NY’s Mambo King
I don’t think I’ll ever remember the first time I heard a mambo, because they were part of everything I heard from a very young age. It was always in the air, the neighborhood blasted it, and my mother always had it playing on the radio. I remember she had a small photo of Perez Prado next to the telephone on the wall, and I thought he was a family member. It was only years later when I realized it was cut out of a magazine. Like anything else in childhood, these memories and moments all kind of rush together and then pull apart in slow and complicated directions. Like salt water taffy, once it’s been mixed into the well of history, it doesn’t come apart very easily.
And maybe I don’t need to pinpoint memories exactly. I like to think I have the possibility to remember today; that is, to remember the events that happen today, and in the correct order. But that’s also a bit of a dream. Memory is strange. I can say that I remember the first time I found the link www.newyorkairporthotel.com, but I’m sure I have the year wrong. In my mind, though, it has to be 2005, because that’s the year I remember that Tito Puente died. I remember very clearly that I was sitting in the hotel bar, and I was talking to a woman who was close to my age, and had some of the same memories that I did.
When we both heard the news, we spent the rest of the evening consoling each other. Of course, this was a kind of tribute to Puente, and he would have liked it that way. He’d also be pleased to know that we listened to his music all night, and that we swore we’d keep in touch. It’s a way that I will remember him that I am sure I will never forget, and I hope to pass on to the next generation my love for this musical genius. I do remember him. But unfortunately, I’ve learned that he died in the year 2000, and not 2005, and so I don’t really know what we were mourning that particular night, and in the end, it might not matter so much.
No related posts.