As the nebulous horizon between the darkening sea and the evening sky blurs to gray across the harbor, the soft rhythms of danzón, like a sepia memory of old Havana, float across the city on a warm, salt breeze and the ghosts of 500 years emerge to wander the streets of Veracruz and dance on the zócalo.
Danzón is genteel, sensuous, precise, romantic, the mischievous love child of European, African and Haitian influences - a castaway from pre–revolutionary Cuba, where it has since faded into memory. But here it is as vibrant as ever as the band strikes up the famous “Nereidas” and couples take to their feet, dipping and swirling like a flotilla catching the wind.
Since the arrival of Hernán Cortés in 1519, every ship that’s dropped anchor in the harbor has brought its music to these shores; Spanish caravels and Portugese carracks, merchant ships from the colonies in central and south America, Manila galleons from the Philippines and the far east, slave ships from Africa and the Caribbean.
Salsa, cumbia, samba, jazz, danzón, fandango, merengue, and zapateado caress the crowds as they emerge from the cafes and cantinas and weave along the portales that line the main square. Music is the pulse of life here. There’s a hunger for it, a deep–rooted impulse that embraces every musical influence to ever let down anchor in the port. The eroticism of Havana entwines itself around the soulful nostalgia of Buenos Aires; the muscular limp of Jamaica connects with the deep rhythms of the Congo.
The music, like much of the city, has not yet received the text message that the twenty first century has arrived. Indeed they have not received the message about the twentieth century. Veracruz is a time capsule – one hour by air and two hundred years in time from Mexico City, it exhales the mystery and romance of another age.
Grand memories are what remain of 18th and 19th century buildings that line the streets of Veracruz Heroica, their carved moldings and balconies crumbling, louvered shutters hanging by a nail. Some have been gleamingly restored, others are frail, stripped of paint, their decaying facades crumbling, their sagging bones laid bare, leaning one against another like exhausted refugees from The Time Before. They breathe the weariness of history and neglect, whispering; "The present decays, the past remains". It was the same whisper told about the music, the same secret whispered between lovers.
Son Jarocho is the essence of Veracruz, and the danzón is a nightly celebration dressed up in organza ruffles and Spanish lace, crisp white guayaberas, and handkerchieves that flutter from silver-buttoned pockets to dab discretely at a glistening brow, set against the backdrop of a faded photograph.
Nearly every night as the town clock chimes the hour - a tune by Agustín Lara, Mexico’s most famous composer and lyricist - it is the cue for the city dance band, thirty men strong, to mount the wooden stage under the palm trees and for crisply turned-out jarochos - as locals call themselves - to take to the dance floor.
This is the moment everyone waits for. You come home from work, get dressed, get perfumed for an hour of danzón in the square. It’s the most joyful part of the day.
Son jarocho is not widely known outside Veracruz, but there is one song with a very long history that continues to resonate. It's a folk song said to have originated from enslaved west Africans who had been brought over by Spanish colonists but escaped into the mountains and lived there with indigenous people. As the story goes it's a reference to something called "umbamba," from Africa. It was a beat, it was a sound, a rhythm of life like so many others around the world, that landed on the shores of Veracruz;
"La Bamba", a wedding song, is among the best known jarocho songs inside and outside Mexico.
Richie Valens, was just a 17 year old kid from the San Fernando Valley, when in 1958 he took this old working-class Mexican folk song (huapango) and put it to a rock ‘n roll beat. It was released on the B side of Richie Valen’s 45rpm recording of “Donna” because, as his producer said, “It was all in Spanish so probably no one would listen to it."
It was a shot across the bow of a white-dominated music culture, and it spread like wildfire. La Bamba was the first Spanish song to reach #1 in the United States, and it is the only non-English song on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest songs of all time.
“Para bailar la bamba, se necesita una poca de gracia…”
“To dance the bamba, you need just a little bit of grace.”
Or if you prefer the Cuban lyrics;
“Para bailar el son, hay que llevarlo en el corazon...”
“To dance the son, you have to carry it in your heart."
Bill Sheehan
Veracruz, Mexico, January 2024