My favourite coffee shop was inexplicably shut this morning. My normal start prior to the working day involves research or writing about some aspect of Latin music, and a large milky coffee (or Latte to the seriously continental). The significance of coffee, sugar and music isn't lost on me. So this creature of habit had to go off the beaten track to an uncertain alternative around the corner.
Maybe the change of scenery did me good, a different place, a different blend. Just a couple of days ago, I'd settled on how I was going to tell the Puerto Rican story. The direction of approach is easily the most signficant aspect in the telling of a story, and you'd know very quickly if you'd got the right one by how easily things come together (they are). I suspect at least three weeks more work before that section enters the draft revision stage.
I resumed with "my music is my flag". I don't know whether it's because I'm more conversant with sociological perspectives now; or because I'm reading the book, and more carefully, for the second time; but I'm picking up really beautiful ideas and impressions that I didn't get when I first turned its pages more than two years ago. The passage that describes the position in which Puerto Rican musicians found themselves when drafted into the US 15th Infantry was very poignant for me this time around (p.56-64). Ruth Glasser has such a wonderful ability of bringing out the human aspect of the story, a talent uncommon in this arena.
Which brings me to the question: "Does my increased understanding of salsa's history, and empathy with the lives of those who shaped it, improve my salsa?" If so, then in what way?
I know sometimes I can appreciate dancing to and interpreting a song better when I can identify the cultural elements embedded in it, but how should understanding Sissle's reaction to institutionalised racism make me feel about salsa?
I'm blaming the different coffee.
Loo Yen Yeo
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