dominican Republic, even if residing in Puerto Rico or elsewhere. One can now say that it is as difficult to separate streams of influence in this current popular music as it was for historians of those genres that circulated freely around the Hispanic Caribbean in the colonial era and only later

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evolved into national genres: globalization seems to cause Caribbean musical history to repeat itself. Dominicans, possibly attempting to regain control over the genre, term their faster local variant dembow (elsewhere this term simply refers to the style’s characteristic kick and snare drum rhythm). Dembow is similarly associated with sexual lyrics, perreo (“doggy-­style” front-­to-­ back dancing later popularized as “twerking” in English), and moral panics. Like bachata, reggaetón has never been noted for being a progressive genre in terms of gender: communications scholar Alfredo Nieves Moreno explains that it “reproduces a male domination, one that enhances the figure of the man and situates him in a position of constant symbolic authority” in lyrics and imagery, making the interventions of innovative artists like Calle 13’s Residente particularly noteworthy (Nieves Moreno 2009, 255; see also 258–­74 on Residente’s articulations of masculinity). Notably, gata (female cat) is a word frequently used for women in reggaetón; for example, Puerto Rican vocalist Glory was known as “la gata gangster.” While a gata may seem sassy, one might also think of the female cat as a domesticated tíguera, easier to control than her wild counterpart, and the term also draws on sexualized representations of women as “pussycats.” Thus, recent performers who question masculinist stereotypes are noteworthy, whatever their nationality: they offer critiques that have not yet been possible in merengue típico, even in its urban and modern variants. Puerto Rican Ivy Queen has widely been hailed as the “only” woman in this male-­dominated genre. While such a claim makes invisible the contributions of others, like Lisa M, Franchesca, Glory, Dominican-­born Orquídea Negra of the duo LDA, or more recent Dominican dembow artists like Amara La Negra or Milka La Más Dura, Ivy is nonetheless a veteran and important influence after recording nine studio albums, even branching out into other genres like salsa and bachata. Her songs are more political than most, and her focus on lyrics is quite purposeful: she herself explained, “The main thing they think when you come into music and you are a woman is that you came here to shake your booty. Everything is about your body. For me, I break that barrier. It’s all about the lyrics. It’s all about fire” (in Jiménez 2009, 240). Cultural studies scholar Félix Jiménez calls her the strongest female voice in reggaetón and “perhaps the only performer to structure her career with a gender difference in mind” (239). She in fact titled a 1999 album “The Original Rude Girl,” emphasizing her identification with the classic Jamaican street tough associated with ska and rocksteady, another Black Atlantic figure closely related to the tíguere. Ivy featured a tough, masculine image early in her career—­not cross-­dressing but also not submitting to typical media demands on women’s appearances. However, after a 2006 makeover on popular television show El Gordo y La Flaca, she

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submitted to press criticism of her tomboyish look and acquired a more stereotypically feminine one with the help of plastic surgery and fashion experts. Her lyrics, nonetheless, continued to deal with topics like feminine autonomy, as in “I want to dance . . . You can provoke me / That doesn’t mean I’m going to bed [with you]” (240–­41). In addition, Ivy’s more masculine, youthful image still lives on in reenactments by numerous drag performers in Puerto Rico (242). While not yet numerous, there are a few out gay and lesbian Dominican performers in rap and reggaetón. One is Deyanira García, an author, Hostos Community College job coach, and former US National Guard member whose stage name is Sargenta G. While perhaps not yet well known to the broader international community of hip-­hop and reggaetón fans, García is a popular speaker and performer at events celebrating any of the minoritarian groups she can represent—­women, Latinas/os, or queers. In pieces like “La realidad” (Reality), she speaks frankly about the challenges of coming out as a Dominican, urging others to be similarly frank: “I am reality / and I am dedicated / to saying it all / and hiding nothing.” When performing on stage, Sargenta G gesticulates emphatically in a way that would be familiar to hip-­ hop fans, occasionally pointing toward her audience or kneeling down, as if to involve them in her tale more personally. She also dresses in camouflage pants, sunglasses, and an olive-­green army hat, marching in place to better convey her military stage persona (García 2013). In these ways, she selectively draws on prior performances of Black Atlantic masculinity to strengthen her claims to the typically masculine rap stage, as well as those of lesbians to a greater public presence in general. In contrast to García’s serious, straightforward talk, openly and flamboyantly gay dembow vocalist La Delfi (Delfy Oscar Solano) mixes stereotypes of effeminate gays with those of hypermasculine reggaetón vocalists to offer an ironic and humorous critique of gender in Dominican music. La Delfi, who uses the tagline “la más perra” (the bitchiest), employs double-­entendre lyrics reminiscent of classic merengue (if rather more exaggerated) alongside video imagery to poke fun at the hypersexuality of his chosen genre. For example, in “La banana” (sample lyric: “Let me peel it for you”), he appears in a yellow tutu and green tank top alongside his costar, Dominican-­American reggaetón bombshell Amara La Negra in Carmen Miranda-­esque headwear, as both appear to compete for the attentions of a male customer at a fruit stand. The man departs, repulsed by La Delfi’s attentions, leaving the two singers to eat bananas and dance on their own as they gaze offscreen, apparently in search of a new target. “Toy mojá” (I’m wet; refrain: “This summer we’ll go wherever we want / take off your clothes, take out your hose”) features a similar narrative, in which La Delfi appears surrounded by bikini-­clad dancing

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women and shirtless men. He steps in to take the place of one woman massaging the shoulders of a man reclining on a lounge chair; the man leaves in disgust with his friend but later returns to throw La Delfi into the pool. In the aforementioned “Lassy,” La Delfi uses carnival as an arena to poke fun at elite Dominicans and homophobes, both of whom may choose to “cross-­ dress”—­assuming the attire of someone of a different gender and/or class—­at carnival time. In each of these examples, the combination of the sounds of dembow with La Delfi’s effeminacy prompts viewers not only to laugh but also to reconsider the types of masculinity, often misogynistic and homophobic, that reggaetón and dembow usually espouse. Just as with the cross-­dressing “straight” artists previously examined, questions have been raised about the motivations of these performers. Orquesta merenguero El Jeffrey, who also briefly participated in the trend, frankly stated that his motives were commercial, since “masculine-­looking artists do not sell” (in Tallaj 2009, 232). And in an interview during which the interviewer questioned him regarding his openness about homosexuality, La Delfi admitted that being out as a gay man had probably helped his career in the “machista” area of urban music—­that, as the interviewer suggested, people watch and listen to him purely out of curiosity (SotoFlowMusic 2012). Commercial motivations might be seen as diluting the potential such performances have to change society and improve the situations of those with nonnormative gender or sexual preferences. It is noteworthy, however, that some of these same performers have challenged racial as well as gender stereotypes in their work. For instance, reggaetón has long been known as a music that shares a race and class consciousness with politicized hip-­hop, even if that consciousness has become lessened in recent popular hits that place “Latinness” above blackness (Marshall, Rivera, and Pacini Hernández 2009, 8–­9). It seems that La Delfi acknowledges the genre’s political history in choosing to collaborate with Amara La Negra, who as her name might suggest, is known for challenging Dominicans’ typically racist beauty standards through her pride in her dark skin, curvaceous body, and large Afro hairstyle, which, like Shino’s, defies Dominican notions of “bad” and “good” hair. In “Lassy,” La Delfi uses rhythms borrowed from Alí-­Babá carnival groups (see Hajek 2012 for more on this musical genre), built upon the rhythmic foundations laid by the cocolos, descendants of black migrants from English-­speaking Caribbean islands, symbolically embracing another historically marginalized segment of Dominican society. These examples show that La Delfi has a broader concern with validating historically marginalized groups through musical performance. While commercialism is part of the package, it provides a broader stage for his critiques and thus in some sense actually helps to advance them.

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Conclusions The cross-­dressing merengueros I observed just after the turn of the new century were widely perceived as simply an amusing trend. However, their unconventional gender performances had wider repercussions. They were followed by a group of men who were willing to push the boundaries of heteronormativity in Dominican popular music even further, not only through their effeminate bodily performances, but also by refusing to allow interviewers to pigeonhole their sexual identities. Finally, in the second decade of the twenty-­first century, we see openly homosexual men and women performing in a variety of musical genres, including hypermasculine rap and reggaetón or dembow. I believe that each of these performances was enabled by those who went before, in a gradual process of opening Dominican viewers to seemingly atraditional masculinities and femininities—­which actually have deep roots in African and Afro-­Caribbean traditions. Since, as noted, gay Dominicans do not follow the same kind of identity politics as North American gay men and women (Méndez 2012, 98; Tallaj 2013), it would be unfair for outside observers to expect the performers described in this chapter to play by the same rules—­that is, it may not be to their best advantage to be outspoken about their sexual preferences, whatever they may be (“none of the above,” Mala Fe astutely responds when asked if he is straight, bisexual, or homosexual), and it is not for me to presume to “out” musicians whose personal lives are unknown to me. As Chancy argues, “Though visibility has its advantages, it also has its drawbacks; physical and ideological backlash and, in some instances, violence, may constrain individuals to the same degree as that imposed by mainstream identities” (2008, 52–­53). But just as Fefita has been able to serve as a model to numerous female musicians and strong-­minded women of all sorts since appearing as a commercial artist a half century ago, the mere fact that Toño Rosario, Mala Fe, Andy Peña, La Delfi, and others offer different visions of Dominican masculinities and femininities may have transformative potential for young Dominicans of all stripes who observe these performers today. In cross-­dressing the merengue, they also offer redress for its historical exclusion of sexual, gender, and even racial identities outside the heteronormative and frequently machista mainstream.

7

Listening Sideways: The Transgenre Work of Rita Indiana

During my 2009 visit to Santiago, I made my habitual stop at a CD store on Calle Beller downtown. The store features sections devoted to merengue típico, bachata, (popular) merengue, son, salsa, and others. I usually make a beeline to the first of those to purchase whatever is new and noteworthy, and then glance over the rest. When I make a large purchase, the men at the cash register throw in some extras from a stack of demos on or behind the counter. This time my eyes were drawn to a yellow disc with a woman’s name on it. Looking closer, I saw titles referencing Ping-­Pong, skateboarding, and Facebook. Intrigued, I asked what sort of music this was. The young man responded with a reflective smile on his face: “Weird. But good,” he said. “This is Rita Indiana. She wears men’s clothes. She’s a lesbian,” he added, seeming to think it an important detail—­and indeed, stating it out loud was noteworthy. Although I had known gay men and lesbians in the Dominican Republic, I had never heard anyone (themselves included) explicitly describe their sexuality. “Do you want to hear it?” I did, and heard an indefinable combination of electronica with merengue de calle, merengue típico, palos, gagá, and more. He sent me home with the demo, and I have been thinking about it ever since. That moment led not only to this chapter, but also to me becoming translator for her recent novels. In this chapter, I examine the work of Rita Indiana Hernández. As maybe the only out lesbian in Dominican public life today, Rita has already garnered a certain amount of academic attention, although mainly for her literary work. Compared to those artists examined in the previous chapter, she has participated to a greater degree in Northern LGBTQ discourse, and her image in some ways better fits Northern expectations of queer

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performers. Rita has been open about her sexuality since before the beginning of her musical career, and her partner, Puerto Rican director Noelia Quintero Herencia, even accompanied her to the Dominican Republic’s principal music awards; they kissed on the red carpet, attracting a great deal of media attention (mainly positive or neutral). She also has performed at gay clubs such as Cha in Santo Domingo. None of this has detracted from her wide following among heterosexual, gender-­normative Dominicans, who affectionately call her “La Montra,” a Dominicanism for “the monster.” “Monster” is used to refer to someone who is amazingly great at what they do, but may also jokingly refer to her 6’3” height—­as well as to her gender nonconformity. The Haitian Canadian writer and literary scholar Myriam Chancy finds that while gender roles and performance styles in the Dominican Republic have been undergoing massive changes, as I have described in this book, attitudes toward sexuality remain overwhelmingly conservative. This conservative influence even reaches academia, where studies of Caribbean lesbian lives are notably lacking. She explains, “I suspect that the overwhelming silence around women’s sexuality and, specifically, the taboos that remain in place in the Caribbean context around lesbianism reveal the degree to which both women and men are mired in antiquated notions of gender identity. In addition, she finds that “restrictions against homosexuality, especially the discursive erasure and denial of lesbian existence, suggest that sexuality may be a crucial avenue for social and political transformation” (Chancy 2008, 51). For these reasons, one could argue that feminists and LGBTQ activities should be paying greater attention to Caribbean lesbians and their political and artistic interventions. As I will demonstrate in this chapter, Rita’s work does indeed have transformative potential, for her critiques of Dominican attitudes toward race, sexuality, migrants, and other issues are the most explicit, novel, and disconcerting of any in Dominican public life today. Rita’s1 discourse on gender, sexuality, race, and music is indeed a particularly Caribbean and Dominican one (see Fig. 7.1). In each of her modes of artistic production—­writing, video, music—­Rita foregrounds, questions, and ultimately transforms typical Dominican and Caribbean ways of performing gender and sexuality, as well as mainstream Dominican perspectives on history and race. She pushes the boundaries of gender and genre in her music and literary works, which travel continually across national borders, cross between established musical genres, and ignore divisions between artistic disciplines. Both her literary and musical works defy easy categorization; in Rita’s own words, a multitude of styles “are inside me like a blender” (in Morales 2012, 319). Indeed, a blender would be a good metaphor for the Caribbean

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F i g u r e 7. 1 . Rita Indiana with tambora. Used with permission.

itself. Rita’s work must therefore be considered not only transnational, but transracial, transgender (in the sense of crossing gender boundaries—­not of sex change), and ultimately what we might call transgenre, in that it crosses borders not only between musical genres but also between various modes of artistic output. Rita does not believe her work to be intentionally political, for the most part, but she does believe that her music is in some sense naturally so. In this, she believes she has resurrected some of the tradition of political critique once found in merengue, for instance in 1970s and 1980s songs by Johnny Ventura and Wilfrido Vargas that dealt with issues like corruption and social marginality (of Haitians and other Afro-­Dominicans in particular) but which has since died out (Hernández 2015). In this chapter I intertwine discussions of Rita’s novels, music, and videos. While it may seem odd to include a discussion of novels in this book about music, Rita Indiana’s written work is full of music: as lyrics, metaphors, rhythms, timbres, plot elements, and as symbols. Music has even served as a formal inspiration: “in the shape of these works, in the form of these works there is music in them” (Maillo Pozo 2012, 217–­18), and one can also view the novels themselves as forms of performance.

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Rita’s musical and written works each enhance the meaning and the aesthetic appeal of the other. As in her novels, her sung lyrics, often originally improvised, derive their force in part through the familiarity of their expressive style to Dominican listeners. She plays with Dominican vocabulary and pronunciation in such a way that the sounds of the syllables transform into rhythms, timbres, and melodies without particular semantic meanings. Characters, imagery, and themes that appear in her written works often reappear in her music and videos. Whether using images, sound, or language, she deals with a set of common themes: race and racism, migration and transnationalism, gender and sexuality. In other words, Rita Indiana’s written and musical languages are really one single language, and her written, sonic, and visual work all loop into, nourish, and feed off of one another. Together, they push her audience to confront uncomfortable truths about gender and race in the Black Atlantic, a kind of active engagement I will term listening sideways. Rita Indiana: An Artistic Biography Rita Indiana was born on June 11, 1977, and grew up in Santo Domingo. She attended El Colegio Calasanz, a Catholic school, for fourteen years, later briefly studying at the Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo. Rita grew up in the home of her maternal grandmother. Her great aunt, the well-­known operatic soprano Ivonne Haza, taught voice daily using the grandmother’s piano, so Rita grew up surrounded not only by the sounds of the transnational popular culture of the 1980s and 1990s but also by those of classical music: in fact, the two occasionally intertwined, since Haza also taught popular music stars like Fernandito Villalona and Sonia Silvestre (Hernández 2015). After her parents divorced, Hernández spent many summers with her father in Miami. She learned excellent English on these trips, partly because her half brother speaks no Spanish, and partly from watching cable TV (SamoraLibraryILS 2006). Her father later moved to New York, where he was killed by gunfire in the Bronx; Rita’s relationship with her father and his violent death both serve as foundations for her novel Papi. Rita lived in New York (both NYC and Ithaca) during the mid-­2000s but later returned to the Caribbean and relocated to Puerto Rico, where she now lives with her partner, Noelia Quintero. While she feels her sexuality is better accepted there, the move also increased her recognition of the prejudices to which Dominicans are subjected in Puerto Rico and the mainland United States, and to which Haitians are subjected in the Dominican Republic. Rita’s forays into music began only in the mid-­2000s, but her writing career began much earlier. Her first novel was written at age nineteen, a time

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during which she was coming to terms with her own sexuality even while pregnant with her son (SamoraLibraryILS 2006). In this book, La estrategia de Chochueca (Chochueca’s strategy, published only in 2003), as well as in her subsequent novels Papi (Daddy, 2004), Nombres y animales (Names and animals, 2013), La mucama de Omicunlé (Omicunlé’s maid, 2015), and Los trajes (The suits, in progress), music plays structural, sonic, and symbolic roles that not only serve to place the works temporally and geographically but also amplify and comment on the social issues each explores. In each book the prose also has special qualities, sometimes itself seeming musical and rhythmic; it is also frequently infused with the language of tigueraje and blends English and Spanish into “Dominicanish,” a signifier of cosmopolitanism for many young Dominicans. Rita in fact traces the genesis of her unique writing style back to Dominican music and folk culture: she explains that her literary models include not only Latin American novelists but also Dominican songwriters like Luis Días, as well as foreign ones like Lou Reed, who excel as storytellers. She finds the cross-­pollination between music and literature to be almost inevitable: “My generation and the one after us, more than earlier ones, are always in an environment polluted with music. So it’s really hard not to talk about it.” Beyond that, she is inspired by the ways in which Dominicans tell stories in their everyday lives: “How people transmit country stories, memories, and the like. . . . I love how people tell their stories, and the form, the musicality of those stories.” The crossover between music, speech, and storytelling is everywhere evident in Caribbean culture, she finds, from the pregones (semimusical calls) of street vendors to genres like Puerto Rican plena and Dominican merengue típico that function as musical newspapers and comment on everyday events (Hernández 2015). Rita’s music thus draws and builds on her written work, often exploring similar themes, employing the same metaphors, and even having similar sonic qualities. While my focus here is on her music, her novels provide a useful framework for understanding it. In terms of form, the third of them (Nombres y animales) was the first to have anything resembling a conventional novel structure; instead, Rita’s books more often use repetition and variation to form structures resembling those of music. Chochueca can be seen as a series of sketches about young, urban Dominicans and their search for purpose, perhaps in the form of a suite. Papi is more of a sonata-­allegro form with an extended development section, in which the book’s main themes—­ Dominican masculinities, transnational migration, and a girl’s idolization of her father, the titular Papi—­are extended and played with in ever more outlandish and surreal ways.

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In content, music also figures prominently. Chochueca’s vignettes center on the theft and return of a pair of huge speakers; Papi’s stream-­of-­consciousness narration by a young girl shows how she develops her own unconventional performances of Dominican masculinity through acts like lip-­synching to merengue legend Johnny Ventura. And the music playing during important scenes in all the books is carefully chosen to underline the characters’ social positions and transformations. For instance, many Cibaeños like to hear merengue típico when they visit their homeland, and in Papi this practice is amplified to suggest the father’s ostentatious displays of wealth and power on his own return from the United States: And people begin to make out the caravan of Pontiac Trans-­Am replicas that drive themselves which Daddy brought to sell. Dozens of 5000-­dollar suits that Daddy brought to wear. Thousands of watches, chains, rings, and bracelets of white gold that fit themselves to Daddy’s body just by thinking about it and which Daddy won’t take off, even if he’s dead. And someone comes out with a baby in their arms so that Daddy will baptize it (the priest, the mother, and the altar boy also hurrying along) and someone kills a pig in Daddy’s honor so that an old woman can go to him and bring a fork to his mouth for Daddy to blow on the roast pork and then, num, swallow it without stopping running. And then they go on killing chickens, goats, and guinea hens all along the way and he, without stopping running, goes along tasting everything, and when a perico ripiao, also running, plays him ‘Compadre Pedro Juan,’ so that he’ll feel at home, Daddy acts like he’s dancing, with one hand on his stomach and the other raised, shaking his butt but accelerating his pace. (Hernández [2004] 2012, 16)

Just past the midpoint of Nombres y animales, gagá music is similarly used to underline a pivotal moment, when the heroine attends “Artists For Gagá,” a concert featuring stars of 1990s and 2000s Afro-­Dominican fusion music like Luis Días and Xiomara Fortuna. During the course of the show, revelations force the heroine to give up the hope of gaining the love of her best friend and crush, Vita, but also lead her to a closer friendship with her uncle’s Haitian assistant, Rada. (“Electro-­gagá” is also the music of choice in the finale of Papi, when the heroine becomes a messianic figure.) Gagá’s position as a musical link between Haiti and the Dominican Republic suggests that a more productive and amicable relationship between these characters as well as the neighboring countries is possible, while resonating with Rita’s recent activism on the topic of Haitian-­Dominican relations, including the song “Da pa lo do.” Similar themes are explored in novels and in music. Chochueca is about how Rita’s generation of Dominicans deals with the legacy of their country’s

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past—­also a central theme of the album El juidero—­and its uneven state of development. This idea is embodied in the namesake character, who goes from funeral to funeral, begging the mourners to give him the clothes of the dead, and thus ends up performing “magic . . . making the shoes of a dead man walk” (Hernández 2004, 46). In this, the character resembles the Gede spirits of Vodou, like Baron Samedi (in Haiti) or el Barón del Cementerio (in the Dominican Republic), who manage the passages between life and death and also control zombies. The presence of the animated dead in modern Santo Domingo—­and indeed of the merengue, Trujillo’s preferred dance—­suggests that it has not rid itself of the ghosts of its past. Indeed, Rita has elsewhere expressed the point of view that it’s “not that easy to escape Trujillo” because “we are still living in a Trujillato” (SamoraLibraryILS 2006), a view her partner and collaborator Noelia Quintero shares and explores in the video for “El juidero” (discussed below). Papi extends Rita’s discussion of this sociohistorical legacy while connecting it to the related topics of migration, transnational culture, and, in particular, Latin American masculinities. Rita has suggested that this book, too, is about Trujillo (SamoraLibrarySLS 2006): according to such a reading, Papi is a stand-­in for the dictator, a super-­tíguere, and the fact that cultists totemically keep his cadaver around, like Chochueca in the dead men’s clothes, again reminds readers how difficult it is for Dominicans to divest themselves of the ghosts of their past. The novels also deal with performance, particularly Papi. Here she explores “how we perform heroes” (SamoraLibraryILS 2006), inspired by her own father’s violent death in the Bronx and her subsequent epiphany, while viewing Scarface, that her late father had always himself been imitating (or performing) masculine heroes like the movie’s protagonist. Papi’s narrator thus learns how to perform masculinity while lip-­synching with her father: “He teaches me one two three, one two three, four and I dress in his suits and we comb our hair with gel and use brushes as microphones and Daddy then lets the microphone go and runs to the record player or the telephone and returns so fast that before the microphone falls to the floor Daddy is already back grabbing it to teach me another song” (Hernández [2004] 2012, 43). In Chochueca, too, the protagonist Silvia is extremely conscious of how she appears in everyday life, even when no viewer is present: “I always, and no one knows this, pretend that I am in a movie, that’s why I played [with my cigarette] like it was afternoon in Paris (although I have never been in Paris) even though I know that we swarm under the gaze of God and dogs only” (Hernández 2004, 70). Clearly, gender and sexuality are enduring themes throughout Rita’s work. In each of the first three books, the female protagonist deals with a (usually

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unreciprocated) same-­sex crush. In each, the heroines struggle with how to perform their own, often nonconforming, gender identities. But the most significant statement on the problems of gendered binaries occurs in Papi. There, a series of video game instructions appear just past the book’s midpoint. The game world is divided into three areas: “La calle (the street), la casa (the house) and lo otro (the other stuff), the other includes the countryside, the sky, the bottom of the sea, TV, space (different from the sky), the thousand-­floor mountain-­castle-­tower [on which Papi is enthroned], the beach, the internet, terraces, music, airports, shops, and temples” (126). The fact that this passage echoes the casa/calle division of classic Caribbean gender scholarship is certainly no accident. By adding the third, “other” category, Hernández disrupts the binary gender system, acknowledging that such a model is too simplistic and that it is associated with hegemonic heterosexuality. It is noteworthy that the street is where “monsters”—­read tígueres—­ “hang out freely,” not entering the houses unless disguised, but that it is in the “other” place, full of both people and monsters (like La Montra), that the best information can be found and “perceived with all the senses.” It is also significant that she locates this third gender/space in places Foucault might describe as heterotopias, places that juxtapose different kinds of places or times, which often deal with transitions and thus sometimes appear to be located out of space or time, like shopping malls and airports (see Foucault [1967] 2002). Hernández locates otherness in such in-­between spaces, and in the passage just quoted she places music itself as one of them. Thus this third, “other” realm is sensual, desirable, and a necessary addition to the binary. Casifull and Miti Miti Like lo otro with respect to the casa-­calle gender model, Rita’s musical works can be seen as a necessary addition to her literary ones. Her first musical efforts were the jingles she created for firms like Coca-­Cola, Nestle, AT&T, and, most memorably, cell phone company Viva (discussed further below) while working as an advertising copywriter—­a job through which, she states, she learned many skills useful in both her artistic careers (Hernández 2015). Although she did not yet consider herself a composer, Rita nevertheless initiated a Santo Domingo-­based project called Casifull (a very Dominican neologism meaning something like either “almost totally” or “nearly awesome”) in 2005 in response to an invitation from the Visual Arts Biennial of the Modern Art Museum in Santo Domingo. The museum had booked an electronic music group called Superchin (“a very little bit” in Dominicanish)

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led by two Spanish sisters living in the Dominican Republic, but the group split up. Some of the members contacted Rita and invited her to sing with them. While “none were musicians,” they “played with samplers, synthesizers and drum machines” and improvised lyrics to put the show together and record five songs (Hernández 2014). These recordings still circulate on the Internet through sources like MySpace, YouTube, and Club Fonograma, a website featuring a blog and downloads related to “Iberoamerican pop.” In Casifull’s “La Sofi,” which reached the top ten on a Santo Domingo rock station, Rita seems to channel the little-­girl narrator of Papi. The song progressively layers four simple electronic sounds: a kind of bass drumbeat, an electronic snare, a keyboard sound, and a bass providing a slightly Caribbean feel with its 3-­3-­2 rhythm (those ubiquitous tresillos; see Chapter 1). Meanwhile, the childlike singing voice lists the different artists she wants to listen to but can’t, from “La Sofi” (Puerto Rican bolerista Sophy Hernández), to the salseros of la Fania, to bachatera Vickiana, bolerista Daniel Santos, Gloria Estefan, and La Lupe, defiantly ending by saying, “I’m going to put [the record] on” anyway. A catchy anthem for the child whose family and friends don’t like her music, by 2009 it was the most downloaded song ever on alt-­ Latin website Club Fonograma (Reyes 2009). The fact that Rita’s invocation of strong Caribbean performers ends with La Lupe can be no accident, as no other Caribbean vocalist has provided a stronger model for unconventional, masculinized performances of Caribbean femininity (see Chapter 4). Casifull did not outlast this brief experiment. After moving to New York the following year, Rita joined artist Raina Mast to form the duo Miti Miti, which produced one CD of ten songs titled Altar espándex (Spandex altar, 2008), some ephemera (like “Cachú” or Ketchup, available only on MySpace), and one accompanying video for the song “Encendía.” Again, Rita explains that, “there were no musicians” in Miti Miti; she simply put the songs together in GarageBand and played them back during concerts. Like Casifull, Miti Miti was an experiment in electroclash, a late 1990s genre that fused 1980s electropop, new wave, and 1990s techno, but this time Rita infused some Dominican rhythms like merengue and gagá. Rita’s label’s website thus describes Miti Miti as “a rustic mix of electronics, merengue and gagá,” but rustic seems an odd word to apply to the very urban and rather abrasive sound of the duo. Synthesized bass and sax, electronic beeps and drum sounds, and distorted voices speaking and shouting surround Rita and Raina’s bilingual singing, made to sound vaguely Caribbean with occasional additions like synthesized claves (on “When Will We” and “Darte”), a guitar reminiscent of bachata (“Ropa vieja”), and lyrical mentions of bolero and chachachá.

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Miti Miti’s work resonates with the novel Chochueca, particularly in the song “En los noventa” (In the nineties; Chochueca was also set in that decade). For instance, at one point the singer describes searching for her boyfriend: llamé a los hospitales también a los bomberos a 4 palomitos, 3 travestis, y 7 cueros. Como no respondían me fui a preguntar a una bruja de Moca y ella se puso a cantar:

I called the hospitals And also the firemen, 4 street boys, 3 transvestites, and 7 whores. Since they didn’t answer I went to ask A witch from Moca And she started to sing:

Next comes the chorus, “Tuni está quedao / en los noventa,” Tuni is stuck in the nineties. The hospital, the presence of street kids and queers, and even the supernatural consultation are all reminiscent of the novel, in which a woman reads the main characters’ palms at a sidewalk café. The song’s meanings may also resonate for the book. For instance, in an interview Hernández explained that Tuni was a popular character among her listeners because of his outdated style, but that he has a deeper significance as a kind of Caribbean everyman: his being “stuck” in the past represents the so-­called underdevelopment of the Third World, a state of affairs Rita herself interprets not as backwardness but rather as “another dimension, with other rules” (C. Rivera-­Velázquez 2007). Likewise, the Santo Domingo of Chochueca is both mired in its history and moving ahead, but according to a different view of progress and what it entails. Like the title character with his dead man’s clothes, Santo Domingo is still clothed in a conservative, Catholic, patriarchal past even as the tígueres on the street are involved and invested in projects that do exactly the opposite—­ they transform music, value Afro-­Caribbean cultures and belief systems, and question heteronormativity and machismo. Both sides are visible and audible, in Rita’s books and music as well as on the street in Santo Domingo. Aside from the texts, the sounds of Altar espándex—­sparse textures, distortions, shouted or spoken repetitions of short phrases, and hectic, high-­ pitched beeps—­lend the album a disturbing aura, as do the visuals for Miti Miti’s video, “Encendía.” This song opens with a quote from “Light My Fire” by the Doors, and then turns into a rhythm Torrado calls “electro-­gagá” (2012, 252; perhaps in reference to the aforementioned scene in Papi) as Rita plays a tambora marked with the Egyptian Eye of Horus, a funerary amulet for the afterlife. The video ends with an apparent witch burning as Rita and Raina Mast, her partner in Miti Miti, are tied to a stake. This conclusion recalls the persecution of lesbians and other women living outside the mainstream in Europe and colonial America, and also conflates this literal meaning of “Light My Fire” with a figurative one, making it in part a song about desire.

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A more explicit song on gender and sexuality is Miti Miti’s “Soy un tigre” (I’m a tiger). Voiced by both Rita and Raina in spoken word form or sometimes in a monotonal chant, at times alternating lines and at times together, the piece has a minimalistic electronic backing consisting of a repeating drum beat and some sounds reminiscent of an animated spaceship, with an slight echo effect on the vocals. At the opening, the two women say “Soy un tigre, tú ere’ un tigre” (I’m a tiger, you’re a tiger) three times, concluding “Y como tigre, cha cha cha chá” (And as a tiger, cha cha cha cha). The two singers then alternate verses, Rita speaking of how she wants to “scratch” and “pull the hair” of the other in the little-­girl voice of her early work, and then engages in a dialogue with Raina: Tú eres una gata y yo soy otra vamos a embrujarnos como dos malditas locas Quítate los aretes me quito el brassiere y vamos a arruñarnos como leones de la yel Meow, meow . . .

You are a cat And I’m another We’re going to bewitch each other Like two damn crazies2 Take off your earrings I’ll take off my bra And we’ll scratch each other like angry lions Meow, meow . . .

Later in the piece, the two vocalists switch back and forth into English, each inciting the other to “take out your Vaseline” and “get face down.” In part, this song explores some of the same ground as Papi, which Rita describes as “a novel about the Dominican tíguere.” In an interview (Hernández 2015), Rita explained that she has always been interested in the aesthetics of Dominican masculinity: “People always think that, oh, femininity is the one that is elaborated and constructed, because we have to paint ourselves. . . . But Caribbean masculinity is super-­constructed and complex.” As a child, she would watch how her uncle would get ready to go out—­how he’d bathe, shave, do his hair and nails: “All the rituals about how you become a tíguere.” But while she finds these rituals attractive, she also realizes that Dominican masculinity has a dark side. While Papi examines how a Dominican male performs this masculinity, “Soy un tigre” takes another tack. Over the course of this song, Rita and Raina transform themselves from domestic “cats,” long associated with women in general and lesbians in particular (recall the gatas of reggaetón, Chapter 6), to “lions” in a dangerous embrace, Rita’s voice similarly transitioning from the innocent girl into the brasher, sonically cross-­dressing woman. Throughout the piece, Rita and Raina identify themselves with tigueraje as a transnational youth culture, but they also resignify it as a queer one where tígueras can be as blatantly sexual as they want and “get crazy” in a space-­age concrete jungle.

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Los Misterios After returning to Santo Domingo, Rita put together the group Los Misterios by calling on friends from different musical backgrounds, including Dominican roots music, rock, and techno (Hernández 2014). This diverse ensemble helped her flesh out songs she had already put together on her computer using GarageBand (Hernández 2015). Members included percussionist Andrew Ramírez and guitarist Eddy Núñez, who both came out of the Afro-­ Dominican-­reggae-­electronic-­punk-­roots fusion group Batey Cero; drummer Francisco “Boli” Martínez, who belongs to the Dominican-­Colombian rock band Auro y Clemt and is the son of a master merengue tamborero of the 1970s and 1980s, Bolilo, who later joined the Misterios himself; Gabriel Lora, a keyboardist and minimal-­tech deejay; and conguero Ricardo Ariel Toribio, who Núñez describes as a “child prodigy from Santiago” (Núñez 2014). On stage and in videos they were joined by male dancers who became known as Los Jardineros after Rita’s song, “Jardinera.” The resultant blend of sounds and choreography was described by one fan as a mix of “Dominican palos, mambo, rock, Dominican merengue típico, electronic music, rich and varied lyrics, typical accent, she sings mambo and all of a sudden it’s hip-­ hop . . . this woman will give [us] a lot to talk about. It’s a new musical style, a new rhythm, and it was born in Santo Domingo. Now the big record labels are behind” (thecolome, 2011, comment posted on Juanjo Cid 2009). In 2010, the group released first an EP and later a CD of twelve songs titled El juidero (roughly, The getaway; Fig. 7.2). As one can see from the description, this music sounds very new, but is made from recognizable elements, some of which are those I have been discussing throughout this book: merengue típico and merengue con mambo (here referred to simply as mambo). These musical fusion experiments were also foreshadowed in a scene at the end of Papi that occurs “to the rhythm of pri pri-­hop, techno-­carabiné and meren-­minimal that the palos musicians improvised together with some Norwegian DJs brought just for that purpose” (201). The invented genres the author names here are Cancliniesque hybrids of Dominican traditions (pri-­prí, an accordion music associated with Villa Mella and its well-­known Cofradía del Espíritu Santo; carabiné, a Southwestern social dance tradition also played on accordion; and merengue all represent Dominican tradition; conversely hip-­hop, techno, and minimalism stand in for transnational modernities). So, while Rita’s musical sound has changed over time, evolving from Casifull’s minimalism through the dystopian indie electronica of Miti Miti, and on to the blended, partly live Afro-­Dominican-­techno of Los Misterios, Rita’s approach to language, fusion, and dual emphasis on danceability

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F i g u r e 7. 2 . Cover of 2010 album El juidero by Rita Indiana y los Misterios, released by Premium Latin Music and used with permission.

and intriguing imagery have remained fairly constant over the course of her various projects, as has her devotion to the themes of Dominican history and identity as they relate to the ongoing presence of the Trujillato, migration, transnationalism, and gender politics. Los Misterios’ logo can serve as a starting point for discussing their album (Fig. 7.3). It was designed by Eddy Núñez, one of the participating musicians as well as a graphic artist who had become friends with Rita when the two were working together at a publicity firm in 2005 (Núñez 2014). This stylized “M” draws upon the designs of vèvès, ritual designs representing the loas (deities) of Haitian Vodou that are commonly drawn on the floor of a ritual space with cornmeal, ash, or flour. In an email conversation, Núñez described these designs as “dimensional doors to other subtle, invisible realities” (2014) but suggested that I would have to decipher its message myself by looking at other vèvès. Taking him up on the challenge, I suggest that this invented vèvè includes design elements common to many Vodou symbols, such as the asterisks

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F i g u r e 7. 3 . Logo for Los Misterios, designed by Eddy Núñez.

and curved feet of the letter, as well as what appear to be two flags. Flags are important in Vodou houses and also figure into vèvès like that of Danbala; here, the fact that the left flag is quartered and the right only halved suggests that they represent two different nations—­probably the quartered Dominican flag and a flag with horizontal stripes, such as that of the United States or Puerto Rico. Finally, the central element of the inverted V recalls the symbol of Freemasonry, and not coincidentally: Vodou has incorporated Masonic symbols and beliefs into its system, and Vodou houngans and Masonic lodges even have overlapping memberships in Haiti. With this symbol, the Misterios identify themselves with historically maligned Afro-­diasporic people and religions like Vodou. Such an identification is important for Rita’s work within the context of ongoing racism against Haitians, and also because of these religions’ historical tolerance for homosexuality, discussed in the previous chapter. Yet Rita was barely aware of such cultural expressions growing up in Santo Domingo—­a common experience for many urban, middle-­and upper-­class Dominicans. She recalls going to the Museo del Hombre Dominicano, Santo Domingo’s museum of folk traditions, on a school trip. When they arrived at the section on Afro-­Dominican culture, the guide said, “No, no, this is Satanic; we can’t see it,” and directed them to another part of the museum. Given such experiences, she recalls being thunderstruck when she later heard Sonia Silvestre sing “Papá Bocó,” a popular song about Afro-­Caribbean religion, on television. As a teenager she began to listen to the music of legendary Dominican singer-­songwriter Luis Días, which also dealt with Afro-­Dominican themes, and to hang out with artists like painter Raúl Recio (see Chapter 3), now among her closest friends. They took her to hear gagá and to see performances of the guloyas (see Appendix A under música cocola), both musical expressions her social class had generally considered only “for Haitians.” Not only did she feel an immediate attraction to these musics, but (she later realized) they also provided a connection to her father’s side of the family, which came from the small Cibaeño town of Moca and included many servidores de misterios, devotees of the Afro-­Dominican folk religion academics call vodú (Hernández 2015). Like Rita, Eddy Núñez (2014), too, feels a deep affinity with Afro-­Caribbean mysticism:

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The magical-­religious element is present both in the codes Rita works through as a Caribbean woman and even more so in her personal spiritual path, so her music and creations always have these colors, they are in our DNA. . . . In the island of Kiskeya [variant spelling of Quisqueya, indigenous name for Hispaniola], we have a lot, we have Haiti as siblings and grandparents. We are surrounded by the Antilles Sea with our now-­invisible siblings, Tainos from Ayiti, Borinken. . . . It is easier for me to feel it than to explain it, I am neither an anthropologist nor a scholar of Afrodescendant culture, I simply feel it and live it like a path that has a true heart and that manifests itself in a natural way when the intention is honest.

The group expresses these ties while also dealing with the problematics of race in the Dominican Republic by drawing heavily from Afro-­Caribbean religious traditions in several videos, and exploring (among other things) the ties of Dominican and Puerto Rican folk religion to Haitian Vodou.3 In this, her work is in line with the output of many progressive artists in the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico today who seek to valorize African roots, whether or not those roots are part of the artists’ own genetic heritage, and to forge links with Haiti. This last is an especially important political statement given the ongoing racism against Haitian immigrants and their descendants in the Dominican Republic, which if anything has grown in recent years, as can be observed through the humanitarian crisis resulting from a September 2013 court ruling that stripped over two hundred thousand Dominicans of Haitian descent of their citizenship (see Archibold 2013). The vévé symbol also shows how the group aligns themselves with transnational populations in their allusion to two flags—­another theme Rita had earlier explored in her novels. Los Misterios had a much larger impact on the island than did either of Rita’s earlier projects for several reasons. First, one can argue that music has been a more important form of expression than literature for a very long time in the Dominican Republic: it is music on which the country’s international reputation is based, and music according to which national identity is defined domestically. Second, unlike the music of Casifull or Miti Miti, Los Misterios’ use of Caribbean and Dominican rhythms and instruments is immediately apparent to listeners, rendering it more familiar and accessible to an audience accustomed to merengue típico, bachata, and other forms of local popular music. Los Misterios are also aligned with other recent musical productions that draw on Afro-­Dominican traditions. These run the gamut from commercially successful works like Kinito Méndez’s palos-­merengue blends on A palo limpio (2001) or the gagá rhythms in Amarfis y su Banda de Atakke’s merengues de calle, to more explicitly political projects by left-­leaning Dominican musicians who seek to use music as a way to increase public acceptance of

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Afro-­Dominican roots as well as of Haitians in the Dominican Republic. Examples include José Duluc’s Afro-­Dominican fusions, for example, in his productions with Los Guerreros del Fuego; singer-­songwriter Xiomara Fortuna’s use of salve, congos, and more since the 1980s; or sociologist-­musician Roldán Mármol’s 2008 album, Sí Gagá. While Rita’s message is perhaps a bit more cryptic than these others, increasing appreciation of Black Dominican cultures and tolerance for Haitians is clearly a part of her agenda. Given the diversity and wealth of musical backgrounds and experience the other Misterios brought to the table, it is clear that Rita is not solely responsible for the group’s sound and image. Núñez (2014) explains that the group worked together, recording rehearsals live, listening to those recordings at home, uploading test runs onto MySpace, and later bringing in producer Lázaro Colón to lend a fresh ear and polish the final project, which was recorded over two weeks in a house in Las Terrenas, a beach town on the northeastern Samaná peninsula. However, Rita was just as clearly the group’s driving force: she invited the musicians and the producer, she brought her song sketches to the group, and she served as leader throughout: “She is number one in her work; she leads the collective with her personality and, more importantly, she quickly transmits that inspiring force without losing any time. She never stops, she reaffirms and renews herself along the way. That’s why she is always followed; I never felt she was a follower. Apart from her evident talent, there is something else, which is her sixth sense [lit. third eye] for bringing together things which are hers and not hers, and thus creating such complex hybrids which then become her unquestionably convincing works of art.” Rita explains that the unifying concept of El juidero is “that sensation of being in motion . . . whoever leaves their country, even if they stay 20, 30 years in another country, always has the feeling that they ran away from something and that they keep running away from something” (in Morales 2012, 325). The feeling of motion—­another point of connection to her quest-­centered novels—­is conveyed through the lyrics, many of which are focused on migration, new technologies, or both; the driving musical sound; and the use of dance movement as well as journey narratives in the videos. The group also plays with time, producing both excessively slow merengues and ones as fast as other contemporary merengues con mambo. Tempo is not insignificant in Dominican music: traditionalists frequently disdain merengue con mambo on the grounds of its extreme speeds. Indeed, in típico such tunes easily surpasses 200 beats per minute. But as Rita explains, speed holds a special significance in this country with its history of repression: “The only freedom available to a people who were victims of the most abstract insularity of all time, is speed. This ‘speed’ which has been expressed with

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such eloquence through ‘el mambo violento’ (violent mambo) or ‘merengue de calle’ (street merengue) at least during its initial period, is at once an intent to break free from a complex of repression left to us by the regimes of Trujillo and Balaguer and their digital schizophrenia—­brutal and absolute” (Hernández 2010). In other words, speed is a way of escaping from the oppressive legacy of that political history. Perhaps one could say it is also a way of escaping from repressive regimes of gender performance. Framed in this narrative of a “getaway,” the musical landscape of El juidero covers a lot of ground. It traverses the Caribbean from Jamaican reggae (“Pásame a bucá,” “El juidero”) to Cuban rumba guaguancó (“Guarará”), Afro-­Dominican congos (“Da pa lo do”), palos (“Da pa lo do” and “Flores de fuego,” Rita’s favorite among her compositions), gagá (also “Flores de fuego”), and plenty of merengue (“Bajito a selva,” “Como un ladrón en la noche,” “Equeibol”), merengue de calle (“El juidero,” “El blue del ping pong”), even echoes of merengue típico (“La hora de volvé”). Beyond that, funk (“Flores de fuego”), indie electronica (throughout the album), EDM (“Oigo voces”), and rock guitar (“El blue del ping pong”) can also be heard. Not one of the songs easily or comfortably fits in any one musical genre. As Eddy Núñez suggests, Rita’s works can be considered “hybrid” not only in their use of culturally and historically diverse source materials but also in the way they combine various modes of artistic production. The imagery used in the music videos is thus significant, and is usually consistent with her lyrics and music. Alongside the album, Los Misterios made a total of four videos, three of which I analyze here. Together, the visuals enhance the music by providing additional, layered meanings, commenting on the lyrics or sounds in different ways, or clarifying what the music leaves opaque. “El Juidero” Few of the lyrics on the album are explicitly political, but some of the videos encourage one to hear them in this way; Rita’s commentary on race is also embedded here. The video for the title song “El juidero” provides a particularly strong example. In the form of a short film, the script by Noelia Quintero tells a fictional story of betrayal framed by the real-­life murder of leftist reporter Orlando Martínez in 1975, apparently by order of Joaquín Balaguer, then in the middle of his first presidency of the Republic (that period, 1966–­1978, is often simply called “the twelve years,” los doce años). The video sets its narrative about a clandestine arms-­trafficking organization in a visual environment that combines “Blaxploitation, the Golden Era of Salsa and the political assassinations which took place during the twelve years of Doctor Balaguer’s rule” (Hernández

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2010). The album cover similarly draws its inspiration from Blaxploitation film posters (Fig. 7.2). Rita and Noelia were attracted not only to the 1970s aesthetic but also to the musical transformations and the still-­buried Dominican political history of that time, as Rita explains: “It was a difficult period of excessive repression, but ironically, this was also at a time when merengue was beginning to transform with new, crude sounds” (AQ Online 2011). Musically, Rita describes the song as “a hybrid mix influenced by merengue mambero (merengue de calle or street merengue), in which old man Marley [i.e., Bob Marley] reared his head like dirt-­stained hands rising from the cemetery fused with the signature traditional merengue ‘Juan Gomero’ and a futuristic güira flying at 30 million miles an hour” that was written during a single night in Brooklyn (Hernández 2010). Both through these sounds and through the filming of the video, she found, “for the first time in my life I began to really use the power that had been bestowed upon me by my own cultural origins” (Hernandez 2010; see Fig. 7.4). That power, it can be seen, derives partly from the sounds of típico, as embodied in “El juangomero,” one of the oldest songs in the típico repertoire, as well as the more wide-­ranging sounds of Dominican and Caribbean modernity. The visuals in the video were entirely of Noelia’s doing; in fact, Noelia notes that the whole film took shape in her head as she listened to Los Misterios

F i g u r e 7. 4 . Rita Indiana with güira. While she doesn’t actually play the instrument, it seems here to symbolize the “power of cultural origins” she discovered while making El juidero. Photo by Máximo del Castillo, used by permission.

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record this song (Quintero 2015). The video opens with Rita peering through the closed blinds of an apartment as other members of the secret group—­all played by band members—­listen to a radio playing the news about Martínez’s assassination. Here she wears a burgundy polyester suit, later on a ruffled tuxedo shirt and tan pants that give her an androgynous appearance. A fast maco rhythm on tambora begins about a minute into the video, as Rita leaves the apartment with a gun. As she drives away in a black 1972 Lincoln Continental, Rita sings, “Éxodo, voy pa’ Puerto Rico / Éxodo, ma’ lejo’ que Egipto” (Exodus, I’m going to Puerto Rico / Exodus, further than Egypt) to the tune of Bob Marley’s “Exodus.” This and other period cars play a special role in this video because, Rita states, “They were ‘torture machines’ . . . because from their inner sanctums they spied and executed the enemies of the powers-­that-­be, intellectuals, artists, students, people on foot.” Furthermore, along with the clothing styles, the cars clearly set the video “in a time of war that defined the 70s throughout the world, the time in which the urban guerrillas of Baader-­Meinhof ravaged Germany, Weather Underground planted bombs in the US and in black New York dire necessity planted the seeds of one of the most transcendent revolutions in history—­the birth of Hip-­hop” (Hernández 2010). In this way, the music and video connect the violence of the Bronx and the Dominican Republic, the transformations of hip-­hop and merengue, and the work of radical political organizations around the world, all of which were hallmarks of the 1970s and important moments in the birth of a transnational Caribbean community. The rhythm changes to a slow, soul-­influenced beat while Rita drives past Vicente Santos, one of the Jardineros, dancing alone on a side street, as she sings: Mándale la horma a tu tío en el etranjero Pa’ que manden tenni Que se armó el juidero

Send the tracing4 to your uncle living abroad So they’ll send tennis shoes Because the getaway is ready

This same dancer returns later after an interlude where Rita receives a suitcase full of weaponry from Johnny Ventura, the godfather of modern merengue, and the music changes yet again. The instruments drop out and the voice of Afro-­Cuban musician Pedro Martínez intones a Yoruba-­language Lucumí (Santería) prayer to Oyá, accompanied at first by clave alone and then with added electronic percussion. Ventura’s appearance is significant, not only for his important role in merengue’s musical history, but also for his more covert place in Dominican political history. As to the first, Noelia states that inviting him for this cameo was one way of acknowledging the history of Caribbean music as an exchange between islands, since he was hugely popular not only in his home country but in Puerto Rico as well, in fact supporting his family

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for decades largely by playing proms and parties there (Quintero 2015). As to the second, Rita reports that Ventura’s father had belonged to the leftist MPD party, and that he was involved in the anti-­Balaguer resistance. Ventura himself had trafficked arms for the resistance movement, hiding weapons inside his group’s conga drums, of all places. “In some way we were channeling all these things in the video,” Rita says (Hernández 2015). The reference to Afro-­Caribbean religion in this part of the song is also loaded with meaning. Like Marley’s song, it relates the Exodus of the Bible to the forced transportation of Africans through the slave trade, while reminding listeners of the deep roots of local belief systems. Significantly, Oyá is a female deity who resides at the entrances of cemeteries and has to do with the passage between life and death, foreshadowing the next event in the video. Furthermore, she is a warrior who was married to the fearsome Changó and even led him into battle. Oyá is sometimes syncretized with the Virgen de la Candelaria, a “Black Madonna.” Some say she is also the patron of lesbians, gay or bisexual men, and male-­to-­female transgender persons (Conner 2004, 75). In fact, Rita reports that within the religion of Santería or Regla de Ocha, she is a daughter or devotee of Oyá (Hernández 2014). Thus, the prayer to Oyá serves several purposes here: it reinforces Black Atlantic connections; it validates Afrocentric and homosexual presence and perspectives; and it contributes to the song’s overall narrative. In live performance, movement can provide the same points of reference. In a 2010 televised presentation (Bernard 2010), for instance, the sung prayer is provided by a recording rather than a live singer. So when this slow section begins Rita steps out in front of the microphone and begins performing steps associated with the Afro-­Cuban rumba guaguancó. Her shoulders shimmy, then roll back as the corresponding foot steps to the side; her right hand circles her head and brushes off her left arm; both hands hang in front of her pelvis as the shoulder movements continue. While Rita does these movements, some of which (like the hand encircling the head) are more associated with the male partner in rumba, her male backup dancers perform the Dominican version of the back-­and-­forth salsa basic step,5 reinforcing the historical linkages between salsa and rumba as well as Cuba and Puerto Rico. As the rumba movements allow Rita to re-­embody Afro-­Caribbean connections, otherwise disembodied through the use of the recording, so does Rita’s fierce performance of masculine moves help to invoke the spirit of Oyá. At this point, the tambora returns to the maco rhythm, and in the video Rita continues her fateful drive along Santo Domingo’s malecón. Vicente, the dancer, reappears in darkness, lit by car headlights. He raises his arm menacingly just after Rita parks and then shoots another man sitting in a car. As the song nears its end, the Exodus theme returns as Vicente, now shadowed by a

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second male dancer, performs a quick triple step with a vigorous two-­handed rowing motion, ending in slow motion. The fierceness and intensity of the dancers adds to the urgency of the visual tale and the threat of violence, while their pantomimed movements add commentary on the “exodus” of Dominican migrants by boat: the movement is not only a mimicry of rowing, but also a step associated with Yemayá, the Yoruba-­Caribbean goddess of the sea (Quintero 2015). These same movements reappear on stage when Rita performs them together with Los Jardineros (as in Bernard 2010). In an interview, Noelia explained that the dancer’s role in the video is a key one, as he represents the spirits of the dead, especially those killed by the Dominican dictators, but also those who have died elsewhere, like in yolas, the ramshackle boats used to emigrate. In fact, she believes that “the identity of the Dominican [is] like the identity of the dead,” el muerto, because that identity is so inescapably marked by dictatorships both acknowledged and regretted—­like Trujillo’s—­and unacknowledged, even celebrated, like Balaguer’s. (This symbolism also resonates with that of Chochueca, discussed earlier.) When Noelia began to research the story of Orlando Martínez and to visit archives while in Santo Domingo, she found herself shocked by the lack of written, photographic, or audiovisual records of those times. Thus, in the video she “tried to recreate a bit” of those disappeared archives while “mixing [in] a bit of that movement, that energy that the dead have, not only in the music, within Afro-­Caribbean religions, but also within history” (Quintero 2015). Movement, sound, and imagery thus combine here to create connections between the past and present: Ventura’s merengue transformations are linked to Rita’s; Balaguer’s repressive and racist politics to their continuing legacies in today’s Dominican Republic; the massive exodus of migrants that began in Balaguer’s time to its continuation at present. The use of the sounds and language of Santería builds Black Atlantic connections (here between Nigeria, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic) while adding an element of mysticism to the violent story that validates both Afro-­Dominican culture and Rita’s sexual orientation. These spiritual elements and historic resonances made themselves felt in uncanny ways during the making of the video. One example was Ventura’s role; another was the car Rita drives. The script originally called for a Cadillac, but the day before shooting the crew found that the one they had booked would not start. The replacement Continental, found through a collector, showed up with a Balaguerist slogan on its keychain. Upon inquiry, Rita learned that the car she was driving had been Balaguer’s own, and the impression on the back left seat was that left by his own body in its habitual spot: “My stomach still cramps up when confronted by this absolute proof that we were truly embarking on something a lot larger than what

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we had first contemplated and that this production was like a séance, conjuring up mystical communications” (Hernández 2010). Indeed, the project of El juidero is a bigger one than simply a musical experiment. The other videos from this album combine sound, movement, words, and imagery to comment on race and racism, migration and the Dominican transnation, gender and sexuality. As a whole, the project, like most of Rita’s work, urges viewers to reflect on Caribbean culture and society in sometimes uncomfortable ways, perhaps even forcing them to “listen sideways.” “ L a H o r a d e Vo lv é ” : M i g r at i o n a n d t h e D o m i n i c a n T r a n s n at i o n “La hora de volvé” (Time to go back) is one of several songs that explore transnational migration and its effects on individual Dominican lives and Dominican culture as a whole. Its video, again directed by Quintero, is set in otherworldly landscapes: a bright yellow moonscape with animals and geological formations made of red paper; an atmosphere fiery with orange clouds of vapor; a pinkish nebula with paper platforms for the performers; and at the end, a path of crumpled papers the performers ascend into a blue beyond. Noelia explains that she and the animator, Mariela Ortiz, chose to use a colorful dream-­world filled with imagery inspired by the Little Prince to represent the place to which the song’s protagonist wants to return, rather than a literal Caribbean (Quintero 2015). Lyrically, the song is more down to earth. It describes experiences typical of Dominican migrants, as in the following section: Tengo 9 años llenando maleta Con media, pantie, desdorante y en decuento Voy a regalarlo cuando llegue donde mi abuela Y todo el mundo se pondrá contento

I’ve been filling a suitcase for nine years With socks, panties, deodorant, all discounted I’m going to give them away when I get to my grandma’s place, and everyone will be happy

(ESTRIBILLO) Te llegó la hora, papi, como a Monkey Magic Súbete a eta nube y deposítate en tu calle Coge un avión, ¡coño! Una yola al revés Tú no lo ves, llegó la hora de volvé

(CHORUS) Papi, your time has come, like for Monkey Magic [a video game] Get up on that cloud and deposit yourself on your street Grab a plane, damn it! A reverse yola Don’t you see, it’s time to go back

Todos vuelven a la tierra en que nacieron Al embrujo inconfundible de su sol Y quien quiere ‘ta comiendo mierda e’ hielo Cuando puede ‘ta bailando algo mejol

Everyone returns to the land of their birth To the particular enchantment of its sun And all sorts of people are eating shit and ice When they could be dancing something better

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Purchasing inexpensive gifts to bring home, longing for a home whose warm sun clearly contrasts with the “shit and ice” of New York—­these are experiences many transnational Dominicans can easily relate to. Rita’s use of Dominican pronunciation and terms like yola, a small boat used by the desperately poor to make the perilous sea crossing to Puerto Rico, provides a parallel with her written work as well as another point of connection to her listening audience. Also notable is that the migrant narrator of this story equates island life with dancing, given the centrality of dance to the song’s sound and music video, which I will describe in some detail. Sonically, this piece is the most merengue-­like, even típico-­sounding, of all the songs on El juidero. It makes sense, then, that the camera focuses in on a tamborero playing a basic merengue rhythm while sitting in a moonscape in the first few seconds of the video. A güira can also be heard (but not seen) playing a caballito rhythm (the “little horse,” two sixteenths and an eighth note), sometimes changing to a pattern that has a long upward stroke on the second beat of a 2/4 measure, which is used to accompany sung verses in merengue típico. In the second section, the fast and driving güira rhythm brings the rhythms of Afro-­Dominican palos music to mind, even though no palos drums are present here. However, the use of keyboards contradicts the típico feel by adding first a high-­pitched single note playing an offbeat rhythm, and later a very 1980s-­sounding synthesizer playing a melody somewhat similar to that of the voice during the chorus, mixed in to sound much louder than the other instruments. Besides the timbres and rhythms of merengue típico, Los Misterios utilize another musical device here that recalls that genre, which is its two-­part form (see Fig. 5.3). As in típico, the second part of this song is much longer than the first, here by a factor of about 2.5. However, in “La hora de volvé” the transition between the two parts is marked by tempo and pitch distortions created by speeding up and slowing down the recording. This emphasis on the musical transition reinforces the lyrical focus on the journey between icy New York and the warm Dominican Republic, rather than allowing the music or its listeners to comfortably occupy either space. Also, these sonic distortions lead us into a new musical landscape, where Rita sings about a migrant’s disappointment to find that “over there” is not as glamorous as one might have thought. Here, her monotonic vocals hover over a keyboard alternating between two Fs an octave apart, giving a sense of a different tonal center than the main verse or chorus in the key of C and enhancing the sense of being somewhere else. In the second part, while the same chorus we heard in the first part returns, a new facet is added when a chorus of nasal voices sing na, na, na, na on each beat on the pitch of G. The na nas fade out as Rita begins

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to encourage listeners’ participation with the repeated command, “baile” (dance). In this way, the second part transports listeners to the disappointing migrant life, and then back to a somewhat transformed “home.” Listeners/ viewers are invited to participate in that journey by dancing along. Los Jardineros play a prominent role here, dancing alongside Rita or separately, costumed in Matrix-­like long, black coats, slim black pants, and long-­ sleeved shirts. One plays air bass to draw attention to the audible fretless bass; he also appears later playing an air drum machine or keyboard. Three other dancers float through space, lifting and dropping their shoulders in alternation, or doing a step that often provokes laughter in first-­time viewers: a subtle pelvic thrust together with the musical beat, each thrust accompanied by a flopping of the hands, which are loosely hanging next to the hips with palms up as if in hyperbolic evocation of limp-­wristed stereotypes of effeminate homosexuality. They hop on top of a flying LP, shimmy their shoulders, or dance a chachachá with Rita; they do the step-­together, step-­together move of palos dancing, or perform humorous mimetic movements that relate to the lyrics: drinking beer from a thumb, displaying an imaginary wristwatch, even flapping arms like birds’ wings while apparently dancing palos. Rita and her backup dancers use these steps in live performances, showing the close connection between movement and sound as well as the recorded and the live in Rita’s work. The presence of these male bodies as focal point also ties Rita’s music to merengue con mambo, which as we saw in the previous chapter also nearly always includes dancing male backup singers, and through them to the Balaguer-­era transformations embodied in Johnny Ventura’s Combo Show and its choreographies, later emulated or further developed by other groups in the 1970s and 1980s, such as Wilfrido Vargas y sus Beduinos or Los Kenton. But there are a couple of important differences. First of all, while Ventura and his bandmates appeared as the ultimate tígueres, gold chains over their exposed chest hair, performing forceful dance moves in practiced synchrony, Los Jardineros went another way. In a Skype conversation, Jardinero and professional actor Vicente Santos (2014) explained, “Rita also has a very androgynous image. . . . And in fact we dressed in that way, it was like we were three men there and like there was no sex.” Second, none of the Jardineros were trained dancers: they drew movements from pedestrian actions, from everyday dance experiences, from joking around together. The group came up with the steps collaboratively, Santos explained, drawing inspiration from folk dance troupes’ repertoire, like the mangulina or “‘Compadre Pedro Juan’ with the little hat” (referring facetiously to ballet folklorico performances of merengue), as well as Dominican Christmas music, as that season is when

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most Dominicans abroad come home; their use of folk dance thus represents “rediscovering Dominicanness.” Both music and dance draw from multiple sources, Santos continued, thus entering into dialogue with one another. According to Noelia, another inspiration for the Jardineros was the dancers from Puerto Rican sex symbol Iris Chacón’s television variety show. Hugely popular around Latin America in the 1970s and 1980s, this show always featured an ensemble performing trendy dance moves as background for Chacón’s own singing and dancing. Chacón is still a beloved figure and plays a special role in Latin American gay and lesbian communities, where she is frequently impersonated in drag shows. Her backup dancers were either male or mixed gender; all typically performed flamboyant moves, and both sexes usually wore tight, effeminate costumes. In “La hora de volvé,” Chacón’s legacy can be observed in the tight-­fitting clothing and exaggerated movements of the Jardineros. During my first few viewings, I found this video incited discomfort because of its relationship to island prejudices against return migrants, who are often seen as tacky and ostentatious, as embodied in the figure of the cadenú (see Chapter 2). If a viewer laughs at the video, I wondered, are they really laughing at suffering migrants? Are they laughing about the effeminate moves, and thus potentially at gay men? I suggest that this discomfort is productive and purposeful because it forces listeners into reconsidering their attitudes both toward nonmainstream masculinities and toward migrants, and ultimately to identify with retornados in particular. One example of how complete and lasting this identification has been can be found in a recent Facebook post by a Dominican acquaintance of mine, an upper-­middle-­class Santiaguero who is currently studying in the United States: in preparing for a trip home, he posted a photo of his suitcases alongside Rita’s lyric, “Tu no lo ve’ pero llegó la hora de volve’.” The references to merengue típico are apt and important to this act of reflection, since, as I have discussed, it is a genre particularly associated with return migrants (at least in its “modern” guises). But, overall, the juxtaposition of recognizable, even traditional elements like the típico percussion sound and palos or mangulina movements with surreal imagery, 1980s corniness, and harsh synthesized sounds creates an unsettled or unsettling space that requires viewers to look and listen to merengue in a different way. The laughter provoked by the dancers, the mixing of sonic markers of specifically Dominican locality with visual evocations of far-­off outer space or internal fantasies: each of these jarring elements pushes us to reflect on the song and, by extension, to understand the migrant lives and travels it describes as equally uncomfortable.

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“El Blue del Ping Pong”: Dealing with Desire, Riffing on Race The video for “El blue del ping pong” (Ping-­Pong blues) is the only one in which Rita herself does not appear. It was also the first Noelia Quintero directed for the group, and perhaps the group’s first hit. In 2009, Rita gained notoriety for her appearance in a commercial for Viva cell phones, where she strolled through a Dominican barrio holding a boom box playing Afro-­ Dominican flavored music she had composed herself. Later that year she performed with Los Misterios at the Feria del Libro, Santo Domingo’s huge annual literary and cultural fair, for an audience of thousands. While, like most of the bands that played there, Los Misterios were unknown at the time, the audience recognized both Rita and the rhythm of “El blue del ping pong” from the Viva jingle and danced enthusiastically. Once fan footage of the Feria performance began to appear on YouTube, Noelia decided the group ought to act quickly to put up their own video that would have the feel of a fan video but with better quality, more compelling visuals (Hernández 2015; Quintero 2015). This video (Juanjo Cid 2009) is made entirely of footage found online, including those fan videos from the Feria. Whether in spite or because of their apparent randomness, the images and the narrative they construct are compelling. The video opens with a blue Misterios symbol (see Fig. 7.3) superimposed on a black-­and-­white scene of what look to be two 1960s male scientists watching a Ping-­Pong game on television. We hear only a wooden stick playing a 3-­3-­2 tresillo pattern, perhaps on the rim of a tambora, accentuated by a wood block on the “and” of two, and the bass drum playing on beats one and three. (In live versions, this section becomes a more standard merengue con mambo, the tambora playing the basic maco beat accompanied by a güira’s caballito rhythm.) Next the camera zooms into that game, and we briefly see two Asian men hit the ball back and forth before an image of a red-­and-­orange-­tinted dance scene takes precedence (the Ping-­Pong game is still visible, though whited out). As an electric guitar enters playing a short, repetitive mambo riff, we see several women of color dancing energetically on a stage, one in a sequined, bikini-­like outfit with a feathered headdress, the others in brightly colored, ruffled, Cuban-­style rumbera dresses. Next a tinny-­sounding, high-­pitched keyboard comes in playing a minor chord on the last eighth-­note of each 2/4 bar as we cut to amateur video from the Feria in which we see the back of a woman in a midriff-­baring red T-­shirt and low-­slung jeans held up by a wide white belt, doing a move North Americans would know as twerking, Latin

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Americans as perreo (doggy-­style).6 This one-­second clip repeats in a loop a number of times, then cuts to another looped clip, which we can later see was part of the Feria dance circle, but this one shows two dark-­skinned men in jeans and baseball caps. A few feet apart, they dance facing each other while surrounded by onlookers. The sparse instrumentation of drum set, tambora, keyboard, and electric guitar continues throughout the song, and Rita adds to the minimalistic feel by singing on just four pitches: the first, third, fourth, and seventh degrees of a natural minor scale. A flashback to the flamboyantly clothed stage dancers leaping brings us up to Rita’s sung refrain. Table 7.1 shows the correlation of words to images for the next fifty seconds of video. As with the previous examples from both musical and literary works, Rita’s vocabulary and pronunciation remain thoroughly Dominican. The next chorus and instrumental interlude continue much as previously, again cycling through Pong, the single male dancer, the güira, and the Ping-­ Pong players. However, the video narrative is advanced in brief splices of new scenes from the perreo dance and the rumbera stage performance. At the beginning of the next verse, the man in the black tank top reaches out in slow motion and points his finger at someone off camera. Rita sings, “Yo le pregunté a Héctor Lavoe y él me dijo: Rita, dale con to’ / que aunque tu vea esa malla tan alta, tú tiene lo zanco pa’ saltarla” [I asked Hector Lavoe and he told me: Rita, give it your all / because even though you see a high wall, you have the stilts for jumping it]. At the end of the following chorus, Rita sighs “oh,” as the four colorfully dressed rumberas now turn to one side, raise their arms, perform a hip pop, and then repeat the same on the other side, all in slow motion. At the same time, a bass finally enters, and as the keyboard drops out the electric guitar strums with more distortion. Then the perreo dancers come back, now dancing in two heterosexual pairs, also in slow motion. The faces of one couple are visible, smiling as the woman grinds her rear into the man’s crotch. At the end of the video, an announcer yells, “¡Seguimos con Rita Indiana y los Misterios!” (Let’s keep partying with Rita Indiana and the Misterios!) and as a crowd screams their excitement the Misterios logo (Fig. 7.3) appears superimposed on overexposed footage of the rumberas, Ping-­Pong players, and crowd all at once, a yellow-­orange filter making it appear as if it is all going up in flames. Dancer Vicente Santos was not involved in this video’s production, but reads it as simply being about “common people enjoying themselves, people expressing themselves with their body, with movement” (Santos 2014). Enjoyment (disfrute) is certainly at the core of this piece, but I argue that there is more to it. Like the joke circulating on the Internet that the word

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T a b l e 7 . 1 . Video Analysis of a Portion of “El blue del Ping Pong” Text

Translation

Video

(Estribillo) Si tú le da yo le doy, undarundeiro Si tú le da yo le doy, undarundeiro

(Refrain) If you hit it, I hit it (nonsense word)

Alternating between video footage of the classic Pong video game and a jumping crowd at a concert, the text “Undarundeiro” superimposed over them

El blu del ping pong mami, undarundeiro El blu del ping pong, undarundeiro

Ping-­Pong blues, baby (nonsense word)

Loop of the same dancers from the earlier perreo video, but now the two men are dancing with women in back-­to-­front pose

Ete corazón tiene su manigueta, ya tú me lo cogiste de raqueta

This heart has a handle; you grabbed it like a racquet.

A güira being played (only the mid-­torso of the player is visible, not the face or legs).

Este corazón hace ping pong pong Ta pegao del fondo como conconcon . . .

This heart goes ping pong pong. It’s stuck at the bottom like concón . . . *

An image of the Ping-­Pong players is superimposed over video from the perreo dancing. This time a loop of two male dancers moving in an arc around one another, apparently grasping each other’s right hands.

Con ete cohete con ete con

With this rocket with this with

An upside-­down image of a single Ping-­Pong player twirling a paddle

Te conoco, Yoko Ono King Kong

I know you, Yoko Ono, King Kong

The two women from earlier dance perreo back to front, one woman grinding her hips against the other’s pelvis as a third woman approaches, smiling, moves into a squat and backs up

Cantinflas de corazón,

Cantinflas from the heart

The same güira loop

Sanson, Sanson

Samson, Samson

The two women dancing as one of the men approaches

Si tú le da yo le doy, undarundeiro Si úu le da yo le doy, undarundeiro

If you hit it, I hit it (nonsense word)

Alternating between Pong video game and footage of a Ping-­Pong game with “Undarundeiro” superimposed in bright red and blue

El blu del ping pong mami, undarundeiro El blu del ping pong, undarundeiro

Ping-­Pong blues, baby (nonsense word)

A loop of a mirrored image of one of the men in the Feria perreo turning in a circle by himself

Toy como el lobito de lo tre cerdito Tumbando la casa de palito

I’m like the wolf of the three pigs Knocking down the house of sticks

At the Feria, a woman dances with an undulating movement while sandwiched between two men as a group looks on. The tinting of the image changes between red, yellow, and blue.

Aunque se me queme ese culito Detrá de tu chicharroncito

Even if my butt gets burnt Behind your fried pork rinds

The woman in the red shirt and white belt dances with a fast hip circling movement, her rear toward the camera (continued)

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Text

Translation

Video

Páltamolo to en do, molotó

Let’s split everything two ways, Molotov

The three rumbera dancers from earlier appear in the midst of a leaping turn, landing in a wide second position with their arms straight out to their sides at shoulder height, palms flexed, a fierce expression on their faces.

Molotó en blo, molotó Blow blow blow blow blow

A block of Molotov, Molotov blow blow blow

The rumbera dancers alternate and sometimes overlap with Ping-­Pong footage

Blow away

A flashing blue logo of Los Misterios

*Concón is the hard rice stuck to the bottom of the pot. It is considered a delicacy in the Dominican Republic and usually offered to guests; also, probably because it has the most oil in it, it is thought to make the eater fat, which is frequently considered beautiful (especially among the lower classes).

“twerk” comes from Gesamtkunstwerk7 might suggest, the overlaps between the imagery, dancing, music, lyrics, and Rita’s written work help to provide a clearer understanding of this video. In the minute of sound and image just described, Rita’s signature blending of local Dominican language (pronunciation, terminology, and grammar) with international pop culture is clearly apparent. For instance, blues, Yoko Ono, King Kong, Mexican comic film star Cantinflas, and Puerto Rican salsa legend Héctor Lavoe are all international icons, while concón, chicharrón, and her overall pronunciation (for instance, always omitting the final “s”) strongly index Dominicanness. More generally, the boasting tone of the lyrics seems to recall Caribbean traditions of oral improvised poetry, such as décima contests. For instance, when she invokes the wolf blowing down the house, or says that Héctor Lavoe, an icon of tough Caribbean masculinity, told her that she can conquer any obstacle, Rita’s performance seems to echo Bartola Colón’s or Fefita’s boasting, poetic enactments of feminine tigueraje (see Chapters 2 and 4). While the sound of the piece is difficult to define, it might be termed “mambo with a difference.” The fast, maco-­like rhythms and the mambo-­like riffs resemble other merengues de calle, but the instrumentation sets this one apart. The distorted electric guitar sounds little like that of bachata or guitar merengue, while the insistent, tinny keyboard lends a tone of artificiality, though one that recalls dembow or reggaetón (styles that also highlight 3-­3-­2 rhythms). Sometimes her sung or chanted lyrics employ Black Atlantic rhythmic devices also commonly found in merengue típico: for example, the “con ete cohete” line places triplet syllables over the duple subdivision of the music, a device termed displacement (Pressing 2002, see Table 7.1).

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Merengue con mambo, as we have already seen, signifies the realm of the street, youth culture, and tigueraje. What Rita does to it here might be termed “queering the mambo.” The “queerness” of this piece is not only found in the sound, but is also buried within the lyrics. Rita’s timbral and rhythmic use of Dominican language helps her to accomplish this resignification of merengue de calle, principally through three techniques of transformation: (a) by breaking works into their component parts, she isolates their sound from their meaning, making listeners focus only on their sonic qualities—­as in “con ete cohete con ete con”; (b) by transforming one word into another, based not on similar meaning but on similar sound—­as when “Moloto[v]” turns into “blow away”; and (c) by isolating one part of a word and turning it into another word whose meaning is different but whose sound enhances the meaning of the first—­as when “corazón” is followed by “Sansón”: their meanings are not related, but her repetition of the latter and separation of its syllables make it begin to sound like a beating heart.

Transforming words in this way causes listeners to begin questioning what they hear, and perhaps to wonder if those words really mean what they thought they meant. That kind of questioning might lead one to wonder why, in fact, the song is called “Ping-­pong blues,” and why the video pairs Ping-­Pong imagery with images of perreo and other kinds of dancing. Rita explains that Ping-­Pong is here a metaphor for the back-­and-­forth, give-­and-­take of a love relationship (Hernández 2015). Another answer can be found in a piece of short fiction Rita published in 2001, titled “Ping pong vals” (Hernández 2001, 12–­13), meaning “Ping-­Pong waltz,” but also clearly a pun on “ping pong balls.” Here is the complete piece, in my translation: The Ping-­Pong ball was not made out of celluloid until 1981. It can reach up to 170 kilometers per hour and when it is hit by a racket it deforms by 25%. One could say about this girl: she is a Ping-­Pong ball, although some would consider the relationship between the two a perversity, the girl is neither round nor hollow, it would be correct to say that she gets an adequate amount of air between hits, and that everyone wants to be the racquet. Her motto is recreation, research, recuperation, always having her hands moist and warm so that, when shaking hands, they slide gracefully, like the hands of pickpockets in the buses that traverse the avenues at the speed of Ping-­Pong balls. This girl counterattacks all the time, it is said that she was born with a pink mantle, that before pushing for the last time her mother had her fists full of dice. For real? Who wouldn’t fall in love with that? In this city full of crazies who take

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their babies for a walk at midnight in their strollers, or who buy sunglasses to become invisible, the only possibility is to create a cult to the girl and turn into a little tin dress. Does anybody know how to get in? In silence, that’s for sure. While she keeps me in quarantine, she has put my 19 versions into her little digital torture chamber. I had already been warned by an older lesbian, a hairball doesn’t keep anyone alive.

Given the connection to Rita’s literary work, it would appear that this song is about lesbian attraction and the difficulty of acting upon it in Santo Domingo. Kept at a distance, the narrator of the short story is in danger of choking upon the hairball of her own desire for a tough yet feminine woman. Since she cannot touch her, the narrator must instead create a “cult” to her. The story perhaps relates to Rita’s own experience with first love: in a 2006 interview, she explained that she started writing because she was unable to express her desire for her female best friend and instead wrote poems to make this friend fall in love with Rita’s male cousin, Cyrano de Bergerac-­style (SamoraLibraryILS 2006); the story reappears in the novel Nombres y animales. In any case, the metaphor of wanting to be the racquet to the attractive woman’s Ping-­Pong ball carries through to this song. The dancing shown in the video supplies another piece in the puzzle of its meaning. It expands upon the Ping-­Pong reference by exploring desire more broadly, also adding the variable of race to the discussion. The video centers on snippets of perreo dancing, accentuated by looping and punctuated with fast cuts to images of other dancers or musicians. The perreo snippets show women and men each dancing solo, followed by just about every possible grouping of the dancers together: woman-­woman, man-­man, man-­woman-­ man, and then the whole mixed group dancing in a circle together. While criticisms of perreo and twerking generally center on how these dances place the female body as an object of the male gaze (and of male groping), this conjunction of images puts that critique into question by demonstrating that perreo dancers participate in many kinds of sociality, and that the dance may just as easily support women’s desires for men or for other women, or even simply their wish to enjoy their own sensuality. Meanwhile, the costumed dancers on stage put the bodies of Caribbean women of color uncomfortably on display. Performing in front of an inaudible band that might be playing merengue or salsa, these dancers wear the colorful, flounced Cuban rumbera dresses associated with staged performances of internationally popular Cuban music. But the central dancer’s attire contrasts disturbingly with that familiar image. In contrast to the long dresses with their yards of fabric, her body is mostly uncovered: she wears a

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bikini top and a thong bottom that is skirted in the front only, like a loincloth. While the other dancers wear heeled shoes, she is barefoot with metallic cuffs around her ankles, a tall headdress of black feathers atop her long hair. Whatever their costumes, all members of the group perform athletic leaps, spins, and contractions apparently inspired by West African dance, and they have fierce expressions on their faces rather than the coy smiles of more typical rumbera performances. These images are jarring because of the way they present an exotified and sexualized image of women of color, one that draws on stereotypes of African and Afro-­descent peoples as well as the history of slavery brought to mind by those metallic anklets. The history of white male desire for dark women that is highlighted in this dance is well known (see Aparicio 1998, 43–­44 on the sexualized image of the mulatta in the Caribbean, for example) and is present in classic rumbera performances as well, although there it is partially hidden or made unthreatening by that flirtatious look. Here, the dancers’ unsmiling faces and vigorous, full-­body movements are quite unlike the playful hip and shoulder shimmies of film rumberas like Ninón Sevilla or María Antonieta Pons. When placed in counterpoint with the perreo footage, these different styles of dance performance should force viewers to reflect on the sexualization of dancing Caribbean women and, particularly, on the role of race in that process. Like the dancing men in “La hora de volvé,” this barefoot, bikini-­clad dancer—­and her comparison with the perreo dancers—­causes a purposeful discomfort that may force the audience to listen in a new way, thus leading to a more critical understanding of race and gender in general. “El blue del ping pong” is perhaps the most opaque of Rita’s songs dealing with desire, particularly homosexual desire. Others of her pieces deal with the same topic in different ways. One example is “Encendía,” the already-­ discussed piece by Miti Miti, but other songs take a more playful tone. “Jardinera,” for example, the song that made the Misterios’ backup dancers famous, uses double entendre lyrics similar to those La Delfi (see Chapter 6) has also recently employed: y quién es que dice lo que yo voy a sembrar y quién es que dice cómo lo voy a regar y quién va a decirme lo que yo voy a crecer ay Dios, pero tú te crees y quién va a decirme dónde yo hago los hollito

And who will tell me what I should sow? And who will tell me how I should water? And who will tell me what I will grow? Oh God, do you believe it? And who will tell me where to dig the holes?

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y quién va a decirme dónde yo la deposito si ella son mía, soy yo que digo y lo digo bajito

And who will tell me where to deposit it? If they [the seeds] are mine, I get to say. And I say it in a low voice:

estribillo jardinera, jardinera yo tengo la tierra pa’ tu semilla buena tú tiene la llave yo tengo la manguera tu tiene la forma yo tengo la manera vamo a sembrarle mango en todita la acera

refrain Female gardener, female gardener I have the soil For your good seed You have the faucet I have the hose You have the form I have the way We’re going to gather mangos All along the sidewalk

Throughout much of the song, “semilla” (seed) is sung as a responsorial chorus to each of Rita’s lines. The rhythmic framework is a basic merengue rhythm played at slow speed on a tambora, with a ride cymbal taking the usual place of the güira; a lounge-­y organ sound on the synthesizer takes the melodic-­harmonic role. Here, Rita’s combination and appropriation of sexual double entendres for both sexes—­seeds, holes, hoses, mangos—­in a song clearly dealing with the validation of lesbian desire, all within a traditional merengue framework made “other” by the lounge sounds, is another means of queering the mambo. “Dulces sueños” provides another compelling example. Los Misterios’ very Dominican version of the Eurythmics’ 1980s hit “Sweet Dreams” begins in a slow reggae rhythm, the guitar playing on offbeats and the drummer adding timbales-­like fills, then moves into a slow merengue about a minute in. After another twenty seconds, drum machine handclaps and a guitar with the staccato sound of bachata change the feel again. Rita then sings her Dominican translation of the Eurythmics’ chorus, followed by one of her semantically transformative vocal improvisations, full of references to popular culture: [Estribillo:] Dulces sueños ‘tan hecho de eto quién soy yo para decir que no he cruzao el mundo y lo siete mare todo el mundo ‘ta bailando mambo.

[Chorus:] Sweet dreams are made of these Who am I to disagree I’ve travelled the world and the seven seas Everybody’s dancing mambo.

[Improvisación:] Con pista o sin pista, tira los pasos de Castellano y Benny Moré . . .

[Improvisation begins:] With or without a soundtrack, Do the steps Of ‘Castellano’ and Benny Moré . . .8

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A brief reggae break next moves us into a sort of mambo section, where the güira’s caballito rhythm (an eighth and two sixteenths) adds to the rhythmic drive. During the mambo, Rita sings the original lyrics in English, ending by reminding us that “everybody’s looking for mambo.” Rita’s choice to cover this particular song is a meaningful one. Annie Lennox, the original vocalist, is known for her own cross-­dressing as well as for her carnivalesque adoption of numerous guises in her performances, from dominatrix to housewife to Elvis impersonator (Rodger 2004, 17). In the video for “Sweet Dreams,” Lennox appeared in a masculine suit matching that of her male musical partner and used convincingly masculine movements and gestural styles, both contrasting with her dramatically feminine facial makeup (20). More than just another 1980s “gender-­bender,” Gillian Rodger suggests, Lennox’s performances reflected her deep distrust of the music industry and its sexism, and her refusal to let others dictate her image (18). Unlike Lennox, Rita has been an out lesbian since the beginning of her musical career, while the industry continually demanded Lennox “prove” her heterosexuality (21). But, like Lennox, Rita’s own image similarly plays with contrasts, and in “La hora de volvé” her androgynous hair coupled with exaggeratedly feminine makeup echoes Lennox’s earlier video appearance. Rita’s voice produces an effect similar to what Gillian Rodger, following Elizabeth Wood, calls “sonic cross-­dressing” in Lennox’s case: this technique exploits the tension created by singing just under one’s vocal break, creating a strong, reverberant chest voice whose sound is nonetheless unlike that of a man (20). So, like Lennox, Rita’s image together with her vocal timbre, lyrics, and movements, similarly works to counteract mainstream media demands, which tend to confine women to particular modes of dress, appearance, and behavior. That Rita’s critique audibly emanates from Caribbean traditions makes it that much more distinctive, demonstrating that the release people can gain from dancing to the merengue con mambo she mentions can be made to extend to a more general release from societal expectations. Listening Sideways After touring with Los Misterios, and undergoing seventy-­five television interviews in a single year (Hernández 2015), Rita announced that she no longer wished to lead the life of a professional musician. Although she continues to compose music, mainly for film and video, she is once again devoting most of her time to writing. Her 2013 novel, Nombres y animales, was nominated for the Las Américas prize, which recognizes the top works in Latin

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American literature, and her 2015 sci-­fi novel titled La mucama de Omicunlé (Omicunle’s maid), a futuristic exploration of Afro-­Caribbean religion and Caribbean identities, has been nominated for the Mario Vargas Llosa prize for Latin American novels. Currently underway is Los trajes (The suits), a collection of vignettes about the devil-­as-­tailor and the tígueres who commission suits from him in 1970s Santo Domingo. Whatever form it takes, Rita’s work has always explored a common set of themes. The intertwining of Dominican language and Dominican music is a longstanding concern of this artist, and one through which she often explores serious topics such as race, sexuality, and identity. Both novels and music touch on Dominican history’s impact in the present, particularly that of Trujillo and Balaguer, on Afro-­Dominican belief systems and their musical expression, and on the relative invisibility but eternal presence of nonnormative genders and sexualities in Dominican culture. In addition, in her continual exploration of the coming-­of-­age novel, Rita’s concerns parallel those of scholars seeking to understand how gendering occurs or is brought into being through experiences in childhood and adolescence, including early experiences of music and its performance. In her books, music, and videos, Rita and her collaborators offer significant pleasures but also at times cause deliberate discomfort. I argue that these sonic, visual, and linguistic interventions require a new way of listening, more demanding than passive intake, which I term “listening sideways.” The term is inspired by a comment Rita made in an interview. When asked if she aimed to conquer the “gay market,” she replied: “I don’t pretend to conquer markets. Those are pretensions of record labels and publicists. I want to conquer brains, to get my music to transcend the dance floor and what is hip or cool. [I want] my lyrics to serve as encouragement for whoever is screwed, and for whoever isn’t screwed, that it makes them look sideways [mirar pa’l lao]” (Soto 2010). With this statement, Rita argues that her work speaks most directly to those who are marginalized by society, whether for their race, class, gender, or sexual preference—­but also that it should provide those in the mainstream with a new perspective, allowing them to see the world through the eyes of those others. This is a significant intervention, one that results in the new availability of alternative performances of gender and of public nonheterosexualities, and potentially even in new musical (not to mention literary) genres.9 Listening sideways means accessing and interpreting music in a way that questions the assumptions upon which it is made. It means, perhaps, listening in a queer way, whatever one’s own gender or sexual identity. Listening sideways is a political act that demands engagement with sounds, movements,

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and their histories. Making music that allows for such active listening means making music that is disruptive: music that sounds strange, videos that look weird, dancing that appears awkward. Rita has explained that she came up with her signature writing style because “I was just listening” (SamoraLibraryILS 2006). If, as Lloyd Whitesell (building upon Susanne Cusick) contends, “queer people are oriented to listen (think, express themselves) differently” (2013, 837), Rita Indiana is working to train everyone to listen in a queer way. Listening sideways also means questioning both gender and genre, both of which are género in Spanish. Gender and genre can be so closely related as to be inseparable in any language. For instance it has been said that it is impossible to present a nonmasculinist rock because it is already always overdetermined as masculine. To present another view of gender, rock would have to be remade, and perhaps a new genre would even have to be created (see a summary of this critique in Auslander 2006, 208–­9). Indeed, “alternative rock” did this by allowing men to enact conventionally feminine characteristics, such as being affectionate with same-­sex friends, expressing emotions openly, or presenting their bodies as more sexualized on stage (Houston 2012). But feminine and homosexual sensibilities were largely missing from that style as well. Electronic dance music provided a better mode of expression for many gay or queer-­identified people than rock had done, to cite one example (see Taylor 2012). Rita’s intervention into Dominican popular music does similar work, by transforming local musical genres into something new that allows for alternative performances of gender and sexuality, linking new géneros musicales (musical genres/genders) with new géneros corporales (bodily genders/genres) through performance. Especially in her work with Los Misterios, Rita’s music often “sounds Caribbean” because it draws on dance rhythms and instruments of the region. In fact, this tendency became more marked as Rita’s musical career progressed: while, as noted, early efforts employed only electronic instruments, El juidero bears obvious influences from merengue, palos, and other Dominican sounds, and the musicians play both electronic and live percussion, including tambora and güira. Yet her music takes these genres in new directions by breaking down generic boundaries and creating a sound to which no genre term comfortably applies. Some have termed her genre “Latin alternative,” and she performed at the Latin alternative conference in 2011, even though that term is usually applied to subcategories of rock en español. Rita sees such labeling as simply an imperative of the music industry: “Whoever wants to call it alternative can call it that. Whoever wants to call it merengue can call it merengue. Whoever wants to call it whatever they want, world music too. I make music, for whoever wants to see that” (Morales 2012,

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326). Yet while US journalists place her music in the crossover “Latin alternative” category, Dominican ones often call her genre “electro-­merengue,” and Club Fonograma chairman Carlos Reyes describes it as “Música Dominicana with a universal eye” (Reyes 2010; original capitalization). Dominican and Latin American points of view thus emphasize how her work fits into the long history of Dominican popular music, and, I would add, of Dominican gender performance. Just as Rita’s musical genre is hard to define but clearly draws on established modes of Dominican musicking, so is her performance of gender hard to pinpoint within existing categories, even though it clearly refers to them. We have seen how Rita’s videos and bodily performances take tigueraje in a new direction, questioning its heteronormativity, by putting “masculine” movements and clothing on a female body and “effeminate” ones on male dancers, or by exploring the possible combinations of desire. Many fans comment on Rita’s tigueraje, and seem to interpret her performance of gender within this established framework: “me gusta el tigueraje de ella” (I like her tigueraje), one says; another emphasizes her tricksterism, saying, “E una muchacha bien prepara en lo que es la calle y el tigueraje . . . Chekea las entrevista como ella lo bufea to’” (She’s a girl who is well versed in the street and tigueraje. . . . Check out the interviews, how she makes fun of everything” (Vasquez 2009; original spelling). When I asked Rita which Caribbean women she considered models or inspirations, she named the Jamaican American singer, actress, and model Grace Jones; the Cuban writer and scholar Lydia Cabrera; and Fefita la Grande (without my having yet mentioned the accordionist). She explained, “Besides being a virtuoso, she has a great deal of charisma and her attitude breaks down many gender frameworks.” Playing on the term perico ripiao, for merengue típico played in trio, she continued, “We could call what she does feminismo ripiao” (Hernández 2014). I do see a similarity between Rita’s and Fefita’s public personae, even though Rita’s tigueraje is clearly not the same as Fefita’s. Fefita invites male attention to the feminine curves of her body and her feminine undulations, while simultaneously taking control of that gaze and using it to her own ends. Rita emphasizes her androgynous appearance and her ability to perform either conventionally masculine or traditionally feminine movements masterfully, depending on the needs of the moment. Just as changing musical genres and changing performances of gender were linked in the music and performances of Tatico and Fefita, Fulanito and Aguakate, Tulile and Krisspy, and other artists I have examined in this work, so are the two connected in Rita Indiana’s queering of the mambo.

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To put both Fefita and Rita’s tigueraje into related English terms, we might describe their behavior, movements, gestures, and singing as fierce. This term came about in New York City in the late 1980s gay/queer ball culture scene (a scene organized around competitive drag “balls” where people danced and vogued) and later became part of mainstream gay culture, even appearing in the speech of some straight New Yorkers. (I learned it from my New York Puerto Rican roommates, one gay and one straight, in Brooklyn in 2001.) “Fierce” clearly relates well to the vocabulary of tigueraje, but it specifically refers to whatever is outlandish, extraordinary, or exceptional, or to a person who displays confidence, boldness, or creativity through their appearance (Word of the Gay 2008). Both of these women display fierceness, though in their own ways. Fefita’s is displayed through revealing her feminine yet aged body on her own terms; Rita’s through concealing her own more angular frame, often in more masculine kinds of clothing like suits and buttoned up shirts. Fefita’s confidence is conveyed through her strong voice, energetic dancing, intense facial expressions, and brash lyrics; Rita’s through her facility with language, secure use of pan-­Caribbean dance movements for both genders, and comfortable demeanor on stage. Rita Indiana’s recent work is transgressive in that it foregrounds alternative sexualities and modes of gender performance, but it can also be seen as a culmination of established modes of musicking and gendering. She emerges from a cultural context that has a whole history of transgressive gender performance, especially among the lower classes—­through carnival, traditional music like merengue típico, oral poetry, and more. Her intervention in Dominican popular music is therefore novel not necessarily for its content but for the fact that a higher-­class, lighter-­skin, and queer body is performing it. Beyond that, her intervention is important for what it does. By consciously manipulating Caribbean sounds, movements, and language, what Rita does is to propose a new and more politicized way of listening. Listening sideways forces audiences to confront other points of view, and, in particular, to reflect on their own feelings about marginalized groups, thus producing the ­potential for change.

8

Dispatch from an Imaginary Island

This time Maluca is lying on a twin bed in the private space of a bedroom rather than the public streets of the “Tigeraso” video. The phone rings and she picks it up and identifies herself. “Lola, Dominican princess, new to the business. How can I help you?” On the other end of the line is the well-­known Japanese American model, Jenny Shimizu, a lesbian with an androgynous appearance. Identifying herself as Dr. Pow Pow, Shimizu timidly asks, “Do you think you could shake it for me?” “Of course!” Maluca replies, gleefully jumping up and shaking a pair of maracas to Dr. Pow Pow’s delight. This is the opening scene of Maluca’s second video release, “Lola (Ging Danga),” a sparse moombahton (a blending of house and reggaetón) track whose video, directed by Bijoux Altamirano, uses animated GIFs and flashing titles to evoke tacky 1990s websites (Maluca 2013). In the guise of “Lola, Dominican princess,” Maluca dances in in front of a Dominican flag and on a street. Sometimes she is in a yellow and black jacket, her hair in long braids with a golden crown around an elaborately arranged topknot: “You can’t touch her crown / Lola, Lola don’t mess around.” Also appearing in the video is Mykki Blanco, a transgender/multi-­gender rapper and performance artist whose musical influences lie in punk and riot grrrl, as well as a variety of professional escorts, gay men, and a transgender woman (Vernon, n.d.). Maluca’s playfully spoken Dominicanish lyrics are layered over a heavy, sparse beat with an habanera rhythm. In the chorus, Maluca sings out the rhythmic vocables “ging danga” while a largely monotonic, classic lead analog synth adds a recognizable element of house; the track was produced by Dutch EDM/hip-­ hop duo Partysquad, who have also worked with M.I.A. In the song itself, Maluca states that it is dedicated “to all my Lolas worldwide trying to make that money, pay the bills, take care of the kids—­you

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know what I mean?” While the video’s imagery and narrative seem to imply that “Lolas” are sex workers, in a video interview, Maluca explains that the term has a broader meaning, and that she herself identifies with it. For her, Lolas are: “The characters of the underground who society deems as noncompliant.  .  .  . It’s not gender-­specific. It represents the hustle. The underground hustle is not so much about what you look like on the outside, it’s about, ‘I need to make this shit happen. What can I do to make this shit happen for me?’ . . . Lolas don’t cook, we eat takeout, ‘cause we’re too busy hustling. We’re too busy inspiring people, looking fly, making shit happen.” While the Beyoncés may rule the world, Maluca continues, “we [Lolas] rule the underground” (Maluca 2011b). Maluca’s New York underground, the video shows, is populated largely by the gender noncompliant. And these people are important because they are the ones who make art, fashion, and music happen. While Maluca is not herself gay, she is clearly inspired by New York City’s ball culture—­as well as by gender-­noncompliant Caribbean performers including Fefita la Grande and La Lupe. As noted earlier, Maluca has described Fefita as her “fairy music mother,” echoes of whom can be seen in Maluca’s fierce facial expressions and onstage dancing. As to the over-­the-­top Cuban singer, in a 2011 performance of “El tigeraso” for a Dominican Independence Day celebration at SOB’s in Manhattan, Maluca seems to channel La Lupe as she falls to the floor, rolling to her back and closing her eyes in apparent ecstasy as she pumps her hips in rhythm. When the song ends, she rises again and shouts: “Yo soy la Maluca Mala, ¡y yo soy la que manda en esta casa!” (I am the bad girl, and I’m the one in charge in this house!) By invoking earlier tígueras and their relatives, she is able to tap into their power (Maluca 2011a). While Maluca may indeed be, in the words of her former record label, “that increasingly rare bird: a downtown girl who brings together the classic cool, glamour, grit and passion of New York City in an instant” (Mad Decent, n.d.), and who does that by drawing on a distinctly New York gay club culture, the Lola’s hustle is in many senses the hustle of the tíguere or the tíguera in the Dominican Republic as well. Honoring the Mayimbas Tígueras are not necessarily feminists; tígueres are almost never so. As ethnomusicologist Ellen Koskoff writes, “Stripped of its theory, feminism is simply living a life guided by resistance (small or large) to inherited gender norms, as found in specific cultural and historical moments” (2013, 214). According to

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this definition, Fefita la Grande, Rita Indiana, and Maluca Mala (as well as a number of the other performers described in this book, male and female) are Caribbean feminists par excellence because resistance is a part of their narratives and their performances. What is particularly noteworthy is the degree to which their music and performance styles draw from Dominican and Caribbean traditional culture in order to resist those inherited gender norms. Fefita, Rita, and Maluca demonstrate that there are indeed many feminisms emerging from the global South, and that traditional culture can and does often play a progressive role in society. Every culture has examples of strong women. One word for a type that is specific to the Dominican and Caribbean culture sphere is “mayimba.” As I noted earlier, this term comes from the Afro-­Caribbean male “mayimbe,” meaning chief or boss. It was applied to Fefita to indicate her dominant position in merengue típico; similarly, music executive Marti Cuevas received the nickname from colleagues at J&N Records and later used it as the name of her own company, Mayimba Music (also Rita Indiana’s publisher), which Marti now runs with her daughter Zoila Darton. A Mayimba Music Tumblr page (Mayimba Music 2015) explains that the term mayimba is used to describe “a woman of power,” “a woman with ambition,” or “a charismatic female boss.” In March 2015 the label made its feminist connotations explicit by launching a series of thirty-­one videos called #IAmAMayimba, each of which tells the story of a strong woman engaged in some form of resistance, from Maluca to Marti and Zoila to a diverse group of artists, lawyers, and businesswomen. The world of tígueraje is not necessarily a welcoming one for women. As Maluca’s “Tigeraso” video shows, the streets are still filled with tígueres and their catcalls. And let us not forget that Omega, perhaps the most popular exponent of merengue de calle and, by extension, transnational tígueraje, calls his musical style mambo violento (violent mambo). He has been taken to court for domestic violence charges and gone to jail for failure to pay child support, and these facts are, I think, not separate from his music. Women do not have equal power or rights in Dominican music, in the Dominican Republic more broadly, or indeed anywhere. Yet for a woman with hustle—­for a mayimba, for a Lola—­tígueraje also offers opportunities, even role models for how to live on one’s own terms. One can in fact construct a lineage of empowered and empowering Dominican women that stretches back even before Fefita’s birth to encompass the many women who did resist, have always resisted patriarchal norms. Some of their names are known to us, like Mamá Tingó; most are not. Such a lineage

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can be useful not only to feminist scholars seeking to broaden our understanding of what feminism is and how it operates, but also, perhaps more so, for young women of color both inside and outside the Dominican Republic. What about the men? Tígueres like Tatico, Shino, or Johnny Ventura; men who have received the name of mayimbe, like merengueros Fernandito Villalona or bachatero Anthony Santos—­none of them are feminists by Koskoff ’s definition (or, probably, their own). They have made important critiques of social norms and hierarchies, but only those of social class and race—­seldom, if ever, gender. And this is not surprising: if the intent is to change the social status of the men who perform it for the better, why would they work to deconstruct the one area in which they maintain primacy? Nonetheless, as Rita Indiana notes (Hernández 2015), the tíguere’s form of masculinity always makes its constructedness abundantly clear through such men’s elaborate hair-­and skin-­care regimens, perfumers, body modification (e.g., through weight lifting), immaculately ironed clothing and well-­polished shoes, and bodily practices like dancing. By revealing the basis on which masculinity is built, tígueraje—­perhaps paradoxically—­opens up possibilities for critiques. Critical forms of tígueraje have emerged in performances given both by tígueras and by male performers like Mala Fe or La Delfi. In each case, I would argue that the strongest critiques and the most effective resistance have come not from artists divorcing themselves from Dominican traditional culture, but from those who embrace Dominican sounds from merengue to palos and gagá. Even Maluca Mala, whose music on first listen seems quite distant from the Caribbean, uses merengue and habanera rhythms as foundations, and she elaborates her chanted lyrics using Afro-­ Caribbean techniques like displacement and open/closed phrasing (Peter Manuel’s term for two-­bar structures that alternate on-­beat and off-­beat phrasing, like the clave rhythm; Manuel 1998, 129). Often times, new ways of performing gender and new musical sounds go hand in hand: both are géneros nuevos. As dominant gender formations shifted toward tígueraje in the post-­Trujillo era, as embodied in Tatico’s and Fefita’s performances, so did merengue change its sound: típico musicians like they played faster, added coordinated rhythmic breaks, and supplemented the group with electric bass, congas, and more; orquesta musicians borrowed from rock and salsa, paring down their horn sections and focusing on choreography and spectacle. With the rise of a transnational tíguere subculture, the hypermasculine merengue de calle shifted toward riff-­based forms, truncated rhythms, and incorporated more Afro-­Caribbean influences. Today, as Rita and Maluca bring queer Latinos into the Dominican public sphere, they take Dominican music in yet other directions.

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Island Imaginings and the Utopian Performative Theater studies scholar Jill Dolan believes that performance offers the possibility of imagining and experiencing utopias, in the sense of better, future worlds: “Theatre can move us toward understanding the possibility of something better, can train our imaginations, inspire our dreams and fuel our desires in ways that might lead to incremental cultural change” (2001, 460). It does this through its liveness, its immediacy, its “present-­tenseness” (455), its way of offering stories as “maps” to where we might go (478), and even because of its embeddedness in culture. She terms this quality the “utopian performative,” building on José Esteban Muñoz’s discussion of the utopian possibilities of Latino and queer performance. Many other theater and performance studies scholars have used Muñoz and Dolan’s concept to argue for the activist potential of performance, particularly in relation to feminist and queer performance, or performance by, in, and for those of other marginalized communities. I believe this concept to be equally applicable to music performance—­perhaps even more so, given the fact that while not everyone goes to the theater, everyone does listen to music, somehow. My argument is similar to that advanced by Thomas Turino in Music as Social Life, where he explains how participatory performance—­ that which engages all present with no distinction between performer and audience, as is found in its opposite, presentational performance—­can help to bring about “alternative social futures” (2008, 21). Turino uses Peircian semiotic theory to present a convincing argument for why music has the potential to drive social change: for one, it creates and strongly communicates emotion through its use of icons or resemblances, for instance to a (possibly ideal) social world, and indices or associations with other natural or social phenomena that listeners have experienced together with particular musical sounds. By acquiring a variety of meanings through signs, music can have a semantic snowballing effect, layering meaning upon meaning in ways that aren’t always perceived consciously by the listener (5–­10). By establishing these emotions and creating a sense of flow or timelessness, music connects various listener/ participants and “foregrounds the crucial interplay between the Possible and the Actual” (16). In this way, he continues, “artistic processes crystallize the very essence of a good life by dramatically emphasizing the interplay of future possibilities with experiences and things we already know from the past—­all within a specially framed and engrossing present” (18). Turino focuses on participatory music making. My focus has been only partly on this type of performance. Merengue típico does have performer-­audience separation, but it is not a strictly presentational form of

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performance, lying somewhat further along the continuum toward the participatory. It requires listeners to participate by dancing and making requests, and it requires musicians to interact with listeners by sending them saludos or shout-­outs from the stage, honoring requests, and sitting down to drink and chat with patrons. Merengue típico performance can engender moments of communitas, Victor Turner’s term for the intense feeling of togetherness and bonding that can result from communal rituals.1 This, I think, is as true of contemporary merengue con mambo as it is of more traditional merengue típico (although each appeals to one generation more than another). Within such a framework, some kinds of típico performances, like those of Fefita, have transformative potential. And the fact that Fefita’s performances have had actual effects on the world is visible in the proliferation of female típico musicians in the Dominican Republic over the past few decades. It is important to remember that women’s entrance into the public sphere of music making began in the Dominican Republic and was not due to migration to the North, and that it began in merengue típico, not the more commercial merengue de orquesta. But I have also looked here at presentational forms of popular music that are consumed primarily through recordings and videos rather than in live performance. Even in the absence of face-­to-­face interaction and communitas, it is possible for such musics to produce change. While mass-­mediated popular music more often upholds social norms than challenges them, it is possible for it to do otherwise—­when, like Rita Indiana’s or Maluca’s music, it requires one to listen sideways. Although not all music has utopian possibilities, that in which critique is embedded and decodable by listeners does. These examples show that the utopian performative can be found not only in “high culture” like theater but everywhere a performer questions norms and makes hegemonies visible (or audible). Fefita never received much formal schooling, but her critique is no less effective than those produced by intellectuals. In fact, her message probably reaches more Dominicans and has had more of a lasting effect than any of the other performers examined here. While Dominican women, like women elsewhere, still have many obstacles to overcome, these examples suggest that change is, at the very least, possible. Because of their location in the Caribbean, the particular interventions described here are somewhat different from those examined by Dolan. They take place in island spaces, and islands are supremely loaded symbols in the colonial, neocolonial, and postcolonial imaginations.2 In 1719, Daniel Defoe told the tale of Robinson Crusoe who, shipwrecked on a tropical Caribbean isle, undertakes a one-­man colonization campaign, complete with racial hierarchies and indentured servitude. In 1726, Jonathan Swift used the various

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imagined islands and island inhabitants encountered by Gulliver to critique European governments and religious squabbles; Gulliver’s experiences lead him to begin to view all humans as Yahoos, the degenerate and deformed humanoids (ruled over by the very refined horses called Houyhnhmns) he encounters on his last journey. In H. G. Wells’s 1896 dystopian island novel, Edward Prendrick is shipwrecked on a south Pacific island where he encounters the Beast Folk, human-­animal hybrids created through the evil experiments of Dr. Moreau. He is never again able to be around people without imagining them reverting to a bestial state. In 2013, Rita Indiana pointedly included epigraphs from The Island of Dr. Moreau at the opening of every chapter in her acclaimed Nombres y animales (Names and animals), a novel in which the protagonist is forced to confront Dominicans’ inhumane treatment of Haitian migrants. As these examples show, islands have long served as performative spaces for imagining new social realities. In novels, for centuries they have appeared as either utopian or dystopian analogs for our “real world.” In popular culture today, islands frequently show up as paradises, tropical fantasies of the Western imagination: always Other, but always desirable, too. Clear examples in popular music are Madonna’s “La Isla Bonita” and Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana” (the protagonist of the latter is, significantly, named Lola). To employ Frances Aparicio and Susana Chávez-­Silverman’s (1997) term, these are forms of tropicalization, the process of representing Latin America and Latin Americans through tropes that may appear to be harmless, “exotic,” and fun—­even utopian—­but which are frequently primitivist in nature. In our actual historical moment, however, the Dominican Republic is more of a dystopia mired in massive corruption scandals and a human rights crisis replete with arson attacks and even a lynching, which has been met not with outrage but rather with a blind eye.3 I think Maluca is aware of both the utopian and dystopian possibilities of islands when, in the second chorus to “Lola (Ging Danga)” she intones the words, “She got island body, island music / About to lose it”—­“island” here replacing the “jungle” of the first chorus. Acknowledging how her own body may be sexualized and othered by non-­Latino viewers, she ironically engages in the same activities herself, singing those very words while dressed in a transparent, plastic-­suspendered bodysuit, her breasts covered by Dominican flag decals. Her critique is a complicit one, a countertropicalism, to echo Dorinne Kondo’s (1997) writing on the “complicitous critiques” of counter-­ Orientalist performances that subversively mobilize Asian stereotypes in order to dismantle them. If we listen sideways, perhaps we can hear the winds of change, even louder now than the growls of the Beast Folk.

Appendix A: Dominican Musics Mentioned in This Book

Bachata is a guitar-­based music originating in rural Dominican interpretations of internationally popular styles like bolero, son, or ranchera. Such guitar groups—­whose music was then referred to as música de amargue, bitter music, because of its teary lyrical subjects—­became very popular after mass migration to the cities in the 1960s and their promotion by the Guarachita record label and radio station. Bachata groups today typically play both the slower, bolero-­like bachata rhythm and fast, típico-­like merengues in an ensemble of two guitars (one providing rhythmic accompaniment, the other the lead requinto, which plays on strings shortened with a capo), a bongo for bachata or tambora for merengue, güira, and electric bass. In New York, groups like Aventura created an updated style that uses R & B influences in a danceable, boy-­band version. Congos are related to the palos drums described below and are often considered a subtype. They are found only in the southern town of Villa Mella, and the ensemble consists of a single long drum called congo mayor, a much shorter membranophone called alcahuete, a wooden idiophone called canoíta, and often maracas. The congos are specific to this town’s Cofradía del Espíritu Santo (Brotherhood of the Holy Spirit) and have been declared a masterpiece of intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO; the cofradía plays the music particularly for the feast of the Holy Spirit and for death rituals (see Sánchez and Hernández Soto 1997). While the congos are also largely unrecorded, one Villa Mella resident has made popular recordings of other kinds of religious music from the area: Eneroliza Núñez’s lively versions of rhythmic salves, accompanied by a chorus of women playing panderos, small frame drums, can be heard booming from truck-­mounted sound systems throughout the country at carnival time and also provided

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the basis for a popular merengue fusion album by Kinito Méndez titled A palo limpio. Décimas are ten-­line verses that represent a Spanish-­origin cultural form in the Dominican Republic. As elsewhere in Latin America, such poems were formerly improvised, often as part of contests, and sometimes with musical accompaniment. Such contests no longer take place, but some traditional verses have survived in merengue típico today, for instance in songs like “La mala maña.” Dembow is an urban Dominican music, a local version of reggaetón. Its name comes from a classic riddim or rhythmic accompaniment used in the 1990s by Jamaican and Panamanian producers. Gagá is a festive, processional music of Haitian origin (called rara in Haiti) that is played throughout the country during the Lenten season, but particularly in the border region and wherever bateyes or sugarcane settlements are found. It is closely tied to the vodou belief system (devoción a los misterios or la 21 división in the Dominican Republic); gagá groups are generally dedicated to a particular saint/deity and religious rituals are included in the processions. At the same time, the groups are often adopted by political parties as advertisement, again demonstrating the absence of separation between sacred and secular. It is played on a set of tubes called bambúes (bamboos), vaccines or vaksins in Kreyol; a palo (smaller than those in the palos ensemble, in order to be carried in procession); a small double-­headed drum called catalié or tambora (though it is much smaller than that of merengue); a long metal trumpet called tatua, tatú, or trompeta; and—­historically at least (I have not seen one used)—­a fotuto, or conch trumpet. The tubes, traditionally made of bamboo but now of PVC pipe, each play a single note and are each played by a different person in an interlocking fashion so as to produce one low-­pitched, repeated melody; a rhythm is also produced by hitting a stick on their sides. Dance is an important part of gagá; many may join in the procession and dance through the streets with the group, but none as impressively as the mayores (majors) who wear skirts of multicolored handkerchiefs, sequined hats and overshirts, and twirl and toss batons or even machetes while blowing piercing whistles (see Rosenberg 1979; McAlister 2002). Gagá has been a popular source of new sounds for Dominican fusion musicians like José Duluc, Roldán Mármol, and Batey Cero (this last provided two of the musicians in Los Misterios, a group discussed in Chapter 7). For instance, an electric bass may imitate the interlocking patterns of the vaksins. Mambo in the Dominican context refers not to the 1950s music and dance craze from Cuba and New York, but to merengue con mambo, a new style of merengue that has arisen since the 1990s. This style emphasizes the mambo section that comes at the end of the piece and is built on short riffs, which in

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F i g u r e A . 1 . Palos ensemble. El Varόn y su Tipipalo perform at Casa de Arte, 2012. Photo by author.

merengue típico are played by the accordion and saxophone, in orquesta by the horn section. The basic tambora rhythm in the mambo style is usually neither merengue derecho nor pambiche, but rather the one-­measure maco beat. As discussed in Chapter 5, many mambo musicians and fans (mamberos) have a background of transnational migration. Merengue de calle or “street merengue”—­also called merengue urbano, urban merengue—­is a slippery term, since pieces considered to be “street merengues” exist in merengue de orquesta, merengue de guitarra, and merengue típico. The label is applied (usually disapprovingly) to those songs with hard-­driving rhythms, lots of mambo, earthy or explicit lyrics, sometimes extreme tempos, and often spoken or rapped sections. A mixing of Spanish and English languages and musical styles is also common, though not essential. The term “de calle” particularly refers to the work of orquesta or combo-­ type groups like Omega, Tito Swing, Amarfis y su Banda de Atakke, Mala Fe, and Oro Sólido but also to certain songs by típico groups like Aguakate, Krisspy, and others. Most Dominicans, both fans and detractors, recognize merengues de calle as a music of tigueraje, whichever genre they come from. These songs’ clear transnationalism makes them particularly popular as well as particular targets for cultural critics, as does the hard, aggressive language

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of their lyrics, manifested corporally through “gestural and sexual aggressivity” (Díaz 2011, 35). The dance style is a frequent point of concern; it often resembles the female-­initiated “back to front” dance of reggaeton, in which the front of the male partner’s pelvis touches the female’s swiveling rear, known as perreo (doggy-­style) or meneo (hip swivel). The woman’s role in the dance has raised questions about whether it should be embraced as a post-­ feminist celebration of women’s agency or condemned as yet another objectification of feminine bodies (see, e.g., Fairley 2006 and Fernández 2013). Merengue de orquesta (orquesta or big-­band merengue) often functions as tipico’s binary opposite, standing for modernity, the Dominican nation, and the urban context. Orquesta was born more or less with the regime of dictator Rafael Trujillo (1930–­1961): while efforts to play merengue with higher-­class, urban dance bands predate this period, it was Trujillo and his associates who mandated the transformation and thus were able to turn the formerly reviled, lower-­class music into a national symbol. Bandleaders like Luis Alberti and Papá Molina composed sanitized merengues for schooled musicians to play, and all were required to sing paeans to the regime. After Trujillo’s assassination, the music quickly transformed as singer Johnny Ventura and others brought in musical, sartorial, and choreographic influences from rock, disco, and salsa. While these performers at first were lambasted for “deforming” the genre, they made it an international success, and the 1970s and 1980s are now considered merengue’s golden age. In the Dominican Republic today, however, merengue de calle, street or urban merengue, has surpassed orquesta in popularity. Música cocola refers to the traditions of the minority group called cocolos, a once disrespectful term that has since been embraced by the descendants of black migrants from English-­speaking Caribbean islands, who mainly live in the eastern part of the Dominican Republic. Their principal and best-­known musical expression is the fife and drum ensemble of the guloyas (Goliaths), a dance-­drama tradition practiced for Christmas and carnival season, which was recognized by UNESCO as a Masterpiece of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2008. It also contributed to the popular urban carnival drumming groups called Alí-­Babá (see Hajek 2012). Palos are a set of long drums of Congolese origin played in various combinations throughout the country; ethnomusicologist Martha Ellen Davis (2006) has even suggested that their wide distribution makes this music a better candidate for national symbol than merengue, which was originally affiliated with a single region. Usually a group of three drums—­palo mayor, the master and deepest sounding drum, and two smaller alcahuetes—­ accompanied by some combination of idiophones, the palos are played by

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F i g u r e A . 2 . Gagá ensemble. Gagá San Elías perform near Barahona, Dominican Republic, during holy week, 2006. Photo by author.

Afro-­Dominican religious brotherhoods called cofradías for spiritual purposes like saints’ days and by others for secular festivities. Indeed, as in other Afro-­Caribbean cultures, little distinction is made between sacred and secular music, and saints’ days often include merengue or bachata groups alongside palos and sacred songs called salves. Palos music consists of responsorial vocals sung over a basic rhythm played by the interlocking drums; it is best when live and produced in conjunction with dance, and perhaps for this reason, as well as ongoing prejudices against African-­origin traditions, it has seldom been recorded in spite of its wide popularity. The drums are usually played by men, but some women also play them, or more often, the accompanying güiras. In addition, cofradías have mainly women in leadership roles (see Davis 2011). Perico ripiao is a term frequently applied to old-­style merengue típico played by the trio of accordion, güira, and tambora. Professional musicians who play with larger ensembles today prefer their music to be called merengue típico. Reggaetón is a blend of Spanish-­language rap and Jamaican dancehall popularized mainly by Puerto Rican and Dominican vocalists and producers; it is discussed further in Chapter 6.

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Rock, classical, and jazz scenes also exist in the Dominican Republic, as well as (more pertinently for this book) an alternative music scene where many musicians draw inspiration from traditional genres like those I have described here. Musicians like Xiomara Fortuna, José Duluc, the late Luis Días, Fellé Vega, Vicente García, and groups like Batey Cero, Concón Quemao, and many others have incorporated palos, gagá, salve, and other sounds into inventive fusions with jazz, rock, reggae, and hip hop.1 Such musicians generally have leftist political leanings and they use these sounds not only for sonic novelty but also to make political statements about racial hierarchies and political histories in the Dominican Republic and broader Caribbean.

Appendix B: A Comparison of Two Accordionists’ Botaos

This appendix presents full transcriptions of the accordion solos from two recorded versions of the pambiche “Chicha,” both dating to the 1990s; the first was recorded by Fefita la Grande for her album Date brillo cadenita and the second and third both appear in an unreleased live studio recording by Siano Arias that has long circulated among típico aficionados. I analyze these solos in terms of how they both respond to and define notions of femininity and masculinity in típico in Chapter 4. However, readers with an interest in musical analysis may wish to note a few other points about these solos. I have added rehearsal marks to the scores to indicate where changes occur and to facilitate comparison. In any musical style, improvisation is not totally free; it depends on genre-­ specific rules. As I have discussed elsewhere (Hutchinson 2012a), botaos or instrumental solos in típico frequently recycle material from earlier performances, particularly as material circulates on recordings, which generates fan expectations to hear certain melodic material in live performance. However, while some melodies become traditional through repetition in this way, they are always recombined in new ways and with new variations, unique to each performer and performance. Because of this practice of recycling, we see similar melodic material appear in both recordings transcribed here: in Fefita’s solo, the material at A resembles that heard at C in Siano’s first solo, while the material at Fefita’s B resembles that at the B of that same Siano solo. At Fefita’s E, we hear something that resembles the A material in Siano’s first botao, though in a sort of stuttering fashion that never completes the harmonic thought in the way we might expect from hearing Siano’s version. Internally, Fefita’s E material reappears transformed at H, while her G resembles that heard again at I, and C more or less reappears at J. Likewise,

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Siano’s second solo recycles material from his first: what we hear at D in the first solo reappears in variations at D and J in the second, while B in his first botao resembles what we hear in his second solo at E and I. At F in his second solo, the material seems a kind of merging of the material at D and C in the first solo. Overall, we can note that Siano’s playing is much more regular, both rhythmically and in terms of phrase lengths, than is Fefita’s. While this melodic material is important, the focus of típico improvisation is not melodic or harmonic development, as in jazz, but rather rhythmic complexity and idiomatic use of the instrument’s capabilities. Fefita clearly excels at the first: long sections elapse with hardly anything occurring on the beat, and the way she plays around the beat seems to have something of the trickster/tíguere in it, especially at this breakneck speed. Her F section provides a good example of how she rhythmically transforms her material. Siano, too, plays with rhythm, but in a much more regular fashion than Fefita. At A in his second botao, his repeated note riff shows off his finger technique while also acting as a kind of trompe l’oreille, making it appear as though the measures start on beat 2, rather than where the tambora pattern actually begins, on the downbeat; his “B” riff begins with a rhythmic displacement, placing a three-­note arpeggio over a beat divided into fours. Elsewhere, his focus is on the broken chords commonly used in típico to add rhythmic drive, and also to show finger strength in how they divide up the hand, for instance at A in his first solo. I should also note that some of the rhythms do not precisely fit into Western notation. At K in Fefita’s botao and at H in Siano’s second one, the figures I have written variously as eighth-­and sixteenth-­note combinations or as triplet figures actually pull between those two options in the fashion of the “elastic triplets” I mention in Chapter 3, which are characteristic of a number of Caribbean dance musics. I believe that these are in fact a defining feature of the pambiche genre. When they occur in the accordion, the güira typically follows that rhythm for the duration of the triplet-­like section.

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F i g u r e B . 1 . Botao on “Chicha” as performed by Fefita la Grande. Transcription by author after recording included on Cantando he de morir.

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F i g u r e B . 1 . (Continued)

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F i g u r e B . 2 . Two botaos on “Chicha” as performed by Siano Arias. Transcription by author after an unreleased recording in her collection.

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F i g u r e B . 2 . (Continued)

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F i g u r e B . 2 . (Continued)

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Appendix b

Appendix C: Movement and Gesture Analysis of Fefita la Grande Performing “La chiflera”

T a b l e C . 1 . Movement and Gesture Analysis of Fefita la Grande Performing “La chiflera” Text

Movement/Gesture

[instrumental intro]

Dancing—­R, together, L, together

El hombre que no se casa The man who doesn’t marry

Slide up to microphone, with body positioned at 45 degree angle, R toe pointing behind; grab mic with R hand; L forearm to side, parallel to ground, wrist flexed with fingers pointing down

Interpretation

Establishing authoritative stance, creating rapport with audience

Shift weight back onto R foot No sabe de cosa buena Doesn’t know a good thing

El hombre que no se casa The man who doesn’t marry

Rock onto front foot, both hands open with palms out, about face height on “no sabe,” drop hands on “buena,” bring feet shoulder distance apart and shift weight to R foot and back

Reinforces meaning of text “doesn’t know” using a common Dominican gesture

Step back while tossing hair backward energetically

Expression of strength, self-­determination

Grab mic with R hand and mic stand with L hand while placing weight emphatically on two feet; squint eyes and make tight expression with lips and nose

Add emotional emphasis

Step back while tossing hair backward, less energy this time No sabe de cosa buena Doesn’t know a good thing

Flash palms forward about shoulder height with slight shrug on “sabe de,” then drop hands, eyes closed

Echo of previous reinforcement of “doesn’t know”

Drop L ear slightly toward L shoulder (continued)

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T a b l e C . 1 . (continued) Text

Movement/Gesture

Interpretation

Tiene que saber buscarla He has to know how to look for a woman

Grab mic with R hand and immediately let go again; raise eyebrows while looking slightly down, then look forward again while running fingertips down both sides of body, then bring hands up in a flourish on “buscar,” arms out just above waist height

Draws attention to body, signaling that she is the one the man in the song should be looking for

Drop arms and toss hair slightly Que no le salga chiflera Who won’t be a cheater

With elbows close to body, bring hands up with palms out about face height and drop them again on “chiflera,” bringing arms slightly behind body

Reinforce “no” with a third echo of prior gesture

Tap L foot and look L, then forward again Tiene que saber buscarla a ella He has to know how to look for her

Lean forward toward mic, grabbing it with R hand, weight on R foot with hip shifted to L; on “ella” sweep R arm and pointing finger forward at 3:00, looking into distance

Grabbing mic communicates that this message is important. Gesturing outward on “ella” distances herself from the “chiflera” of the song

Step back on R foot to stand in an open fourth position Que no le salga chiflera So she won’t turn out to be a cheater

Toda la mujer chiflera Every cheating woman

Stand equally on both feet and look slightly R, on “que” point both index fingers upward about face height with a rhythmic flick, then drop hands to hip height

Pointing fingers up indicates “pay attention”; centered stance establishes authority. Pointing fingers may remind one of a teacher or parent

Palms-­out gesture with hands near waist, look into distance and raise eyebrows

Disclaimer; seems to indicate, “I didn’t come up with these words; I’m only reporting/ commenting on them”

Shrug shoulders quickly while bringing arms out to both sides, palms up, then drop them, rocking onto back foot

Reinforces the disclaimer with a shrug

Step toward mic on front foot Siempre tiene mala forma Always behaves badly

Point both index fingers up close to face on “siempre”

Echo of “pay attention” gesture

Grab mic with R hand and stand with L hand relaxed at side, tossing hair slightly by turning head L Toda la mujer chiflera Every cheating woman

L foot behind R, shift weight L with L hip out, bend R knee. Grab mic with R hand and let L hand relax by hip Drop R hand and look L again

Begins to move from teacher attitude toward flirtation

F e f i ta l a G r a n d e P e r f o r m i n g “ L a C h i f l e r a ”

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Text

Movement/Gesture

Interpretation

Siempre tiene mala forma Always behaves badly

Look in to camera, bring both index fingers up to shoulder height pointing first up, then to front on “siempre” while tilting head toward R shoulder

Playful alteration of previous gesture, may indicate joking behavior or ironic take on text

Look down toward R while dropping hands Con el marido es amarga She is bitter with her husband

Bring hands in loose fists to hips

Depicts woman confronting her husband, reinforcing the word “bitter”

[Raise hands to head—­not on camera] Con quien traicione, dulzona And sweet with her lover

With hands behind head, rotate pelvis in two subtle circles; on “dulzona,” run hands from chest over breasts and down to hips

Depicts woman acting sexy, flirtatious; reinforces “dulzona”

Complete movement over hips Con el marido es amarga, ella With her husband she is bitter, she is

Extend arms to sides with palms up about hip height; on “ella” drop L arm to hang loosely and R hand gesture with thrusting, cutting motion outward at shoulder height, as R hip follows this motion, shifting weight to R

Scolding the “she” mentioned, distancing herself from this third person

Tip head quickly to L shoulder and back Con quien traicione, dulzona And sweet with her lover.

Bring hands up to about face height and with backs of hands to audience gesture slightly toward self. On “dulzona,” step back from mic suddenly while leaning forward

A diva’s gesture, “look at me”

[instrumental interlude]

Fefita dances a merengue step with feet hip distance apart, bringing arms together in front of chest and accentuating hip motion. She brings both hands up the back of her neck to toss hair. Two male dancers enter and perform a choreographed routine in front of the stage as Fefita continues to dance back and forth across stage. Just before the verse begins, she removes the mic from its stand and steps to the front and center of the stage.

Heightening musical affect; encouraging audience to dance along; demonstrate tigueraje

Un hombre para casarse To get married, a man

Reach R hand forward and quickly pull back to hip

“You listen to me”—­ reestablishes rapport with audience

L foot steps out to wide second position, bend knee and put weight on L; bring elbows close to body and hands close to chest, contracting slightly

Closed-­in posture suggests “I’m going to tell you a secret” (continued)

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Appendix c

T a b l e C . 1 . (continued) Text

Movement/Gesture

Interpretation

Necesita tres cosas Needs three things

Bring L hand in to take mic while stepping L foot in to meet R, show “3” with R hand, bend both knees and lean slightly R toward audience

Teasing attitude, reinforces text

Drop R arm while kicking R foot, step back on R foot with R side turned slightly toward audience, tap L foot and step on L while bending forward at the waist, step R together and face audience again

Dancing merengue

Raise R hand and quickly drop it

Adding emphasis

Un hombre para casarse To get married, a man

Step R to a wide stance, rock slightly onto L, take mic with R hand Necesita tres cosas Needs three things

Show “3” with L hand toward audience, then take mic with L hand

Reinforcing text

Toss hair with R hand Un caballo, una silla A horse, a saddle

[not on camera]

Una mujer buena moza A good-­looking woman

Turn R side to audience; with weight on R, place L foot slightly ahead with bent knee. With fingers of R hand spread, start at head height and move it downward along the length of body to hip, then stretch it out toward audience with palm up while singing “buena moza”

Shows body and presents it to audience, reinforcing text and positioning herself as the “good-­looking woman”

Continue motion while holding note Un caballo, una silla A horse, a saddle,

Shift weight to L while turning to face audience and leaning slightly R; show “1” with R hand

Conversing with audience, reinforcing text

Una mujer buena moza A good-­looking woman

Repeat “Buena moza” motion from above, but cut last note short and toss mic from L to R hand

Text echo; focus on mic for several lines reminds viewers of her diva status

No hay carretera sin puente There’s no highway without a bridge

Stand still while looking into camera

Stillness after sudden movement adds emphasis, draws attention

Toss hair and look up, run L hand down mic cord Ni puente sin barrandilla No bridge without a railing

Bend forward, release mic cord and lift L foot high to step back over mic cord Step R forward over mic cord and bring L together

Demonstrating comfort and experience on stage

F e f i ta l a G r a n d e P e r f o r m i n g “ L a C h i f l e r a ”

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Text

Movement/Gesture

Interpretation

No hay carretera sin puente There’s no highway without a bridge

While looking into camera, show L palm with fingers spread, pull it back while bringing thumb and index together

“I’m telling you something very precise”

Close eyes and stroke hair away from L and R side of face Ni puente sin barrandilla No bridge without a railing

Stand still with eyes closed

Text echo needing no further bodily commentary

Toda la mujer chiflera Every cheating woman

Point R index to audience, quickly bring back and drop arm

Add emphasis and jokingly accuse potential “cheaters” in the audience

Switch mic to L hand Se le hincha la—­ Gets a swollen—­

While standing on bent knees bending forward from waist, open R hand and draw to R emphatically to make fist; on “la” open fist with bursting effect, moving it quickly L and R across body

Very emphatic, reinforces effect of missing word

On empty beat, quickly tilt head L

Rhythmic punctuation

Toda la mujer chiflera Every cheating woman

Hold mic in both hands and move forward

Approaching audience for important message

Se le hincha la—­ Gets a swollen—­

Sweep R hand L, R across body about hip height; on “la” open hand wide with palm up toward audience

Asks audience for missing word

(spoken) La rodilla, ¡mal pensado! A swollen knee, you dirty mind!

Take mic with R hand, look L into camera and point with L index. Maintain serious/ fierce expression

Joking with audience even while maintaining no-­ nonsense attitude. Shows trickster nature of the tíguera.

Note: Follow along with Part 3 of the video, Triculi809 2008.

Notes

Chapter One 1. In New York, Spanish is the adjective applied to anything from the Hispanic Caribbean and seldom refers to something from Spain, a usage to which this Southwesterner had difficulties adjusting. 2. View the entire video online at Mad Decent 2009. 3. Diplo incidentally became famous for his work with Sri Lankan-­British female rapper MIA, to whom Maluca is often compared. 4. Spanish speakers will probably expect that the proper term should be tigresa, or tigress, but in fact the correct Dominican term for such a woman is tíguera. The word demonstrates that the female role emerged from a male one, that of the tíguere. 5. The device of the silent accordion has also appeared in bachata performance, as discussed in Chapter 5. 6. Muñoz acknowledges that his views draw from other theories of “identity-­in-­difference”—­ identities developed through a “failed interpellation within the dominant public sphere,” or rather, precisely because subjects do not see themselves in hegemonic or mainstream identity formations—­like those of Gloria Anzaldúa, Cherríe Moraga, Chela Sandoval, Audre Lorde, and Jacques Derrida (Muñoz 1999, 7). 7. Some examples include the convincing, forceful, and authoritative black president character in the popular television show 24, which debuted in 2001 and may well have impacted voters’ ability to imagine a black president in office in 2008; and the presence of attractive, talented, and sympathetic gay characters in long-­term relationships on the hit show Glee beginning in 2009, which may have affected the widening acceptance of gay marriage. While representations of black presidents in US popular culture date back to decades before this show, Dennis Haysbert, the actor portraying president David Palmer on 24, states: “It [the appearance of a black president on 24] may have opened the eyes, the minds and the hearts of people because the character was so well liked” (Burke 2009). While far beyond the scope of the current work, I hope that someone is carrying out research on these possible connections. 8. Marcia Herndon (in Moisala and Diamond 2000, 7) suggested replacing the term “feminist” with “genderist” because she was concerned that, because of its North American, white, middle-­class connotations, “feminist theory could skew our understanding of those margins or fringes that may hold the best lenses for understanding gender dynamics in relation to music.”

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While her point is well taken, “genderist” is neither common enough nor political enough to suit my needs. I believe a careful feminist ethnomusicology can place gender equality and women’s rights at the forefront while still remaining attuned to local cultures and remembering that women in different locations desire different rights, or desire rights differently, and that “equality” will therefore look different from place to place. 9. Popular music studies has a more consistent record of analyzing gender broadly. For instance, Robert Walser’s Running with the Devil: Power, Metal, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music remains one of the most thorough studies of masculinity in music. Popular music scholars have also looked at how bodily movement relates to the construction of race and gender in music performance, similar to what I do here, as in Theo Cateforis’s (2011) work on Devo’s white-­identified robotic dance style. 10. Gilroy does discuss music and its relation to culture, but in quite general terms. For instance, he discusses the relationship between music and Black Atlantic culture through the common musical practices of call-­and-­response singing and active rather than passive listening, arguing that they create an “ethics of antiphony,” or rather that they articulate a vision of democracy and community (203); ethnomusicologist Thomas Turino (2008) extends this insight of the iconicity of playing music together to participatory musicking in general. 11. I asked some of my típico-­listening friends to sort a list of performers’ names according to whether they were tíguere/a or manso/a. They were able to do so rapidly, and concurred in nearly all instances. 12. Button accordions have only buttons for both hands, rather than piano keys on the right-­ hand side. Diatonic instruments are designed to play in only certain keys—­in the case of button accordions, each row of buttons for the right hand contains the notes of one major scale and it is also fairly easy to play in that key’s relative minor. That means that the two-­row button accordion, which is the type most commonly used in merengue típico, can easily play in two major keys and two minor keys. Professional musicians bring several accordions in different tunings to any gig in order to provide greater tonal variety. 13. Other dances were also played, but this is not the place to go into such detail; I plan to discuss them in a forthcoming book tentatively titled Mythologies of Merengue. 14. The best explanation of gender complexity and gender as performance for a nonacademic audience that I have found is a TEDx speech by self-­professed “social activist comedian” Sam Killerman. It can be viewed here: http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/Understanding​-t­ he​ -­Complexities. 15. Muñoz defines choteo as a “strategy of self-­enactment that helps a colonized or otherwise dispossessed subject enact a self through a critique of the normative culture” (1999, 136). Chapter Two 1. In Santiago and elsewhere, car washes are multipurpose businesses, often run by return migrants, that provide not only the service implied by their name but also a space in which to drink and enjoy live music like merengue típico or bachata. Elite Dominicans typically view such sites as disreputable, and prostitution is often a visible part of the services offered. 2. While considered antiquated in the United States, mulatto (mulato or mulata in Spanish) is a term still commonly used in the Caribbean for people with mixed African and European heritage. It has also been embraced by some scholars, like Puerto Rican sociologist Ángel Quintero Rivera (2009), as a way of valorizing cultural expressions of mixed heritage.

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3. Also significant are other aspects of her performance of self: she is a drummer who “plays the palos as few men would dare to do” and “doesn’t care a whit what people think” (Payano 2003, 394). 4. Various etymologies have been offered for this word. Collado tells us that it is related to guayar, a word meaning to cry or lament, and guay, a common refrain used in place of “ay” in some Dominican songs (which in turn receive the name of guayado) (2002, 124). Thus, a pariguayo is someone who laments his lot in life, loudly and frequently, because he lacks the personal resources needed to confront life’s difficulties: he is something of a crybaby. However, it is frequently said that in fact it is a Dominicanization of “party-­watcher,” applied to North American soldiers assigned to watch over Dominican parties during the US occupations of the country. This explanation seems to mirror the apocryphal etymology usually offered for the pambiche rhythm, which also ties it to North American occupying forces and their “Palm Beach” uniforms, suggesting the important place these occupations still hold in Dominican collective memory and the construction of Dominican identity. 5. Tigueraje today is also distinguished by language, as it has its own speech style, analogous to the caló of Mexican-­American pachucos in the 1940s. Like caló, it too is a type of slang that draws from various languages and dialects, including standard Spanish, Dominican Spanish, and American English. Most of the vocabulary of tigueraje is simply a novel use or particularly Dominican pronunciation of standard Spanish words. Muela or molar is a story, as in dándole muela, when tígueres talk a big game in order to get a woman. “¿Qué lo que?” is a common greeting along the lines of “What’s up?” but which apparently derives from the Dominican pronunciation of “es” without the “s” in the somewhat more grammatical, “¿qué es lo que es?” or “¿qué es lo que hay?” (What is it that there is?). Another large part of the vocabulary is a Dominican adaptation of North American slang, likely picked up in New York. (English vocabulary is nothing new in the DR after two US occupations, but tígueres derive much of their banter from more recently invented words.) Pana, for friend, derives from the English partner, via Western films (see Collado 2002, 158). Jevi is equivalent to the American English term heavy meaning “cool,” and can be further Hispanicized into jevísimo. Similarly, friquiao means “freaky” or “freaked out.” Bonche comes from “bunch” and can refer to a crowd of people or, by extension, a party, as can chercha, which seems to derive from “church.” An SUV is a yipeta, from jeep. ¿Copiaste? means, “You got it?” but more literally translates as, “Do you copy?” 6. Their story forms the basis for Julia Álvarez’s fictionalized account, In the Time of the Butterflies, and the movie based on the book. 7. Since Fefita la Grande began her career (discussed in detail in Chapter 6), a number of other women from subsequent generations have become professional accordionists as well. María Díaz began playing as a child in the 1970s, started performing in the early 1980s, and has had a successful career as composer and bandleader ever since, even serving as empresaria or sponsor to other típico musicians (R. Polanco 2002). In the early 1990s, two young women appeared on the scene: Lidia de la Rosa, who learned the trade from her well-­known male cousins, Arsenio and King de la Rosa; and Mery Hernández or La India Canela. Later arrivals included Fidelina Pascual, sister of Agapito Pascual, and Raquel Arias, daughter of accordionist/ composer Julián Ramírez (discussed further in Chapter 5). Musicians in the capital find it hard to make a name for themselves in the Santiago-­centered típico world, and therefore although Santo Domingo-­based María Rodríguez is a capable accordionist, she is not well known. A few more are just beginning their careers as accordionists. I met Yohanna Tavárez of Navarrete at age fifteen in the mid-­2000s, at which point she had already mastered fifty difficult merengues and

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performed with El Prodigio, considered by some to be the leading accordionist of his generation (i.e., those whose careers began around the 1990s). New female accordionists are continually emerging, a phenomenon attested to by the fact that Rafaelito Román has had several as students in recent years (including myself). This new crop of performers includes La Doncella Del Acordeón, Luchy “La Estrella” Trejo, Pamela Ulloa, and Sofía Hernández. Chapter Three 1. The family has a strong interest in Dominican and local culture, expressed in one of the company’s four principles and demonstrated in their 2003 creation of the Centro León, a museum, library, cultural center, and research institution, through the Eduardo León Jimenes Foundation. I have been associated with the Centro since my first stay in Santiago in 2004, when I was invited to be a visiting researcher and granted office space and research privileges in their media library. Since then, I have worked with the Centro on a number of projects, including designing their ethnomusicology program in conjunction with staff and Cuban-­Canadian music scholar Leiling Chang; writing the proposal for a Grammy-­funded sound preservation project; and creating a study-­abroad summer course. 2. Readers should note that throughout the book I present passages from Spanish-­language interviews, written sources, and song lyrics in English translation for reasons of readability and space. All translations are my own. 3. I named ten in this list, which are those I can find in my own collection of Tatico recordings. However, the common practice of extemporizing lyrics or simply replacing one name with another in performance makes it likely that Tatico used homenajes even more often than my list suggests. 4. Indeed, newly composed merengues today sometimes reach into the 200s (beats per minute), necessitating the change to another tambora rhythm, maco, instead of the traditional merengue rhythm. Nonetheless, even superfast young accordionists tend to play Tatico-­era merengues in a speed similar to Tatico’s own performances. 5. The concept of composition is quite different from typical Eurocentric ones in merengue típico anyway because of both its oral tradition and its heavy use of improvisation (see Hutchinson 2012a). 6. Some fans do use the term “tíguere” to describe Tatico, while others may protest this description. However, I have shown in Chapter 2 that tigueraje is not necessarily negative; this value judgment is generally based on the speaker’s class position rather than on any particular qualities of the person being described. 7. In spite of being located in cabarets/brothels and associated with lower-­class men, bachata (then known as música de amargue, bitter music, or música de guardia, watchman’s music) did not seem to emphasize tigueraje at the time. Bachata lyrics then most often consisted of the male vocalist complaining about ill treatment by women, making it rather more difficult for a bachatero to present himself as a successful ladies’ man or trickster. Merengue típico lyrics, which frequently emphasize joking and braggadocio, make it much easier for their singers to perform the tíguere. Of course, the relationship is not simply one of cause and effect, as this statement might imply, but rather a circular one: lyrics are both a reason for and result of the emphasis of tigueraje in merengue típico and the opposite in bachata. And this is another reason for which I have elsewhere termed merengue típico and bachata “two styles in the form of an emotional pair”: they serve the same population (peasants, urban marginals, and transnational youth) but take care of different emotional needs—­as well as different masculinities.

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8. One of my anonymous readers astutely pointed out that the Dominican Republic of Tatico’s time wasn’t transnational in the same sense it is today, with the constant back-­and-­forth movement and near simultaneity of occurences to which we have become accustomed. Nonetheless, Tatico’s own travels show that he did inhabit an earlier form of such a world. 9. Two-­part merengues, termed merengues de primera y segunda, are considered more traditional. 10. I was once playing with Rafaelito Román’s group at a rancho and played the closing formula too quietly. Most of the very experienced musicians were able to follow anyway, but the tamborero missed the cue and continued playing, causing everyone to laugh. They gallantly blamed him for not paying attention, although it was really my own weakness that was at fault. 11. Further study of how personal charisma is communicated bodily could be a fruitful area for further research, but is beyond the scope of this study (in addition, I have no data I could use to analyze Tatico’s bodily movements). 12. The need for a perceived threat is likely not limited to this example, but common in the emergence of charismatic musicians in many or most genres. Parallels can easily be found in “star performers” of other traditional musics. In Yorkshire, England, Ian Russell writes of Haydn Thorp, a singer who died young but had an extraordinary effect on the local community of highland British folk singers and enthusiasts during his short performing career. Russell writes, “The potent domination of youth and tradition, set within the wider political climate, bestowed singular status on him” (2003, 274). Specifically, the time in which Thorp came of age, the late 1990s, was one in which the community felt its traditional ways of life threatened by a proposed hunting ban. As with Tatico, it was not just musical talent but a combination of personality and spatiotemporal context that gave Thorp legendary status after his death. In popular music, it is arguable that the phenomenon of the Beatles could only have emerged in the 1960s, as a time of profound societal upheavals. 13. There is a great deal of literature on this topic in the Dominican Republic, where cacique originally referred to an indigenous Taíno chief but was later applied, often disparagingly, to describe a sort of Wild West situation of weak central government and lack of infrastructure that allowed local chiefdoms to emerge until Trujillo centralized power. A modern example of cacicazgo in the realm of merengue típico might be found in the presence of El Jefe, a wealthy local businessman and sometime politician in the village of Maizal, northwest of Santiago. His influence is such that in my own collection I have seven merengues dedicated to him by five different artists, indicating that he provides them with some financial support and thus enjoys a patronage relationship that is repaid through the dedication of songs, both in recordings and live performance, and the practice of musicians’ sending out formal greetings or saludos from the stage. Chapter Four 1. For instance, a woman blogging about her experience at a Fefita concert wrote, “You would never guess she was 85-­years-­old [sic] watching her play her accordion. Fefita was definitely the lead attraction—­Tina Turner could learn a few moves for her next show here” (Beranek 2011). The blogger reported that Wikipedia had given Fefita’s birth year as 1925! (It doesn’t now.) Oddly enough, exaggerating accordionists’ ages seems to be a tradition in merengue típico; elsewhere (Hutchinson 2008) I have commented on the practice of extending foundational accordionist Ñico Lora’s lifetime to 113 years, and Chaljub Mejía’s 2010 book on merengue típico rather improbably credits dozens of accordionists with having lived to be over one hundred.

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2. Of course, Fefita herself is no longer lower class, and many of her current fans are middle class as well. As elsewhere, the Dominican middle class is not monolithic, so some portion of it rejects her performances as not respectable, while others celebrate her and identify with her traditional music and her performance of female freedom. 3. Later, however, La Lupe became a born-­again Christian. 4. Recently, their name was changed to the Soberanos. Fefita finally won in 2016. 5. I do not know the dates of these recordings, but suspect that Fefita’s slightly predates Siano’s. 6. To complicate matters further, Fefita is increasingly performing as a singer without her accordion, as I note below. This development is surely not unrelated to the belief that merengue con mambo is a female-­driven style, a claim I discuss in Chapter 1. 7. María also recently took part in a widely-­shared, heated exchange about merengue típico on a Dominican television show in true tíguera fashion. In response to a guest who had accused the music and particularly the accordion of being backward, she pointedly asked, “And what instrument does he play?” Chapter Five 1. I attended one such festival in Dajabón, a northwestern town on the Haitian border, in 2005. A local folklorist, Chio Villalona, told me that the “caravans” of emigrants that participated in the initial parade into town were a festival tradition that began in the 1970s, or rather, the time when massive emigration first became an issue for small towns like this one. The emigrants I met or heard about while at these patronales were visiting from Santo Domingo, Santiago, Miami, New York, and Spain. 2. I use the phrase “transnational tigueraje” to refer to a border-­crossing youth culture whose styles of consumption, speech, and behavior I describe in this chapter. 3. See Megenney 1990 on African vocabulary in Dominican language and Alba 2004 on Dominican speech; also see the works of Pulitzer Prize-­winning novelist Junot Díaz for brilliant examples of Dominican code switching. 4. During my fieldwork, I encountered firearms stowed away in glove compartments, which in one case made for a rather frightening situation. 5. It is interesting to note that salsa, at least in Colombia, has experienced similar changes, and that female salsa fans also enact many masculine behaviors. Lise Waxer writes that in the 1980s female aficionados began to emerge and attend salsotecas, or bars dedicated to playing old-­school recorded salsa, which began to become acceptable spaces for women in spite of the fact that bars were traditionally off-­limits. These melómanas (music fans and collectors) were “tough girls” who had to know a lot about music (Waxer 2002, 141). They “usually abandon cultural codes that define sexual difference in other spheres and act like one of the boys.” But while Colombian women fans “exalt the percussive dynamism and (masculine) social consciousness of salsa dura while rejecting salsa romántica for its musical style and ‘trite’ lyrics about love” like other melómanos (142) female típico fans generally embrace romantic típico songs like those by Geovanny Polanco, even helping to popularize them among male fans. 6. I was once scolded by an older dance partner for dancing merengue with my feet too far apart, which is apparently considered a position suitable for a tíguera but not for a mujer seria. 7. A more serious negative consequence could be increased violence, a side effect detractors have attached to merengue de calle. For instance, merengue de calle superstar Omega has been accused of violence against women (Jiménez 2013). However, I do not have any evidence that his behavior is part of a larger trend.

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8. Shino was originally called Chino, a common Dominican nickname, but changed the spelling later on. The new spelling suggests transnationalism and cosmopolitanism: there is no “sh” in Spanish, so it indicates foreignness. It may or may not be relevant that there is also a Japanese anime ninja character with this name. 9. The album title, “The Most Famous Man on Earth,” is a joke based on the group’s name, which is a term for an unnamed person, like John Doe or “so-­and-­so.” 10. As perhaps fits with Dominicans’ “deracialized” identities, professing Afrocentrism does not necessarily correlate to any particular phenotype. Most members of Fulanito are white in appearance. 11. In a conversation in 2006, típico musicians in Brooklyn commented that it had been a mistake to promote the group using Shino’s image alone, which made it easier for him to go solo and leave his musicians behind, especially when, as they said, the band members were all accomplished musicians while Shino wasn’t even a “real” singer, just a “personality.” 12. As an example from non-­típico merengue de calle, see for instance the video for Tito Swing’s “El café.” However, one should note that (unlike in típico) many other videos in these styles place dancing women in bikinis around the singer as moving props, much as in hypermasculine, commercialized hip-­hop (e.g., Omega’s “Si te vas”). 13. El Prodigio is the one típico musician who explicitly draws on jazz, but others also show jazz influences, for instance in the solos of saxophonist José el Calvo. Chapter Six 1. For those too young to remember, or from the non-­English-­speaking world, The Crying Game was a popular 1992 British film best known for its (spoiler alert) surprising reveal that the principal female character was anatomically male. 2. It is important to note, however, that this shift also carries the danger of a backlash, as we are currently seeing with the passage of repressive new laws denying Dominicans of Haitian descent citizenship in their own country. 3. Or at least, Los Hermanos Rosario are credited with bringing this rhythm into the merengue. Percussionist Ray “Chino” Díaz (2006) believes that the maco is an adaptation of the traditional carabiné rhythm. 4. This rondo-­like form has been retained into recent years, even though new musical material has been added. Four years later, a 2011 performance retains the descending chromatic mambo section A, but the original B section has been replaced by a rapped vocal section, and three new mambos (D, E, F) extend the form further before returning to the racatán section (now G, but C in Table 6.1): ABABCBDBEFG. The singers still accompany section A with the patting movement, but they now add a pelvic thrust at the end. In addition, the horns now add an ascending chromatic scale back up to where they began to end section A. 5. Limping is a familiar element of merengue dancing and other Dominican movement traditions. It may even be a movement characteristic of the Black Atlantic (see Hutchinson 2012b). 6. My discussions with Dominican music fans showed that they did not consider Peña himself a tíguere, however, but rather serio. Chapter Seven 1. As a writer this author often uses her surname, Hernández, but she only uses “Rita Indiana” when performing as a musician. Here I refer to her as Rita or Rita Indiana. Some previous

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authors have been confused as to which of her names are surnames and which are given names, so I clarify that Rita and Indiana are both given names. In fact, hers is a family name that came from a great-­grandmother Rita, whose husband “called her Rita Indiana because she was dark” (Morales 2012, 326; “india” is a term used for dark-­skinned women in the Dominican Republic, often euphemisically). 2. Locas literally means crazy women, but is also used as a slang term for homosexuals in general, regardless of gender; note also its application in African American and Afro-­Caribbean musics, discussed in Chapter Five. 3. Folk religion is also the theme of the song “Oigo voces” (I hear voices) and the central focus of her fourth novel, La mucama de Omicunlé. 4. A tracing of the outline of one’s foot, for the purposes of determining shoe size. 5. The Dominican forward-­and-­back salsa step differs from the same step as performed elsewhere in that Dominican dancers step forward on the right and back on the left; the reverse is the rule nearly everywhere else in the salsa world. See Díaz 2013 for more on Dominican salsa. 6. Daddy Yankee describes them as “the same thing,” though perreo long predates twerking (Power106 2013). 7. The joke apparently began with a tweet by writer Jeff Greenstein. 8. The late Cuban singer Benny Moré’s signature song included the refrain, “castellano, qué bueno baila usted” (Castilian, how well you dance). 9. Some of Rita’s song lyrics also use sideways as a metaphor for otherness. For instance, “Bajito a selva” (The stench of the jungle) includes these lyrics related to getting on a motoconcho, motorcycle taxi, but more pointedly about different forms of desire, much as in the recombinations of the perreo dancers in the “Blue del ping pong” video: “Yo me monto contigo atrá adelante / Y de medio lao / Dalte un masaje en mis aposentos / Donde las demonias te pondrán contento” (I get on with you behind, in front, / and half-­sideways / give you a massage in my bedroom / where the female demons will make you happy). Chapter Eight 1. Turner (see e.g. (1969) 2008, 96) says that communitas is most evident in the liminal stage of ritual events, where participants stand on the edge of transformation. While típico is not sacred, the fact that it is or can be liminal can be noted in its frequent use in ritual events related to transitions and transformations, like baby showers, weddings, and patron saint festivals. 2. I owe this insight to Maurice Mengel. 3. Earlier in this book, I mentioned the Dominican Republic’s denial of citizenship to all descendants of Haitians beginning in 2013. As I write these words in 2015, deportations have already begun and are slated to take place in just a few weeks (Amnesty International 2015). A Haitian Dominican was lynched in the middle of Santiago in February 2015; city officials nonetheless attributed the motive to robbery rather than racism (an argument that made little sense, given that the victim was a shoeshine boy, the poorest of the city’s poor; Planas 2015). In April, more than three hundred Haitians were expelled from their homes, some of which were burned, in the town of Moca (Haiti Libre 2015). Both Haitians and Dominicans have engaged in burning the others’ flag, escalating the tensions. The deteriorating situation was scarcely acknowledged in the international press for months upon months. Within the Dominican Republic, even those on the left who condemn official policy appear to be in denial about the very real violence threatening Haitian Dominicans, which uncomfortably calls to mind the 1937 massacre

N o t e s t o Pa g e s 2 1 7 – 2 2 4

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Index

Note: Figures and tables are represented by page numbers in italics, followed by f for figures and musical examples and by t for tables. Abréu, Diógenes, 153 Abréu, Toño (accordionist), 56 Abu-­Lughod, Lila, 13–­14 accordion, the, 15–­16; button accordions, 64, 244n12; Concho Primo, 32; gender characteristics of, 156; silent presence of, 4, 146, 147, 243n5; Weltmeister accordion, 87 accordion technique: of Arias, Siano, 98–­99; of Fefita la Grande, 96–­98; of Geno, 138; of Tatico, 61–­62, 64 Afro-­Caribbean culture, 116–­17, 132, 134, 171, 172; cross-­dressing and homosexuality, 154, 249n2; in hybrid and fusion music, 117, 137, 178, 184, 188, 189; religious practices, 151, 155–­56, 186–­87, 223; Rita Indiana’s work, 182, 184, 186–­87, 192–­ 94, 195, 198, 207; storytelling, 177. See also Black Atlantic; transnational tigueraje “agarradera, La,” 67 Aguakate, 120, 126, 130–­36, 137–­38, 221, 249n11. See also Shino Aguakate Alberti, Luis, 222 Alí-­Babá, 171, 222 Altar espándex (Spandex altar) (Miti Miti), 181, 182 Alvarado, Bartolo. See El Ciego de Nagua Álvarez, Julia, 44 Amara La Negra, 169, 171 Amarfis, 125 Amarfis y su Banda de Atakke, 148, 187, 221 Ángel, Roberto, 161 Antes de que se vayan (Before they are gone) (Chaljub), 54 Antes de que te vayas (Before you leave) (Chaljub), 54, 57, 60

“Antes muerta que sencilla” (Rather be dead than plain/modest), 108 Anzaldúa, Gloria, 7 A palo limpio (Méndez), 187, 220 Aparicio, Frances, 95, 217 “Apriétame así” (Squeeze me like that) (La India Canela), 47 April Revolution, 77 Archivo Histórico de Santiago, 22 Arendt, Hannah, 17 Arias, Domingo (accordionist), 61, 66 Arias, Raquel (accordionist), 48, 108, 123, 124t, 245n7 Arias, Siano (accordionist), 73, 97, 98–­99; botaos on “Chicha,” 225–­26, 232–­36f “Arturo Almonte” (Tatico), 62, 63. See also “Le voy a dar una pela” Auro y Clemt, 184 Auslander, Philip, 11 Austerlitz, Paul, 46 Aventura, 125–­26, 146, 219 bacano, masculinity of, 33, 34t. See also Prodigio, El (accordionist) bachata, 17, 41, 146, 167, 246n7; description of, 219; Dominican Yorks’ preference for, 114, 117; voice quality in, 100; women’s vocal style in, 48, 51. See also Aventura; Peña, Andy “balacera, La.” See “Tatico y Lalán” (La balacera) Balaguer, Joaquín, era of, 36, 77–­78, 189, 192 Balbuena, Juan (accordionist), 55 Banda Real, 36, 125 Batey Cero, 184, 220, 224

270 battle songs, 134–­36 “Batuta, La” (merengue), 32 Behar, Ruth, 163 Belfon, Denise (soca star), 102 Black Atlantic, 147; attitudes toward bodily labor, 37–­38; counterculture masculinities, 51–­52, 116–­17, 169, 170; definition of, 12; musical devices, 201, 244n10. See also Afro-­Caribbean culture; hip-­hop Blades, Rubén, 69 Blanco, Mykki, 211 Blaxploitation, 189–­90 “blue del Ping Pong, El” (Los Misterios), 189, 198–­ 206, 200–­201t. See also homosexuality bodily movement. See movement and gesture Boggs, Ralph S., 49 Bolilo, 184 Bombazo Típico, El, 161 Bonó, Pedro Francisco, 30 botaos (solos), 225; Siano Arias’s, 232–­36f; Fefita’s, 227–­31f; Tatico’s, 64, 65f “botija, La,” 63 Bourdieu, Pierre, 63, 75–­76, 78 Brewster, James “Wally,” 149–­50 Browning, Barbara, 154 Butler, Judith: on cross-­dressing, 157; Gender Trouble, 7; and modernity, 14; potential of creative work, 10, 243n7; on theory, 25; views of gender, 7, 8–­9 caballito rhythm, 195, 206 Cabrera, Lydia, 154, 209 Cabrera Taveras, Manuela Josefa. See Fefita la Grande cadenuses, 36, 197 “café, El” (Tito Swing), 249n12 Calderón, Tego, 130 Calvo, José el, 249n13 “camp,” 20, 93 Canclini, García, 13, 116 Canclinian hybridity, 13–­14, 16–­17, 184 capitalism. See under neoliberalism carabiné, 184 “caramelo, El” (Aguakate), 131 Caribbean, theories of gender in, 18–­20, 24; transformations of in the Dominican Republic, 26–­27 Caribbean culture. See Afro-­Caribbean culture carnival, 152, 154; and gender play, 151, 153, 155, 157 casa-­calle model, 18–­19, 27–­28, 180 Casandra awards, 97, 103, 248n4 (chap. 4) Casifull, 180–­81, 184 Cateforis, Theo, 244n9 Centro León (museum), 5, 54–­56, 246n1 “Chacarrón” (Tulile), 159–­61, 160t, 165, 249n4. See also merengue con mambo

Index Chacón, Iris, 197 Chaljub Mejía, Elba, 59 Chaljub Mejía, Rafael, 22, 49, 59, 147; on accordion technique, 67, 96–­97; books, 54, 56, 57, 60, 247n1; Tatico siempre (Tatico Forever) (film), 54–­56 Chancy, Myriam, 167, 172, 174 charisma, concept of, 72–­75, 78–­80, 247n11. See also Fefita la Grande, movement and gestures Chávez-­Silverman, Susana, 217 Checo, Fermín, 63 Chicas del Can, Las, 50 “Chicha”: comparison of Fefita’s and Arias’s playing, 98–­99; transcription of Fefita’s version, 225–­26, 227–­31f; transcription of Siano Arias’s version, 225–­26, 232–­36f “chiflera, La,” 35, 107; Fefita’s performance of, 104–­ 6, 237–­41t; “Guallando” (Fulanito), 127, 128; importance in Fefita la Grande’s life and career, 90–­91; use of by Lidia de la Rose, 45–­46 choteo, 20, 93, 244n15. See also tigueraje, trickster chusmería, 95 Cibao, the: as central to merengue típico, 4, 16; performers symbolic of, 49, 101, 105; symbol of Dominican identity, 131–­32, 145; as traditionalist society, 75, 80. See also folk culture and tradition; traditional rural society Cibao Symphony Orchestra, 103, 111 Ciego de Nagua, El (Bartolo Alvarado) (accordionist), 55, 59, 62, 120; acceleration of tempos, 64; comparison with Tatico, 62, 64, 71, 72; encouragement of Fefita, 86; homenaje to Tatico, 60; two-­row button accordion, 64 clothing choices of performers. See movement and gesture; individual performers “Cójelo que eso es tuyo” (Grab it, it’s yours) (Krisspy), 162 Collado, Lipe, 118, 149–­50 commercialism, 61, 166, 171 communitas, 216, 250n1 (chap. 8) Concho Primo, 30–­32, 31f, 35 Concón Quemao, 224 Confraternos de Pueblo Nuevo, Los, 5 conga drums in expanded típico ensemble, 64 congos (de Villa Mella), 2, 188, 189; description of, 219–­20 consumerism, 113, 118 Convite, 117 “Copacabana” (Manilow), 217 Crazyssimo (Aguakate), 133f, 137–­38, 249n11 cross-­dressing performers, 206; attitudes toward, 149–­51, 172; gender identity in performance, 152–­53; gender play, 151–­52; historical roots of Dominican transvestism, 153–­57; Mala Fe, 164–­ 67; merengueros, 157–­64; Peña, Andy, 167–­68 Cruz, Celia (diva), 95, 97

Index Cruz, Miriam (singer), 48 cuca, La (Tulile), 158 “cuestíon, La,” 64 Cuevas, Marti, 213 Cusick, Suzanne, 10, 100 Dako, Leonardo Herrera, 251n1 Damirón, Casandra (vocal diva), 46 danceability, 121, 184–­85 dancing, 195, 206, 220; importance to tígueres, 38, 47, 144; Urbanda, 143–­45. See also Jardineros, Los; mambo; movement and gesture; perreo; reggaetón “Da pa lo do” (Rita Indiana), 178, 189 Date brillo cadenita (Fefita la Grande), 225 David David (accordionist), 55, 96, 109 Davis, Martha Ellen, 222 décimas, description of, 134, 201, 220 deities and gender complexity, 154 de la Cruz, Toribio (accordionist), 73 “De la rancheta a Hard Rock” (concert), 91–­92 de la Rosa, Arsenio (accordionist), 126, 127, 128, 129; on Tatico’s technical ability, 61; two-­row button accordion, 64 de la Rosa, Joe (producer), 127–­29; on Tatico’s legendary status, 61–­62. See also Fulanito de la Rosa, King (accordionist), 64, 126, 127, 128 de la Rosa, Lidia (accordionist), 45–­46, 106, 108, 127, 245n7 de la Rosa, Winston, 127. See also Fulanito de la Rosa, Yan, 127, 162 de León, Juan, 109 de León, Papote, 70, 81, 106 Delfi, La (vocalist), 155, 170–­7 1; critiques of tigueraje, 214 dembow, description of, 111, 169, 220. See also Delfi, La DeMoya, E. Antonio, 29; description of hombre serio, 32; description of tígueres, 33; typology of Dominican masculinities, 33, 34t De otra galaxia (Aguakate), 130 “Desiderio Arias” (merengue), 32 devoción a los misterios. See Vodou Días, Luis, 177, 178, 186, 224 Díaz, María (accordionist), 47, 108, 245n7, 248n7 (chap. 4); competition with Fefita, 107–­8; on Fefita, 96 Díaz, Ramón Amézquita. See Matoncito Díaz, Ray “Chino,” 249n3 Díaz, Rossy, 91, 115 Diplo (DJ), 2, 243n3 disidentification, 9, 93–­94; and choteo, 9, 244n15 Domínguez Charro, Francisco, 118 Dominican gender stereotypes, 3–­4, 5, 167–­68; Rita Indiana’s thoughts on, 183. See also gender, performance of; Shino Aguakate

271 Dominican identity, 118, 132, 138, 146–­47; merengue típico’s role in, 52, 114–­15. See also Dominican Yorks Dominican migrants: influence of migrant musicians, 125, 146; traditional views of, 113–­14, 117. See also “hora de volvé, La”; urbanization and migration Dominican music genres, 15–­18, 219–­24 Dominican society: attitudes toward sexuality, 174; changes after the April Revolution, 77–­78, 88; diaspora included in, 115; gender roles in, 26–­29, 53; Haitians in, 116, 175, 176, 187–­88, 217, 249n2, 250–­51n3 (chap. 8); icons of, 88–­89, 90–­91; post-­Trujillo changes in, 14–­15, 33, 35, 36, 43–­44; retornados (return migrants), 16, 36, 114, 197 (See also Dominican Yorks); role of music in national identity, 187; socioeconomic context of, 37, 53; transnationalism of, 71, 247n8. See also Balaguer, Joaquín, era of; Trujillo, Rafael; urbanization and migration Dominican Yorks, 2; clothing style of, 126; as culture brokers, 116–­17; description of, 115, 132–­33; immigration experience of, 122–­23; responses to, 113–­14; suspicion of, 36–­37. See also Shino Aguakate “Don Amado,” 63 drag as gender performance, 8–­9. See also carnival; cross-­dressing performers; gender, performance of, gender complexity; Lupe, La; Mala Fe; Maluca Mala Duany, Jorge, 69–­70, 138 Duke, La (vocalist), 94, 95 Duluc, José, 188, 220, 224 economy of Dominican Republic, 36, 37, 39, 43–­44 electric bass, 64 “Encendía” (Miti Miti), 182, 204 “En los noventa” (In the nineties) (Miti Miti), 182 “E’ pa’lante que vamos,” 136–­37 “Esa mujer” (Shino Aguakate and Sergio Vargas), 134–­35 “Está jodío” (Shino Aguakate), 133–­34 Estefan, Gloria, 181 estrategia de Chochueca, La (Chochueca’s strategy), 182 ethnomusicology: and feminist theory, 10; and masculinity, 10; music and place, 13; and performance practice, 11–­12; and studies of movement and gesture, 21 Eurythmics, 205 Fania, la, 181 Fefita: An Atypical Diva (documentary), 89–­91, 104–­6

272 Fefita la Grande (accordionist), 55, 85f, 120, 212; accordion playing of, 64, 96–­99; botao on “Chicha,” 225–­26, 227–­31f; campiness of, 20, 93, 94; effect on music world, 216; as feminist, 213; influence on Rita Indiana, 209; interviews with, 83–­84, 110–­11; as legend, 88–­96, 247n1, 248n2 (chap. 4) (See also race and class); life and career of, 86–­88, 90; Mayimba, La, 87, 110, 213; movement and gestures of, 102–­7, 237–­41t (See also charisma); nicknames for, 45, 70, 86, 87; the tíguera, 48, 84, 87–­88, 106–­12, 210; vocal production and lyrics, 99–­102, 248n6 (chap. 4). See also urbanization and migration female roles, 41–­50; contemporary femininities, 43–­46; historical femininities, 42–­43; masculine women, 169–­70; performing femininities, 46–­50; public discourse on, 41–­42; significance of the tíguera in típico, 52–­53. See also gender, performance of; women feminism and culture, 7–­8, 10, 13–­14, 212–­13, 243–­44n8; and men, 214; tíguera instrumentalists, 52 Feria de la Paz (Peace Fair), 46 Feria del Libro (Santiago literary and cultural fair), 198 Fernández, Leonel, 115, 136 festivals, 113–­14, 248n1 “Fever” (La Lupe), 94 fieldwork and methods for this book, 22–­23 “Fiesta de San José,” 101 filosofía de calle, definition of, 115, 135. See also Shino Aguakate Flaco, El (tamborero), 56 “Flores de fuego” (Rita Indiana), 189 folk culture and tradition, 75; in Fulanito’s style, 128–­29; and “hora de volvé, La,” 196–­97; Tatico’s evocation of, 63, 66, 72, 80. See also Afro-­Caribbean culture; Cibao; urbanization and migration Fortuna, Xiomara, 178, 188, 224 Franchesca, 169 Francisco, Miro, 68–­69, 77 Fulanito, 118, 126, 127–­29, 249n9 fusion of musical styles, 146, 224. See also Fulanito; Misterios, Los; Rita Indiana; supermodern típico gagá, 148, 178, 187, 214, 223f; description of, 220; in Rita Indiana’s work, 178, 181 Gagá San Elías, 223f “gallo floriao, El” (The Black and White Rooster), 32 García, Deyanira, 170 García, Vicente, 224, 251n1 gays and lesbians, 192; attitudes toward, 174; self-­identified performers, 170; song depicting difficulties of, 202–­3. See also

Index gender, performance of, gender complexity; homosexuality; Rita Indiana gender, performance of: in Dominican musical culture, 4, 15; economic links with, 116; gender complexity, 20, 153–­55, 153–­56, 244n14 (See also drag; gays and lesbians); gender roles as cultural constructs, 26–­29; model of gendered behavior, 18–­19, 27–­28, 180; and musical genres, 15–­18, 214; overview of, 6–­13; relationship to genre, 4, 6, 15, 17, 28, 152–­53, 208–­9 (See also specific musical genres); sexualized images, 203–­4; and sexual orientation, 152, 162, 163–­64, 168, 172 (See also homosexuality). See also cross-­dressing performers; Dominican gender stereotypes; female roles; male roles; women gender identity, 5–­6; and economic changes, 28; in Indonesian gamelan music, 11; in Ugandan music and dance, 11 gender play, 151, 152 gender stereotypes in Rita Indiana’s work, 203–­4 Gender Trouble (Butler), 7, 8 General, El, 168 Geniswing, 126, 138, 139f Geno (accordionist), 126, 138–­40, 139f genres in Dominican music, 15–­18, 219–­24 Gilroy, Paul, 12, 244n10; artistic expression and liberation, 37–­38; tradition in changing societies, 39; urban male countercultures, 51 Gimbernard, Bienvenido, 31f, 32 Glory (vocalist), 169 “golden handcuffs, the,” 44 Gratereaux, Federico Henríquez, 77–­78 Greenfeld, Liah, 73, 74 Gregory, Stephen, 38, 53, 116 Grupo León Jimenes, 54, 246n1 “Guallando” (Fulanito), 127, 128, 129 Guerra, Juan Luis, 40, 117 güira, 15–­16, 190f Gutiérrez, Javier. See Mala Fe Guzmán, Aureliano, 122, 125 Haiti, gender and religion in, 154. See also Rita Indiana Haitians. See Dominican society, Haitians in; Rita Indiana, literary works, Nombres y animales Halberstam, Judith, 15 Hard Rock Café Santo Domingo, 91–­92 “Hatillo palma,” 64 “Hay Chicha.” See “Chicha” “Hay party” (There’s a party) (T-­Urban), 140, 141t Heidegger, Martin, 17 Henríquez, Fary, 59 Henríquez, Tatico (accordionist), 41, 120, 147; charisma of, 72–­80; collective memory of,

Index 81–­82; depictions of, 55f, 58f, 80f; film about, 54–­56; gender critiques, 214; life and legend of, 57–­61, 80; as musician, 61–­67; relationships with the community, 76–­ 77; Tatico’s merengues, 66–­67, 69, 71, 246n5; tigueraje of, 67–­72, 246n6; use of saludo, 77. See also male roles; rhythms of Dominican music; traditional rural society; urbanization and migration Hermanos Rosario, Los, 157, 249n3 Hernández, Mery. See India Canela, La Hernández, Rita Indiana. See Rita Indiana Hernández, Sophy, 181 Herndon, Marcia, 243n8 hip-­hop, 41, 114, 128, 129, 148. See also supermodern típico hip-­hop culture, 118 hombre gallo, 32–­33 hombre manso, 14, 28, 34 hombre más famoso de la tierra, El (Fulanito), 127, 249n9 hombre serio, 14, 28, 106; compared to the tíguere, 30; decline of, 36; description of, 32–­33; support for típico musicians, 51–­52. See also seriedad “Homenaje a Chelo” (Tatico), 63 “Homenaje a Fefita,” 161 “Homenaje a Tatico” (Ulloa), 62 homenajes, 16, 51, 139; to El Jefe, 247n13; to Tatico, 59, 60; Tatico as master of, 63, 71, 246n3. See also patronage in típico homophobia, 149–­50, 151, 152, 155 homosexuality, 250n2 (chap. 7); and desire, 167, 182, 203–­5, 209, 250n9 (See also “blue del Ping Pong, El”); gender performance as gay, 164–­68; labeling of, 166–­67, 168, 172; religious tolerance for, 154 “hora de volvé, La” (Time to go back) (Los Misterios), 189, 194–­97, 206. See also Dominican migrants hybridity. See Canclinian hybridity hypermasculinity, 214; humorous critique of, 170–­7 1; musical forms embodying, 41; of típico moderno, 115. See also male roles; supermodern típico India, La (salsa singer), 94 India Canela, La (accordionist), 46, 47, 47f, 55, 76, 245n7. See also traditional típico instrumentation of típico, 15–­16, 120–­21; Tatico’s modernization of, 64 “Isla Bonita, La” (Madonna), 217 Island of Dr. Moreau, The (Wells), 217 islands and utopian possibilities, 216–­17 Ivy Queen, 169–­70

273 jaibería, 38 “Jardinera” (Rita Indiana), 184, 204–­5 Jardineros, Los, 184, 193, 196–­97 jazz, 146, 224, 249n13 Jeffrey, El, 171 “jigüera, La,” 63 Jiménez, Diógenes (accordionist), 73 Jiménez, Félix, 169 “Joaquín García” (Tatico), 63 Jones, Grace, 209 Juanes, 130 “Juan Gomero,” 190 “juangomero, El,” 190 “jugada, La,” 69 juidero, El (Los Misterios): album, 179, 184–­85, 185f, 188–­89 (See also “hora de volvé, La”); Caribbean sound of, 208; video for title song, 189–­94 Kerubanda, La, 35–­36 Kondo, Dorinne, 217 Koskoff, Ellen, 12, 212 Krisspy, 40, 41, 69, 120, 161–­63, 221 “Kulikitaka” (Rosario), 158 Lady Gaga, 3 lamellaphone, 16, 64, 129 Landes, Ruth, 154 “Lassy” (La Delfi), 155, 171 Lennox, Annie (vocalist), 206 León Jimenes family. See Grupo León Jimenes “Le voy a dar una pela, mamá,” 34, 62. See also “Arturo Almonte” (Tatico) Lewis, George, 138 Lewis, Linden, 28, 150–­51; gender roles, 29; public harassment of women as ritual, 41 Línea, La (Cibao), 86 Lisa M, 169 listening sideways, 176, 194, 206–­10, 216, 250n9 Lizardo, Fradique, 117 “Loca con su tíguere” (Crazy for her tíguere) (El Cata), 135 “Lola (Ging Danga)” (Maluca Mala), 211–­12, 217 Lora, Gabriel, 184 Lora, Huchi, 22, 54, 56 Lora, Ñico (accordionist), 56, 147, 247n1 Luny Tunes, 168 Lupe, La (Caribbean diva), 3, 94–­95, 181, 212, 248n3 (chap. 4). See also race and class, views of gender roles machismo: and cross-­dressers, 149, 153; and Dominican society, 26–­29, 32, 35, 94; as part of binary, 18–­19 macho de mujer, Un (A Man of a Woman) (film), 161

274 maco tambora rhythm, 120, 120f, 121, 157, 221, 249n3 Madonna, 217 Madrid, Alejandro, 11 Mala, Maluca. See Maluca Mala Mala Fe, 41, 125, 164–­67, 166f, 214, 221 “mala maña, La,” 220 maldición del Padre Cardona, La (film), 89 male-­male bonds, 79, 247n13 male roles, 29–­41; competing masculinities, 36–­40; contemporary masculinities, 32–­36; as dancers, 145; feminine men, 164–­69, 170–­72; historical masculinities, 30–­32; performing masculinities, 40–­41, 64; urban male countercultures, 51. See also gender, performance of; Henríquez, Tatico (accordionist); hypermasculinity; tígueres “malla prendía, La” (Tatico), 64, 65f Maluca Mala, 146, 214, 243n3; as feminist, 213; “Lola (Ging Danga)” (video), 211–­12, 217; “tigeraso, El,” 1–­2, 3, 4, 212, 213 “mamajuana, La,” 63, 64, 65f Mamá Tingó (Florinda Muñoz Soriano), 43, 213 mambo, 24, 107, 120, 121, 125; description of, 220–­21; performed by Raquel Arias, 123–­24; queering the mambo, 202, 205. See also merengue con mambo mambo violento (violent mambo), 213 Manilow, Barry, 217 Manners, Robert, 18–­19 Manochí (marimbero), 56 Manuel, Peter, 214 marianismo, 19, 20 marimba, 16, 64, 129 Mármol, Roldán, 188, 220 Martínez, Francisco “Boli,” 184 Martínez, Orlando, 189, 193 Martínez, Pedro, 191 “Más maíz mamá,” 130 “Más mala,” 111 Mast, Raina, 181–­83 Mateo, José, 142 Matoncito (accordionist), 56, 59, 61, 120. See also traditional típico Matos, Carlos Batista, 163 Mayimba, La. See Fefita la Grande Mayimba Music, 213 mayimbas, 212–­14 mayimbes, 87, 110 McClary, Susan, 10 MC Jay, 111 “Me enamoré en sueño” (I fell in love in a dream), 101–­2 Megenney, William, 87 “Me gustan las mujeres ajenas” (I like other men’s women), 69

Index “Me gustan todas,” 69 Mejía, Américo, 22, 68, 88, 103 Me Liberé (I freed myself) (Mala Fe), 165, 166f Méndez, Danny, 167 Méndez, Kinito, 187, 220 Mendoza, Chiqui, 92–­93, 92f merengue con mambo, 71, 121f; “chiflera moderna, La,” 107; and cross-­dressing merengueros, 163; description of, 17, 23, 196, 220–­21, 248n6 (chap. 4); female fans, 122, 125; as feminine style, 17, 23, 246n6 (chap. 4); as new style of típico, 119, 120; Pascual, Agapito, 71, 138; queering the mambo, 201–­2, 209; ties with Rita Indiana’s music, 196–­97; traditionalists’ response to, 188. See also “Chacarrón”; dancing; juidero, El; típico moderno; Tulile merengue de calle, 17, 41, 125, 214, 248n7 (chap. 5), 249n12; appeal to Dominican youth, 135; description of, 137, 221–­22; Rita Indiana’s transformation of, 202; and shifting modes of masculinity, 36, 41, 125; and women, 213. See also Amarfis y su Banda de Atakke; Mala Fe; Omega; Oro Sólido; Rosario, Toño; Tito Swing; Tulile merengue de orquesta, 9, 17, 56, 147; and class, 59; compared to típico, 15, 17, 49; description of, 222; women in, 46, 47, 48, 50, 108, 216. See also merengue de calle; Rosario, Toño; Tulile; Ventura, Johnny merengue derecho, 16, 120f, 121, 121f; gender perception of, 17 merengueros, 33 merengue típico, 214; author’s introduction to, 4–­5; challenge to gendered history, 28; changes in musical style, 36; forms of, 119–­20; instrumentation of, 15–­16; lyrics and tigueraje, 246n7; place and world-­making, 16, 17–­18; principal rhythms of, 16; role of women in, 18, 49–­50; semi-­participatory nature of, 215–­16; significance of to Dominicans, 4; social relations defining, 16–­17; Tatico’s modernization of, 63–­ 64; tradition, transnationalism, and tigueraje in, 13–­15, 52–­53. See also Cibao; Dominican society; gender, performance of; race and class; tigueraje; specific musical genres Merengue típico from the Dominican Republic (Smithsonian Folkways recording), 76 MIA (Sri Lankan rapper), 243n3 Milka La Más Dura, 169 Miller, Errol, 19 “Mi niña cambió” (My girl changed) (Aventura), 146 Mintz, Sidney, 18–­19 Mirabal sisters, 43, 245n6

Index Misterios, Los: “blue del Ping Pong, El,” 198–­206, 200–­201t; “Dulces sueños,” 205–­6; juidero, El (The getaway) (CD), 184; logo design, 185–­ 86, 186f. See also fusion of musical styles Miti Miti (duo), 181–­83, 184 modernity: Western modernity and feminism, 13–­14; and women in típico, 50 modern-­style típico. See típico moderno montero, 30, 32, 41 “Montra, La.” See Rita Indiana Monumento, El, 105, 150 movement and gesture, 20–­21, 244n9, 249n5; of Arias, Raquel, 123–­24; audience participation, 145; of differing masculinities, 40; as expectation in performance, 106; of Fulanito, 129; of Krisspy, 161–­62; of Shino Aguakate, 135–­36; and tígueres’ devotion to pleasure, 38; of T-­Urban, 140–­42, 141t. See also dancing; típico moderno; transnational tigueraje; individual performers movement and gesture, specific works: in “El blue del Ping Pong,” 198–­201, 200–­201t, 202, 203–­4, 250n6; Fefita’s performance of “La chiflera,” 237–­41t; in “La hora de volvé,” 196–­97; in El juidero, 192–­93; in “Raquel,” 124t; in Tulile’s “Chacarrón,” 159–­60, 160t; in Urbanda’s “El picoteao,” 143–­45 muerte del merengue: Homenaje a Tatico, La (The death of merengue: Homage to Tatico) (Recio), 60f, 61 “muerte de Martín, La,” 130 “mujeres ajenas, Las,” 69 “Mujeres beban” (Drink up, women), 108 mujere seria, 14, 42–­43, 52 mulattos, 29, 244n2 Muñiz, Ángel, 158 Muñoz, José Esteban, 9, 10, 215, 243n6; campy performances, 20; on Caribbean divas, 95; on choteo, 20, 93 música cocola, 148, 222 music and social change, 215–­16 Music as Social Life (Turino), 215 music industry, 206, 208–­9 Nannyonga-­Tamusuza, Sylvia, 11 “Negro Cruz y Toño Colón” (Tatico), 63 neoliberalism: and cross-­dressing, 163; and economic progress, 53, 116; responses to capitalism, 38–­39, 53, 118, 147; and rise of transnational tígueres, 37, 51 neotraditional típico: description of, 120; as province of hombres serios and mujeres serias, 164. See also Ciego de Nagua, El (Bartolo Alvarado) (accordionist); Díaz, María; Fefita la Grande; Henríquez, Tatico; Román, Rafaelito Newton, Esther, 7, 93

275 New York-­based Dominicans. See Dominican Yorks “Ñico y Matón” (Tatico), 63 Nieves Moreno, Alfredo, 169 Nueba Yol 3 (film), 89 Núñez, Eddy, 184, 185, 186–­87, 188 Núñez, Eneroliza, 219 Ochoa, Antonio, 86–­87 “Octavio Acosta” (Tatico), 62, 63 Omega, 41, 125, 213, 221 O’Neal, Juliana, 47, 108 Organización Típica, La, 118, 119f Oro Sólido, 135, 221 Orquídea Negra, 169 Ortiz, José Miguel. See El Papillón Ovalle, Juan Elpidio, 82 Oyá (deity), 192 Padilla, Mark, 116, 117 palos, 17, 196; attitudes toward, 153; description of, 221f, 222–­23; evocation of, 195 pambiche rhythm, 16, 59, 120 “Papá Bocó,” 186 Papá Molina, 222 Papi (Rita Indiana), 176, 177, 178, 179–­80, 183, 184 Papillón, El (radio deejay), 56, 70–­7 1; on Fefita, 106; on Tatico as legendary, 76 “papujito, El” (The Bearded Rooster), 32 pariguayo, 36, 245n4 “pariguayo, El” (La Kerubanda), 35–­36 “parrandera, La,” 35 Pascual, Agapito (accordionist), 71, 120, 138; on Tatico, 77 Pascual, Fidelina (accordionist), 108, 120, 122–­23, 245n7 patronage in típico, 16, 71. See also homenajes “Pedro Navaja” (Blades), 69 “Pedro Oquí” (Tatico), 63 Peligro (José Mateo), 142 Peña, Andy, 167–­68, 249n6 Peña, Facundo, 35 Peña, Freddy, 142 Peralta, Genito. See Geno performance studies, 9, 11 perico ripiao: class associations with, 92, 120, 128; description of, 16, 128, 223; and Fulanito’s music, 128 Perico ripiao (film) (Muñiz), 89, 158 perreo, 169, 199–­200, 200t, 202, 203, 204, 222, 250n6 “picoteao, El,” 38, 61, 143 “pimienta es la que pica, La,” 107 “Pluma Pluma Gay” (Gay feathers) (Mala Fe), 165

276 “pobre Adela, La” (merengue), 44 poesía matonesca, 34–­35 Polanco, David David. See David David (accordionist) Polanco, Geovanny (accordionist), 55 political critiques, 52, 207, 224; Ivy Queen, 169; in Rita Indiana’s work, 174–­75, 187, 188–­90, 191, 193; in Shino Aguakate’s work, 131–­32, 136–­37, 138. See also disidentification; listening sideways; world-­making popular music studies, 11, 244n9 postcolonial relationships, effect on gender identities, 12 Prieto, Juan, 68 pri-­prí, 184 Prodigio, El (accordionist), 55, 120, 146, 249n13; bodily expression of, 106; on Fefita, 108–­9; viewed as a bacano, 40–­41. See also bacano, masculinity of “Pueblo por pueblo” (Town by town) (Aventura with El Prodigio), 146 Puerto Ricans’ relationship with Dominicans, 168, 176 Purito, 138 queer, use of term, 152 queer Latino and Latin American artists, 9, 94 queer studies, 9, 17, 20 Quezada, Milly (singer), 46 “Quiero volar” (I want to fly) (Peña), 167 Quintero, Noelia (filmmaker), 174, 189–­92, 193, 194, 197, 198–­206 Quiquito (saxophonist), 47f Quiroga, José, 167 race and class: class and feminine tigueraje, 44–­45 (See also Fefita la Grande, as legend; Juidero, El; Lupe, La; Rita Indiana; specific musical genres); challenges to stereotypes, 171; homosexuality, 164; marginalized populations, 207; racism, 51, 116, 187–­ 88, 249n2, 250n3 (chap. 8); relationship to gender identities, 12; Rita Indiana’s commentary on, 189, 191; sexualized images of women, 203–­4; views of gender roles, 29, 95, 151; women in típico, 50 “Radhamés Guerra” (Tatico), 63 Radio Quisqueyana, 87 Ramírez, Andrew, 184 Ramírez, Arístides, 45 Ramírez, Julián (accordionist), 35, 35f, 55, 100–­101, 123; on bodily expression, 106; on Tatico, 68 Ramírez, Rafael L., 19 Ramoncito (güirero), 59–­60 “Raquel,” 124t Raymond, Guadalupe Victoria Yoli. See Lupe, La

Index “realidad, La” (Reality) (Sargenta G), 170 Recio, Raúl (painter), 60f, 61, 186 “Recuerdo a Ramona,” 69 Redfield, Robert, 18 Redimi2, 137 Reed, Lou, 177 reggaetón, 41, 51, 152; attitudes toward, 138, 148; description of, 168–­71, 223–­24. See also dancing; Delfi, La; dembow; supermodern típico “Reggaetón ripiao” (Aguakate), 130 Remo (Dominican blogger), 131–­32 retornados (return migrants), 16, 36, 114, 197 reuse of melodies and texts, 62 Reyes, Berto (accordionist), 96, 97 Reyes, Carlos, 209 Reynoso, Domingo, 39 Reynoso, Pedro (accordionist), 56; vocal quality, 65 rhythms of Dominican music, 15, 120, 195, 201; bachata, 219; caballito, 195, 206; crossed rhythms, 158; guinchao, 62; maco, 120, 120f, 121, 121f, 157, 221, 246n4, 249n3; merengue derecho, 16, 17, 120f, 121, 121f; pambiche, 16, 17, 59, 120, 226, 245n4; Tatico’s sound, 65–­66, 65f; and traditional society, 17; tresillo, 2, 2f, 181, 201. See also Henríquez, Tatico; tambora; specific performers, works, and genres Ricoché, 68; on Fefita, 96–­97, 109; on Tatico, 76, 88; Tatico’s nickname for, 70 Ripiando el perico: Antología del merengue típico (Ripping the parrot: Anthology of merengue) (CD set) (Chaljub-­Lora), 54 Rita Indiana, 92, 175f, 190f; biography of, 176–­80, 203; “blue del Ping Pong, El,” 198–­206, 249n9; career change, 206–­7; Caribbean sound of Los Misterios: more, 208–­9; in Casifull, 180–­81; Dominican language, 201, 202, 210; “Dulces sueños,” 205–­6; in duo Miti Miti, 181–­83; effect on Dominican music and culture, 210; as feminist, 213; and Haitian populations, 175, 176, 186–­88, 217; “hora de volvé, La,” 194–­97, 206; image, contrasts in, 206; juidero, El, 179, 184, 185f, 188–­94, 195, 208; listening sideways, 206–­10; in Los Misterios (See Misterios, Los); as openly gay performer, 173–­74; performers influential on, 209; Viva cell phone commercial, 198; writing style, 207–­8. See also fusion of musical styles; gays and lesbians; Haiti, gender and religion in; race and class, views of gender roles Rita Indiana, literary works, 249–­50n1 (chap. 7); “Bajito a selva,” 250n9; estrategia de Chochueca, La (Chochueca’s strategy), 177, 178–­79, 182, 193; mucama de Omicunlé, La (Omicunlé’s maid), 177, 207; Nombres y animales (Names and animals), 177, 178, 203, 206–­7, 217; Papi, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 183, 184; “Ping pong vals,” 202–­3; trajes, Los (The suits), 177, 207

Index Rivera, Ángel Quintero, 244n2 Rivera-­Servera, Ramón, 152 Roach, Joseph, 75, 88 robalagallina, 151, 155 Robles, Juan, 138 rock: in the Dominican Republic, 100, 114, 162, 224; gendered genre, 208; influence on performers, 67, 214, 222 (See also Misterios, Los) Rodger, Gillian, 206 Rodriguez, Alex (A-­Rod), 131–­32 Rodríguez, Gaspar, 56, 62, 80f; on Tatico, 68, 71–­72, 77 Rodríguez, María (accordionist), 245n7 Rodríguez, Mélida (singer), 48 Román, Nixon (accordionist), 126, 142 Román, Rafaelito (accordionist), 5, 40, 55, 120, 126; bodily expression of, 106; on Fefita, 96; playing with Fefita, 105; students of, 246n7; on Tatico’s technique, 72 Rosario, Toño (vocalist), 125, 130, 157–­58, 162 “rubia y yo, La” (Yan de la Rosa), 127, 162 rural society. See Cibao; traditional rural society salsa, 81, 138, 192, 250n5; changes in, 248n5 (chap. 5); queering the salsa, 152. See also dancing saludo, use of, 76 Santa Fefa divirtiendo a unos chivos sin ley (Mendoza), 92–­93, 92f Santiago de los Caballeros, 59; and típico, 16 Santos, Anthony, 214 Santos, Daniel (singer), 51, 181 Santos, Vicente, 196, 199 Sargenta G, 170 saxophone, 16 Schechner, Richard, 9 Scheele, Raymond, 18–­19 seguidores, 33 semantic snowballing, 62 “sentenciado, El” (Reynoso?), 39–­40 “Sé que te gusto” (I know you like me [sexually]), 108 seriedad: achieving, 33–­34, 39–­40; demonstration of, 32; Tatico’s, 71; and tigueraje, 35. See also hombre serio “Serio se murió” (Banda Real), 36 “ser que me persigue, Un” (típico tune), 34 “7 pasadas, Las” (Tatico), 62 sexuality, Dominican attitudes toward, 174. See also homosexuality; listening sideways; entries under gender Shin’ichi, Mori, 79 Shino Aguakate, 40, 95, 120, 126, 131–­38, 133f, 147, 214. See also Aguakate Sí Gagá (Mármol), 188

277 Silvestre, Sonia, 186 Simonson, Peter Grant, 30, 39, 44, 118 Singing Sandra, 102 “Si quiere venir que venga” (If he wants to come, let him come) (Fefita La Grande), 48, 101 Smith, Philip, 77, 78 social capital, Tatico’s mastery of, 63 social change, music’s potential for, 215–­16 “Sofi, La” (Casifull), 181 Solano, Delfy Oscar, 170 Sontag, Susan, 20, 93, 94 Soriano, Florinda Muñoz. See Mamá Tingó “Soy un tigre” (I’m a tiger) (Miti Miti), 183 “Spanish,” 243n1 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 7 Stare, Greg, 91 Sugarman, Jane, 10 Superchin, 180–­81 supermodern típico, 125, 126, 130–­31. See also Aguakate; fusion of musical styles; Krisspy; Shino Aguakate “Sweet Dreams” (Eurythmics), 205, 206 Swing, Tito, 249n12 symbolic capital, 75–­76 “Symphonic Fefita,” 103, 111 Tallaj, Angelina, 114, 115, 151, 155, 164 tambora, 15–­16, 120–­21, 120f, 156, 175f, 221. See also rhythms of Dominican music Tari, Lujza, 97 Tatico. See Henríquez, Tatico (accordionist) Tatico siempre (Tatico Forever) (film), 54–­56 Tatico’s merengues, 66–­67, 246n5; evocative of tíguere lifestyle, 69; Tatico as a tíguere, 71 “Tatico y Lalán (La balacera),” 56, 63, 70 Tavárez, Yohanna (accordionist), 55, 245n7 tempos: acceleration of, 64, 246n4; in Dominican music, 188–­89 “tigeraso, El” (Maluca Mala), 1–­3, 146, 212, 213 tigueraje: overview of, 14–­15, 33, 41; rise of during Dominican socio-­political change, 35, 36, 50, 78; Rita Indiana’s performance of, 201, 209–­10; rural predecessors to, 34–­35; speech style of, 245n5; trickster character of, 20, 37 (See also choteo); and women, 42, 44–­45, 213–­14. See also Dominican Yorks; female roles; male roles; seriedad; tígueras; tígueres; individual performers tígueras: as defined in Diccionario libre, 45; description of, 3, 112; emergence of, 44; performing the tíguera, 110. See also women; individual performers tíguere gallo, 117, 119

278 tígueres: description of, 2–­3, 29–­30, 33, 34, 34t, 243n4; music listened to, 35; in other countries, 51; pleasure, and dance and movement, 38; song about, 183. See also male roles; tigueraje; individual performers tígueres cinturita, 119 “tiguerito, El” (Peña), 35 típico. See merengue típico; neotraditional típico; supermodern típico; típico moderno; traditional típico típico masculinity: Tatico’s performances, 64–­67, 78–­79 típico moderno, 23, 113, 114; audiences for, 33, 122, 146; and debate over típico traditions, 146–­48; description of, 120, 121f; evolution of musical styles, 35, 36, 75, 147; as feminine style, 17, 124–­25; masculinity of, 115, 124–­25, 143–­45; as province of tígueres and tígueras, 35, 51, 164; of T-­Urban, 140; women performers of, 123. See also merengue con mambo típico urbano. See típico moderno; T-­Urban Tito Swing, 221 “Todos me miran” (All the men look at me), 108 Toribio, Ricardo Ariel, 184 Torres, Chico, 143 traditional rural society: female roles in, 42, 50; male roles in, 32, 34. See also Cibao; Fefita la Grande (accordionist); Henríquez, Tatico (accordionist) traditional típico, 16, 33, 120. See also India Canela, La; Matoncito (accordionist); Trío Reynoso tradition and tigueraje, 13–­15, 52–­53 transnational experience, 13, 146, 147; in “La hora de volvé,” 194–­97; in El juidero, 191 transnationalism, 12, 13–­14, 36–­37, 71, 247n8. See also urbanization and migration transnational tigueraje, 114, 214, 248n2 (chap. 5); gender, race, and style in, 116–­25; links with tradition, 117–­18, 146; in urban típico, 125–­27, 146–­48; and women, 213. See also Afro-­ Caribbean culture; Aguakate; Fulanito; Shino Aguakate; T-­Urban; Urbanda transvestism. See cross-­dressing performers; gender, performance of, gender complexity tresillo rhythm, 2, 2f, 181, 201 Trío Reynoso, 59, 64, 120. See also traditional típico tropicalization, 217 Tropicana, Carmelita, 95 Trujillo, Flor de Oro, 43 Trujillo, Petán, 86 Trujillo, Rafael, 35, 86, 136, 179, 189, 250–­51n3 (chap. 8); approval of Casandra Damirón, 46; assassination of, 23, 35; El Monumento, 150; and orquesta, 222

Index Tulile, 40, 41, 125, 148, 158–­61, 159f, 163 “Tu lindo amor” (T-­Urban), 140 T-­Urban, 126, 139–­42, 141t Turino, Thomas, 215, 244n10 Turner, Victor, 216 21 división, la. See Vodou twerking. See perreo Ulloa, Francisco, 62 Undoing Gender (Butler), 8 UNESCO masterpiece of cultural heritage, 219, 222 Urbanda, 125, 126, 142–­45 urbanization and migration: and collective remembering, 77–­78, 81; effect on women, 43, 44; growth of típico, 4, 16, 23, 59; protecting típico traditions, 146–­47; rise of the tíguere and tíguera, 30, 33, 35, 50–­51 (See also Fefita la Grande; Henríquez, Tatico). See also folk culture and tradition; transnationalism; transnational tigueraje Ureña, Salomé, 42–­43 “Usted se lo pierde” (You’re missing out) (Shino Aguakate), 131 utopian performative, 215–­17 Valentín-­Escobar, Wilson A., 95 Vargas, Rafael, 127, 128. See also Fulanito Vargas, Sergio, 134 Vargas, Wilfrido (orquesta star), 60–­61, 175 Varón y su Tipipalo, El, 221f Vega, Fellé, 224 Vega, Máximo, 89, 96 Ventura, Johnny, 40, 41, 175; compared to Rita Indiana’s work, 196; gender critiques, 214; in El juidero, 191–­92, 193; tigueraje of, 67; transformation of orquesta, 222 Veras, Joe, 130 Veras, Susana, 123 Vickiana, 181 “Víctor Martínez” (Tatico), 63 “Vieja Fefa, La.” See Fefita la Grande vieja que bailan, 45, 52, 111 “vieja y su pipa, La” (Agapito Pascual), 138 viejete, 33 Viejo Puro, El, 138 “viejo tíguere, El.” See Ramírez, Julián Villalona, Chio, 248n1 Villalona, Fernando (Fernandito) (vocalist), 60–­61, 87, 214 Villa Mella, 184, 219 vocal production in típico, 48, 64, 100 Vodou, 153, 179, 185–­86, 187, 220 Walser, Robert, 244n9 Warner, Michael, 17

Index Waxer, Lise, 81, 97, 248n5 (chap. 5) Weber, Max, 73–­75, 77 “Wiggle It” (Vargas), 127 women: accordionists, 245–­46n7; in audiences, 121, 122, 125, 142–­43, 248n5 (chap. 5); in feminist theory, 7–­8; older women in Dominican culture, 42, 45, 111; and tigueraje, 44–­45; in the típico world, 18, 27, 47, 49–­50. See also female roles; gender, performance of; tígueras

279 wordplay and double entendres, 33, 38, 67, 130, 131, 170; onomatopoeia, 160–­61; Rita Indiana’s work, 176, 202, 204–­5 world-­making, 17–­18 Yano, Christine, 79 Yaselyn, Gladis, 90 Yépez, Natalie. See Maluca Mala