The premise of this essay is that an examination of the Cuban son provides important insights into Cuban history and society, into Caribbean race relations, and ongoing processes of cultural fusion involving Afro-descendant and Euro-descendant practices, among others. The process of cultural adaptation and transformation through the years in the Caribbean has been described by Fernando Ortiz as transculturation, a term discussed in this chapter with respect to its utility in understanding musical development. The essay focusses primarily on early son history, its antecedent forms, the African-influenced aesthetic sense that gave rise to it, and the popularisation of the music and dance in the early twentieth century. It also briefly considers changes to son music in the 1930s and beyond. I view son of the early twentieth century as a cultural bridge in the sense that it helped to negotiate the aesthetic and socio-cultural divide that existed between Afro-descendant and Euro-descendant practices and laid the foundation for a more holistic and integrated national culture. In this sense, the history of Cuban son is tied to that of many other regional dance music forms (Dominican merengue, Puerto Rican plena, Trinidadian steel pan, etc.) that have contributed in similar ways to projects of nation-building. The broad appeal of such music results in its frequent linkages to political initiatives (Reference PuriPuri 2004), especially those involving integrationism. The essay begins with a discussion of Caribbean music, race, and hybridity, then continues with an overview of the emergence of son in the late nineteenth century out of drumming, song, and dance traditions associated with the Black community. Finally, it considers the music’s early commercial form and broader significance.

Black Musical Traditions of the New World

The Caribbean affords an especially interesting space for thinking about Black diasporic musical relationships and influences. It is a region that became home to at least four million displaced Africans during the course of the Atlantic slave trade. Its residents today are primarily of African or mixed-African descent and perform countless forms of music, many demonstrating prominent African-derived characteristics and/or linkages with other Afro-diasporic musical forms from the region and beyond. Thus, numerous examples exist of traditions that tie the Caribbean to Africa musically, linguistically, or ideologically, that define sectors of the Afro-Caribbean population as distinct from others, and that create affinities with broader notions of Blackness. On the other hand, the Caribbean is also known for fundamentally creolised or hybridised expression, and in many instances European influences predominate over African influences within such repertoire. Afro-Caribbean residents do not necessarily identify as a unified group or recognise the Afro-diasporic aesthetic ties their expressive traditions may have. In addition, some forms of music developed by Afro-Caribbean communities (such as the danzón and the Latin American bolero) are no longer associated with Black populations at all or are now performed primarily by non-Black populations. Clearly, notions of racialised expression in the region are fluid and emergent.

The diversity of cultural influences in the Caribbean thus make any attempt to speak of ‘pure’ heritage highly problematic. Divided into distinct zones of colonial expansion represented by Dutch-, English-, French-, and Spanish-speaking culture areas as well as influences from a diversity of African ethnic groups (from present-day Nigeria, Cameroon, Benin, Angola, Congo, and elsewhere), and permeated now by global media, the region, as outlined in the introduction, is perhaps best conceived as a jumble of cultural fragments. In such a context, it is difficult to maintain essentialist discourses of ‘Black’ and ‘White’ culture as perpetuated in the United States and elsewhere. One insight the Caribbean may have to offer first-world scholars of music is that discourses of sharing, commonality, and hybridity should play a more central role in scholarship on ‘Black’ heritage in the future (see also Reference RadanoRadano 2003). Black heritage in the Americas is perhaps best viewed as an ‘in-between’ culture, the result of ‘a webbed network, between the local and the global’ (Reference GilroyGilroy 1993, 23), as ‘polyrhythmic’ in a metaphorical sense (Reference Benítez-RojoBenítez-Rojo 1996, 18), and no longer associated exclusively with Black structures of feeling, performing, or producing. Yet Black communities may still perceive or perform such music in distinct ways.

Fernando Ortiz coined the term transculturation as a way of alluding to the complex ongoing social and cultural interactions associated with Caribbean heritage. To him, the term referenced various processes simultaneously: the loss or decline of certain cultural forms over time (especially those of socially marginal or dominated groups), the adoption of the cultural practices of other groups, the emergence of entirely new forms of expression through the interpenetration of cultures, the movement of cultural practices between social classes, racial groups, or distinct social contexts (e.g., sacred to secular) within the same cultural group, and so on (Reference OrtizOrtiz 1995, 102–3; Reference IznagaIznaga 1989, 79–80). The most important aspect of Ortiz’s paradigm from the perspective of present-day academics is that it implicitly rejects notions of racial or ethnic purity, suggesting instead that the meanings and perceptions of culture are dialogic. That is, racialised culture has no unchanging ‘essence’; it exists in a changing relationship to other forms and is perceived differently according to the exigencies of particular historical periods (Reference PalmiéPalmié 2013, 97).

One deficiency of the transculturation model is that it does not necessarily underscore the power imbalances and brutal oppression that have often accompanied cultural exchange in the region. Creolised cultures in much of the New World emerged following the mass slaughter of the Indigenous population, for instance, the creation of hierarchical societies based on slave labour, and ongoing forms of racialised oppression. Musical genres such as the son that eventually became emblematic of national heritage developed on the margins of society and were initially viewed by elites as violating social norms, transgressing established racial divides, and thus as a moral affront (Reference ChasteenChasteen 2004). Their eventual acceptance as national heritage thus represents a profound conceptual transformation. The son can be understood from multiple perspectives: to the dominant classes it is often viewed as fun-loving party music with relatively subtle African-influenced elements that can be overlooked or downplayed when convenient. By contrast, to Black communities it frequently serves as a means of consciously perpetuating Afro-diasporic practices, of subverting established cultural norms, and of openly communicating coded messages to those versed in African-derived religions and related beliefs. Such messages involve musical and lyrical cues, as Ivor Miller has demonstrated in his study of early son recordings (Reference MillerMiller 2000, 10; see also Reference MooreMoore 1997, 93–4; Reference MooreMoore 2006, 125–6), as well as others.

The Emergence of the Cuban Son

The development of New World cultural practices derives ultimately from colonial enterprises involving the use of massive amounts of slave labour on plantations. Sugar, coffee, and tobacco were among the first products cultivated in the New World, and their production (especially sugar) was especially lucrative because of slavery. Plantation economies generated tremendous wealth both in the colonies and in Europe. Reference Benítez-RojoBenítez-Rojo (1996, 5) suggests that such revenue accelerated the industrial revolution and supported other economic endeavours across the Atlantic. In Cuba, roughly 800,000 slaves were brought in to support plantation economies prior to 1820, with another 800,000 arriving between 1820 and 1860 (Reference MurrayMurray 1971, 149). For most of the nineteenth century, especially, the Cuban population was majority African. Despite the horrendous work conditions slaves endured and their typically short life spans, they nevertheless developed unique cultural forms (religious and secular) that continue to influence music and dance expression to this day.

Afro-diasporic heritage began to influence the local popular cultures of the Americas as early as the sixteenth century (e.g., Reference CarpentierCarpentier 1946, 40 ff.) through rhythmic and choreographic contributions to dance music forms such as the zarabanda, chuchumbé, and the xácara (the latter as of the eighteenth century).Footnote ¹ These forms of expression, typically performed on European-derived instruments such as guitars but with some percussive accompaniment, fused elements of European popular song and dance traditions with rhythmic cells or other elements originating in Africa, Indigenous communities, or the Arab world. The genres frequently developed along trade routes and along transnational circuits rather than in single locations and became widespread in Spain and the New World at roughly the same time. By the mid-nineteenth century, free Black Cuban performers familiar with Western musical instruments (many of them trained in segregated military battalions) began to influence popular music and dance traditions in new ways by creolizing or ‘ragging’ popular European-derived dance forms such as the contradanza and danza, and by developing related forms such as the danzón (Reference Madrid and MooreMadrid & Moore 2013). Lyrical references to Black heritage also featured prominently in the guaracha, a bawdy song form popularised through Cuba’s Blackface theatre, especially as of the 1860s (Reference Linares SavioLinares Savio 1999). Influenced musically by xácaras and related forms, guaracha lyrics (typically written by White Cuban men) often discussed the sensual appeal of Black women, or the threat presented by Black street thugs (negros curros or negros cheches). While the guaracha does often incorporate 3–2 rhythmic ambivalence (sesquiáltera) and other elements arguably linked to the African diaspora, its structure, style, and lyrics are largely European-derived, and its Afro-diasporic elements relatively subdued. The same can be said of the xácara and the other dance music genres mentioned earlier. By contrast, the forms of drumming, song, and dance most closely associated with the slave population (the music and dance of Afro-diasporic religious worship, and secular forms of drumming/dance/song) were not accepted by dominant society prior to the twentieth century. Their most overt influence on mainstream culture as of the late nineteenth century resulted from the ways their structure, instrumentation, and aesthetics influenced the development of the son.

Rumba is the most popular style of secular dance music to emerge from the Afro-Cuban community in the decades prior to the popularisation of the son, and it strongly influenced later dance traditions. Rumba is an umbrella term for a group of related styles with roots in rural slave practices. Some authors suggest that it developed out of Kongo-influenced forms such as makutaFootnote ² and yukaFootnote ³ drumming (Reference DanielDaniel 1995); others suggest possible roots in GangáFootnote ⁴ culture (Reference OrtizOrtiz 1981, 427). The genre first emerged as early as the 1850s (Reference DanielDaniel 1995, 17) but only became widely popular during the period of abolition (1886) and its aftermath. Blacks in rural areas performed rumba in the 1880s and 1890s as a form of after-work entertainment, for instance (Reference BarnetBarnet 1994, 64). Rumba music features voice and percussion only and is closely associated with the Black working classes. The years following abolition witnessed the rapid urbanisation of the country, with former slaves moving to cities in search of better work and educational opportunities. Poorer neighbourhoods in Havana and Matanzas expanded exponentially in population as a result. Few Blacks could read at the time, and many had no formal education, but they became an increasing urban cultural presence (Reference SubletteSublette 2004, 256).

Rumba instrumentation varies but at the turn of the twentieth century it typically included three conga drums (often referred to in descending order of size as the caja, tumbadora, and quinto), a pair of wooden claves, and a longer pair of wooden sticks (palitos). As in the case of many Afro-descendant traditions, most instruments in the ensemble play relatively repetitive patterns that support the ostinato or groove, while certain lead instruments (in this case the high quinto drum and sometimes other drums) improvise against it. In earlier Afro-descendant musical traditions including yuka and makuta drumming, and in musical performances that accompany Afro-descendant religious traditions, the lowest drum or percussion instrument typically improvises. Rumba’s emphasis on the highest-pitched drum as the soloist thus represents a deviation from established practice (Reference SubletteSublette 2004, 266). The claves passed directly from rumba to son ensembles in Western cities, with only a small modification to their repeated rhythmic pattern (see Reference MooreMoore 2012, 191–2 for a transcription of rumba clave, and p. 202 for a transcription of son clave). The cáscara or shell patterns performed on a woodblock or the side of a drum by the palitos have influenced son music strongly since the 1940s and 1950s with the incorporation of the timbales into ensembles, given their use of the similar rhythms and techniques. The tendency for timbaleros to alternate cáscara performance on the shell of the drum as well as on the head represents a creolising or ‘Africanisation’ of European drumming practices.Footnote ⁵

While sounding decidedly Afro-diasporic to the casual listener, rumba has been influenced by European heritage and thus represents a transculturated cultural form in its own right. Reference Pérez FernándezRolando Pérez Fernández (1988) has documented what he describes as a gradual ‘binarization’ of African-influenced repertoire in Cuba, by which he means a shift from music performed in compound triple meter (such as older devotional drumming) to duple meter (such as rumba). To Pérez Fernández, this in itself suggests accommodation on the part of the Black community to the aesthetics of European-derived popular song. Rumba lyrics are typically written in Spanish, of course, and the poetic forms employed such as the décima and copla derive from Spain as well (Reference PasmanickPasmanick 1997). Rumba melodies increasingly employ European-style major and minor scales, though five- and six-note scales more typical of traditional African melodies are also found. Vocal harmonies tend to imply simple European-derived chord progressions. Perhaps most importantly, the formal structure of rumba clearly demonstrates the fusion of African- and European-derived heritage. The two primary sections of the music consist of (1) a strophic song or verse, influenced by European-derived practices, often in binary form; and (2) an open-ended, improvised, cyclic montuno section with antiphonal vocals that corresponds much more closely to the formal structure of traditional sub-Saharan African musics. Rumba’s two-part structure is essentially identical to that of the son, and it seems to have strongly influenced its development in that sense.

In considering the son’s relationship to other Afro-descendant musical practices, it is useful to consider the broader aesthetic characteristics of rumba, the sacred music of Santería, and related forms (see also Reference MooreMoore 2010, 80–1). Such repertoire typically manifests considerable ‘rhythmic density’, with multiple rhythmic ideas performed simultaneously. The music tends to be organised around the use of ostinatos, with multiple short phrases contributing in various ways to a complex amalgam of sound. Compositions are cyclic and open-ended in terms of form, and are played continuously as long as needed to satisfy the demands of the moment. Ensembles (as in the case of rumba) adopt a hierarchy of sorts in which most instruments play unchanging, repeated patterns while a select few improvise or vary their parts against the others. This allows for broad musical participation, with the less experienced performing static, repetitive parts. Call–response singing between a lead singer and chorus is very common in such repertoire. Timbral contrast is a central means creating musical interest, with the sounds’ diverse un- or semi-pitched objects made of metal, wood, plant matter, and animal skin sounding against vocal lines (Reference OrtizOrtiz 1981, 134). All of these elements have influenced the sound and style of Cuban son, despite its incorporation of additional instruments, harmonies, and other influences from Europe and elsewhere.

Son and Transculturation

Son music and dance have been widely influential since the earliest years of its recording and mass dissemination. An iconic form of national expression by the late 1920s, son might be described as the Cuban equivalent of blues or R&B music in the United States in terms of its impact on subsequent generations of performers. While son performers were originally persecuted by police and local authorities, especially in western Cuba (Reference MooreMoore 1997, 95–7), its acceptance by dominant society marked a shift in terms of greater tolerance for Black and working-class expression. It became a revitalizing force, transforming genres such as the danzón fundamentally as well as others that emerged later such as the chachachá, mambo, even protest song (Reference AcostaAcosta 1983, 34). I argue that, as opposed to genres that preceded it, son music is the first commercially successful genre to incorporate a majority of the Afro-diasporic aesthetic elements described earlier, presenting them in a manner less threatening to Eurocentric middle-class listeners than music based on percussion and vocals alone. The son represents a cultural bridge of sorts between Afro-diasporic and European musical practices, perpetuating traditional styles of Black performance on new instruments and by means of new ensembles more acceptable to dominant society.

Numerous variants of the son exist, but most scholars agree that it first developed in eastern Cuba in the rural areas surrounding cities such as Bayamo, Holguín, Las Tunas, and Santiago. Danilo Orozco conducted fieldwork in these regions in the 1980s and recorded members of the Miranda family, among others, with a long history of performing such repertoire. Orozco suggests that the origins of the style date back at least to the 1860s, and that in its early form it consisted essentially of short, repeated melodic lines performed on local string instruments such as the tres to the accompaniment of a small drum or other percussion and vocals, often singing a repeated refrain. A transcription of a representative segment of Orozco’s LP Antología del son (Reference Orozco1987) indicates that early tres melodic patterns tended to outline simple harmonic progressions such as V-I. Some of the tres melodies appear to have been ‘claved’, as is true of more recent son music (i.e., comprised of two phrases, one of which is slightly less syncopated than the other and thus corresponds to the less syncopated ‘2’ side of son clave, the other slightly more syncopated and aligned with the ‘3’ side; see Reference MooreMoore 2010, 93–4), even though particular variants (such as changüí repertoire from the Guantánamo region) were not. A transcription of the tres ostinato found in Orozco’s recording ‘Nengón’ appears in Figure 2.1; it may have been conceived of as claved, although the rhythmic differences between the melody’s two contrasting phrases are minimal.Footnote ⁶ Experiments among early soneros that fused cyclic, ostinato-based performance with European vocal harmonies in eastern Cuba had a corollary of sorts at approximately the same time in western cities as well, where traditional rumba and coros de guaguancó featured European-influenced vocals and harmonies accompanied by percussive instrumentation (Reference MooreMoore 1997, 92). However, the use of a claved melodic instrument represented an innovation unique to son. It remains unclear whether this aspect of the music developed in the eastern region or only became common practice after it was popularised in western provinces.

Figure 2.1 ‘Nengón’ tres and bongo ostinato

The few interviews undertaken with early son performers support Orozco’s assertion that son music at the turn of the twentieth century consisted of little more than a short-looped refrain, similar to ‘Nengón’. Miguel Matamoros (1894–1971), for instance, recalled listening to soneros in Santiago in 1905 as a child and fashioning homemade bongo drums out of olive barrels in order to imitate them (Reference MuguerciaMatamoros in Muguercia 1985, 59). He sat outside Black social clubs such as La Chispa de Oro (The Golden Spark) and watched early son bands that played music based on repeated choruses. These groups typically expanded their instrumentation to include multiple string instruments, percussion including maracas or clave, and a bass instrument such as botija (ceramic jug) or marímbula (a large African-derived mbira or thumb piano) performing an off-beat pattern known as anticipated bass (see Reference MooreMoore 2010, 96). The choruses son bands performed included phrases such as ‘La pisé, la pisé, la pisé mamá/Con el pie, con el pie, con el pie, na’ má’ (I stepped on it, stepped on it, stepped on it, honey/With my foot, with my foot, with my foot, nothing more). Matamoros’ recollections underscore the fact that those performing and listening to early son consisted overwhelmingly of poorer Cubans of colour, individuals employed in manual labour jobs (ironing and other domestic work, water-carrying for houses without plumbing, agricultural or factory labour, garbage collection, etc.) and frequently with little formal education. Son as it spread to cities in the early twentieth century tended thus to be associated with marginal neighbourhoods, and also with brothels (Reference MuguerciaMuguercia 1985, 57–64). Elites rejected it for some time because of its humble origins, its associations with prostitution, and because many considered the use of percussion instruments played with the bare hands to be primitive, even atavistic (Reference MooreMoore 1997, 96).

The first generation of soneros to attain broader commercial success in the 1920s did so by combining the early son’s cyclic structure with a verse section influenced by popular songs of the day as found in traditional trova music or Latin American boleros. The writing of songs in verses or in four-line rhymed stanzas has no counterpart in traditional music from sub-Saharan Africa (Reference SubletteSublette 2004, 3345). Compositions like ‘Son de la loma’ (They’re from the Hills, or Son from the Hills), written by Miguel Matamoros in 1922, exemplify this new approach to composition.Footnote ⁷ ‘The Hills’ (la loma) mentioned in the chorus refers to Santiago, and ‘the plains’ (el llano) to Havana, where Matamoros hoped to expand his audience. In addition to making sones more sophisticated in a formal sense by adding strophic verses and other pre-composed sections with relatively complex harmonies, the composer stylised his music in other ways. Matamoros popularised a trio-based version of the son featuring two guitars and maracas, thus distancing the sound from instruments of African origin such as the claves and bongo.Footnote ⁸ He added an instrumental introduction prior to the verse, such as the sixteen-measure melody that begins ‘Son de la loma’. Both the introduction and verse repeat before the chorus begins, and both are heard again following a short instrumental solo. Matamoros’ emphasis on precomposed segments, his decision not to use much percussion, and a foregrounding instead of string instruments and vocal harmonies, undoubtedly contributed to the music’s early acceptance among elites. The changes resulted in a markedly ‘Europeanised’ version of the son on early 78 rpm records.

Similar stylistic experiments can be heard in pieces performed by larger sextets and septets in Havana at approximately the same time, such as Ignacio Piñeiro’s ‘Viva el bongó’ (recorded in 1928), performed by the Septeto Nacional.Footnote ⁹ This composition also features an instrumental introduction with a melody performed by trumpeter Lázaro Herrera, followed by a verse section. Piñeiro’s recording differs in various ways, however, and its overall approach to the interpretation of the son gives a better feel for general trends in composition during the period. Percussion is foregrounded, with the clave and bongo prominent in the group’s overall sound. The bongo player improvises constantly even during the verse and incorporates multiple bramidos (a sound resulting from a friction slide of a finger across the drum head), implicitly referencing music heard in Abakuá and other Afro-Cuban sacred ritual.Footnote ¹⁰ Perhaps most importantly, Piñeiro’s piece begins to accelerate beginning with the transition to the montuno at about 1:50. The clave sense switches orientation from 3–2 to 2–3 (a common practice in rumba), and the tres player begins to play a varied ostinato pattern corresponding to it (Figure 2.2),Footnote ¹¹ supporting the call–response vocals featuring lead singer Juan de la Cruz. The overall feel of the final section of the piece, nearly half of the three-minute recording, is syncopated and improvisational, with varied lead vocals, varied tres patterns, and constant bongó flourishes. The emphasis on the montuno in the song foregrounds its spontaneous, jam-like nature, far different from the style of most pre-composed European-style repertoire of the day. And the layering of vocal lines against the tres melody played by Francisco González presages future developments in son style, with horn arrangements of the 1940s and beyond creating short, repeated melodies performed simultaneously by multiple instrumentalists.

Figure 2.2 Claved tres pattern in 2–3 from the montuno of ‘Viva el bongó’

The early commercial son can be considered a transculturated musical form in various senses, a cultural bridge connecting African- and European-derived aesthetics. Some of the ways such fusion manifests itself have been discussed already, such as (1) the use of instruments derived from Afro-Cuban traditions (the bongo, clave, and maraca) alongside European-derived or -inspired string instruments (tres and guitar); and (2) the fusion of ‘linear’, pre-composed verse sections patterned after European popular song in tandem with open-ended, cyclic ‘jam’ sections more characteristic of traditional sub-Saharan African musical performance (see Reference Locke and Todd TitonLocke 2009 for further discussion of the latter). Beyond instrumentation and form, other areas of cultural fusion include: (3) lyrics, written predominantly in Spanish but with the frequent inclusion of African-derived terms or phrases, such as bilongo, mandinga, iyamba, makongo, chévere, etc (Reference MooreMoore 1997, 94–5, 110; Reference MillerMiller 2000);Footnote ¹² (4) choreography, as dancers perform sones in closed couples inspired by European-influenced society dances such as the waltz, danza, and danzón, yet incorporate much more hip and shoulder movement characteristic of African dance. Son couples often break apart and improvise steps separately in climactic sections (making the dance much more comparable to rumba performance); (5) the creation of vocal and instrumental melodies that correspond rhythmically to African-derived notions of clave or timeline, as in Figure 2.2 (see Reference GarciaGarcia 2006, 44–5 for discussion of claved composition in Arsenio Rodríguez’s music a decade later). This practice essentially re-conceives vocal or instrumental melodies, treating them as if they were a form of percussion and linking them directly to the overall rhythmic groove in the same way. The clave principle prioritises rhythmic relationships between instruments and voices in a manner entirely distinct from European musical practice.

The use of (6) interlocking riffs as an organisational principle in the creation of climactic moments in dance compositions and the layering of distinct melodies, textures, and timbres, represents an overt ‘Africanisation’ of dance music practice as well. The tendency is especially evident in son-influenced mambos of the 1940s and beyond that layer trumpets, trombones, and saxophone melodies against one another on top of a rhythm section vamp, as for instance in the music of Benny Moré’s ‘banda gigante’ (Reference MooreMoore 2006, 44–51). It is also found in the recordings of Arsenio Rodríguez’s ensembles, specifically his diablo horn interludes, often performed as an accompaniment to improvised solos (Reference GarciaGarcia 2006, 50–1). Similar practices can be found even earlier in the guajeos of son-influenced danzónes (Reference Madrid and MooreMadrid and Moore 2013, 66–9). Reference OrtizFernando Ortiz (1981, 140) describes the layered melodic riffs associated with the mambo in the following way: ‘[the mambo] is nothing but an interpenetration of melodic lines. They are harmonised in a weave, composed spontaneously by means of certain rhythms, individually executed by each musician, but with all strands crisscrossed and tied together in the same fabric’.Footnote ¹³ The guajeo, the diablo interlude, and mambo (all variants of the same idea) collectively served as models for moña horn interludes associated with salsa repertoire of the 1960s and beyond.

One might arguably add a final transculturative element to the list associated with sones (and other Afro-Cuban music), one related to Miller’s notion of double performance: (7) the tendency to incorporate coded meanings of various sorts into lyrical or instrumental content. Perhaps because Afro-Cuban culture has roots in religious music and dance that suffered centuries of persecution, or perhaps simply as a means of keeping the meanings of Black culture more exclusive to the Black community itself, performers have long adopted metaphorical or otherwise obscure phrases in their lyrics whose meanings are often apparent only to local audiences. Early sones of the late nineteenth century often used coded language to obscure the meaning of the text, which might refer to the Wars of Independence against Spain (Reference MuguerciaMuguercia 1985, 51), racial violence surrounding the uprising of the Independent Party of Color in June 1912 (Reference SubletteSublette 2004, 318), or any number of other topics. The many Afro-Cuban ritual or slang terms incorporated by composers served a similar purpose. The same can be said of bramidos on the bongo, or of rhythmic phrases on percussion instruments that only practitioners of Afro-diasporic religions would associate with sacred contexts (Reference MooreMoore 2006, 126). A tendency to use dance music as a means of conveying coded messaging continues into more recent times, with the dance repertoire of the 1990s such as the Charanga Habanera’s ‘Mango Verde’ implicitly likening Fidel Castro to a green mango because of the green fatigues he often wore; the lead singer asks when it/he might finally be ripe enough to ‘fall from the tree’.Footnote ¹⁴

Conclusion

Cuban son performance has changed in many respects through the years, though its fundamental stylistic elements coalesced as of the 1930s. This decade witnessed the popularisation of the danzón de nuevo ritmo, a shortened version of the danzón with emphasis on a final, cyclic improvisatory section derived from the son’s montuno. The 1940s saw the rise of the mambo and cha cha chá, as mentioned, both strongly influenced by sones; of Latin jazz that blended elements of son with big-band harmonies and instrumentation, as well as incorporating cáscara patterns from rumba guaguancó in some cases;Footnote ¹⁵ and the conjunto tradition of son performance characterised by extended horn sections and the introduction of the conga drum and piano into the ensemble. By the 1950s, groups such as the Sonora Matancera, Machito and his Afro-Cubans, and the orchestras of Tito Rodríguez and Tito Puente (the latter three in New York) had adopted the timbales as well, creating the basis for the emergent son-based salsa sound of the 1960s and beyond.Footnote ¹⁶ In Havana, the 1970s and 1980s gave rise to various experiments that fused the son with elements of rock, funk, jazz, and local Afro-Cuban drumming as heard in early hits by Irakere (‘Aguanile’ and ‘Por romper el coco’), Los Van Van’s songo genre, and the emergence of timba music as championed by NG La Banda, La Charanga Habanera, and others (Reference MooreMoore 2006, 123 ff.; Perna 2006). Despite the many variants of the son style and countless minor modifications to its standard rhythmic patterns, piano style, bass phrasing, and so on, the overall concept of claved accompaniment on a melodic instrument (piano, tres, etc.) in tandem with an anticipated bass pattern has remained constant, as has the contrast between a verse and montuno and the use of syncopated rhythmic ostinati. Accompanying dance moves, also subject to regional and generational variation (salsa ‘on 1’ or ‘on 2’, rueda de casino choreographies, etc.), have nevertheless remained relatively constant through the years as well.

The phenomenal popularity of the son for nearly a century within Cuba does make one wonder why the population has chosen to structure their musical experience through it for so long. While the question may never be fully resolved, I argue that much of its popularity derives from its hybrid aesthetics that fuse Afro- and Euro-descendant practices, and from its adaptability. Consciously or unconsciously, Cubans have come to identify with cultural forms such as the son that can accommodate European-derived instruments, scales, texts, harmonies, formal structures, and choreographic influences, but that also allow for improvisation, spontaneity, cyclic and open-ended performance, as well as the incorporation of rhythmic and other organisational principles (clave, the use of layered ostinati, call-response singing, etc.) derived from West African sources. This sort of expression effectively represents local sensibilities, though it can manifest itself in markedly different ways according to the demands of the moment. Performers may choose to deemphasise African heritage in their compositions, as in the case of Miguel Matamoros, or foreground Afro-descendant heritage and themes prominently as in the music of Ignacio Piñeiro, Arsenio Rodríguez, or NG La Banda. Son can thus be performed so as to represent particular ethnic segments of the population (especially those involved in more overtly Afro-diasporic styles of music and dance), or to appeal broadly to a diverse listener base.

Returning to the concept of transculturation, I believe that certain aspects of the paradigm are quite helpful when reflecting on the history of Cuban son, especially its rejection of racial purity and its emphasis on constant adaptation and transformation. Ortiz’s concept may also be used productively to analyse particular aspects of change associated with the music, such as the gradual incorporation of conga drums from Afro-Cuban rumba and street carnival bands into danzónes, conjunto-style son, and later salsa music. Yet the term as initially conceived is also decidedly apolitical and fails to draw the analyst’s attention to the human agency involved in musical development, the motivations for it, and its broader significance. This is a potential flaw affecting all literature focussing on change as a category in the abstract. Son must ultimately be understood as an invention of Afro-descendant peoples, a manifestation of their desire to foreground their unique heritage and experience, and to see it accepted by others. In the face of post-colonial policies of ‘abstract inclusion and concrete exclusion’ (Reference García CancliniMartín-Barbero in García Canclini 1995, 147) – that is, a discursive acceptance of racial diversity combined with the social and economic marginalisation of people of colour in practical terms – musical forms such as son represent both a reformulation and a challenge to the existing order. They may be read merely as a manifestation of localness (cubanidad), as everyone’s music. But to practitioners versed in local Afro-diasporic heritage they also represent a form of marronage (Reference Quintero Rivera and BéhagueQuintero Rivera 1994), the subversion of European-derived forms by means of their infusion with new perspectives, cultural codes, and aesthetic frames of understanding.