©2005 by Frances E. Marion

First, the sticks clap out a slow, even pulse. Next, the maracas enter, timidly at first. The keyboard comes in with a gentle, repetitious melody. Then, with the entrance of the hand drums, the tune erupts into a vibrant, colorful celebration. All of the instruments combine and, rather than blending, they fit together like pieces to a puzzle. This is salsa, the music, the dance, and the language of working-class Latinos of the urban East Coast of the United States. For the residents of urban barrios, salsa is much more than an art form. In salsa music, the oppressed, marginalized community hears its story in the lyrics, sees its tensions melt away in the bodies of the dancers, and feels a powerful connection to those who also see themselves reflected in the music. This intense emotional and political response cannot be seen in every form of music.

What is it that makes salsa so unique? By examining musicians, dancers, and audience members, we see the connection between the clave of the song and the beat of their own hearts. Salsa tells the story of the ordinary people, their daily toils, social status, cultural roots. In addition to providing entertainment, salsa has created a social space for the working Latino and his or her role in American society. Lyrics speak of relationships between men and women, rich and poor, old and young. To begin to understand the people, one must first understand the song, the beat, lasalsa.

Salsa has always been music for the working classes. In Puerto Rico, musical forms called the danza and the plena have influenced its evolution. These two variations are heavy with racial and class significance. In Puerto Rico, la plena has been identified with the poor, working-class, black, and mixed-race Islanders. Traditionally the upper and middle classes have rejected it as an inferior form of art. The danza evolved from a European country dance and blended with Caribbean influences to form what became the national music of Puerto Rico.1 This musical genre represents everything white, aristocratic, and proper. The plena, in contrast, is the music of la gente, the music of the working-class Puerto Rican. Afro-Puerto Rican dance and song has long been marginalized, however, because of the racism towards people of color on the Island. The plena and the danza have been pitted against each other in a black versus white, pure versus sinful comparison. The Eurocentric danza has been characterized as a “white lady” and the plena as the “black whore.”2

As the urban areas of Puerto Rico grew, the plena became a strong cultural tie for the poorer communities. The plena narrates history from the point of view of el pueblo, the people. Songs serve as critiques of the inequality in the community, using humor, satire, and bold language to express social unrest. Salsa music historically has served as a tool for the working class to use against hegemony in their lives.

Music continued to hold important meaning for the urban classes as Puerto Ricans moved to cities in the United States. With influences from all types of Latin music, what we now call salsa emerged from the barrios of New York City in the 1960s.3 The barrios were home to cubanos, dominicanos, venezolanos, chicanos, and people from all over the Caribbean. Latinos bonded in the face of the oppression they felt as minorities. Though they faced discrimination outside, the barrio was a refuge, a place where they had power and control over their own lives. As Willie Colón told Leonardo Padura Fuentes in an interview, “En los barrios se desarrolla una formación social que es la expresión de un pedacito de la patria de cada emigrado, y en ese medio se da un valor a lo latinoamericano como algo importante, sin lo que no se puede o no se quiere vivir” (a social formation develops in the barrios that is the expression of a small piece of the homeland of each immigrant, and in this way Latin American culture is given value as something important, without which one could not or would not want to live.)4

Music was something immigrants could bring with them to the U.S. and thus own. Latinos resisted assimilating to many parts of American society, and most refused to abandon their music. With strong influences from Cuba, Colombia, Venezuela, the Dominican Republic, and Panama, salsa provided the expression and the foundation of a new cultural identity. It has been shaped and molded by Cuban dances like the guaracha and the rumba, African musical folklore of Puerto Rico like the bomba and the plena, and also African American jazz.5 With all of these various forms, salsa has served as a uniting force for a pan-Latin American music.6 A key component to salsa as a unique musical experience is its constant loyalty to the working poor and the oppressed.

Salsa is a free and spontaneous art form that can function as an escape from the daily toils of life. An ordinary day in New York in the 1960s would witness a group of musicians jamming to the hottest salsa rhythms as the poor of the barrio gathered around and danced in the streets. Men and women, niños and viejos alike, would be out there moving their hips and shaking their bodies to the music. These impromptu gatherings brought the neighborhood together to take a break from residents’ busy lives and allowed them to celebrate their culture. The performers improvised and played off of each other, making a song different each time it was played. The call-and-response used in many songs reflects salsa’s African roots. As the lead singer belts a refrain, the chorus and audience echo it back, making it a collective song.

Where there is live music, you can be sure to find lively dancing. A collection of photographs taken at the 2004 United States Dance Sport Championships in Miami illustrates the fire of Latin dancing. In some pictures the dancers’ bodies are taut with precision, while in others they look as flexible as flan. The women’s costumes flash bright reds, oranges, and blues. Dramatic eye makeup and deep shades of lipstick, sequined dresses and lofty heels, bronzed shoulders and toned legs—the dancers are simply captivating.7

The national competitions draw some of the most talented dancers in the country, but if you want to see authentic salsa dancing at its finest, an urban club can showcase similar skill. Pictures taken at The Times bar in Minneapolis give a glimpse into the nightclub dancing scene. A small band with a stunning female vocalist holds the stage while local partygoers fly across the floor, in couples and dancing solo. The faces of the musicians are covered in beads of sweat—a testament to their hard work and the energy they are expending. High heels and bright skirts swirl around men in collared shirts. You can almost feel the heat radiating off of their bodies and hear the scuffs of their shoes against the floor. They are doing more than just executing dance steps, they are embodying the spirit of salsa.8

Latin dance and Latin music are closely linked with sexuality. Much of this can be attributed to lyrics, many of which, as in other genres, are of love and desire. Unfortunately, the way these feelings are articulated in lyrics has historically objectified and over-sexualized women. Phallocentric language reduces the female characters to objects of desire for men; men look at and make “cat calls” to such women. Women are described in relation to their skin color, with black and mixed-race women frequently depicted as promiscuous putas. The descriptions of darker women as wild and savage date back to slavery images.9 The intertwined racism and misogyny are twice as harmful to women of color.

In fact, one of salsa’s only true female stars was a Cuban woman of color named Celia Cruz, nicknamed the “Queen of Salsa.” Willie Colón referred to Cruz as “el modelo vivo de aquella grandeza que venía de Cuba” (the living model of that greatness that came from Cuba).10 Cruz sang of the African roots of salsa music, as well as of her idea of a respectful man.11 In a male-dominated industry where women were not considered to be “star material,” Cruz carved a space for herself among the other salsa royalty such as Tito Puente, Johnny Pacheco, and Rubén Blades.

Another successful female star was a young New York Puerto Rican woman known as La India. La India was a rising salsa star at the time that Cruz was reigning as Queen. Cruz became a mentor, giving her advice and eventually performing with her. Rumors spread that La India was going to replace Cruz as the Queen of Salsa, but Cruz is anything but replaceable, and La India had her own “flavor” to add to salsa .12

Sexual expression, cultural identity, musical innovation, dance—all contribute to salsa. But the question persists, what is salsa? When asked this very question, salsa hero Willie Colón replied, “la salsa es una idea, un concepto, un resultado y un modo de asumir la música desde la perspectiva de la cultura latinoamericana” (salsa is an idea, a concept, a result and a way to take on music from the perspective of Latin American culture).13 Legend Johnny Pacheco calls it “un movimiento musical caribeño” (a Caribbean musical movement).14 In her autobiography, Celia Cruz explains her opinion on how the term salsa came about. Cuban music was losing favor among young Hispanics as they assimilated and started listening to American pop and rock and roll music. Opinions differ on where the actual name “salsa” came from, but Cruz insists that it was from a radio program called La Hora de la Salsa. She places no importance on the term, saying that it was “just a marketing term applied to what originally was Cuban music.”15 The marketing did the trick, and what came to be known as the birth of salsa was really just a revival of interest in Latin music.

What distinguishes salsa from other Latin music is its diversity—the diversity of cultural influences, performers, and personal interpretation. From the barrios of New York to Celia Cruz concerts in Japan, salsa has captured the hearts of millions. It is now enjoyed by audiences of all colors and classes; however, this was not always true. What was once rejected by the upper classes became a unifying force. Salsa in the United States has united performers of all Latin and Afro-Caribbean backgrounds. Second and third generation U.S. Latina/os are identifying with the same type of music as their elders. People of every ethnic group are either showing off their moves on the dance floor or wishing they could. Salsa has been a shot in the arm to Latin music in America.

The faces of salsa will always be remembered each in their own way. Celia Cruz, the “Queen of Salsa,” will live on through her collection of over eighty awards and honors.16 Tito Puente will be regarded consistently as a brilliant salsa musician, regardless of his disdain for the term. More important, the salseros and salseras of the street and the music lovers from the working class will be credited for salsa’s success. For without the immigrants from Central and South America and the Caribbean who brought their passion for Latin music with them, there would be no such thing as salsa. More than just a genre of music, salsa is a way of walking, speaking and eating. Salsa is a dance, a song, and a lifestyle. La salsa is an imagined Latin world realized through music and dance.

1. Frances R. Aparicio, Listening to Salsa: Gender, Latin Popular Music, and Puerto Rican Cultures (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press/University Press of New England, 1998), 8.
2. Ibid., 8.
3. Ibid., 79.
4. Leonardo Padura Fuentes, Los Rostros de la Salsa: Entrevistas con las principales figuras musicales del Caribe (Colonia del Valle, México, D.F.: Editorial Planeta Mexicana, 1999). Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own.
5. Aparicio, Listening to Salsa, 81.
6. Jeremy Marre, Salsa: Latin Music of New York and Puerto Rico (Newton, NJ: Harcourt Films, 1998).
7. Kathy Howell, Personal Collection, Miami, FL, 2004.
8. De La Riva Family Collection, Minneapolis, MN, 2004.
9. Aparicio, Listening to Salsa, 149.
10. Ibid., 149.
11. Marre, Salsa: Latin Music of New York and Puerto Rico.
12. Cruz and Reymundo, Celia: My Life ( New York: Rayo, 2004).
13. Fuentes, Los Rostros de la Salsa, 52.
14. Ibid., 52.
15. Cruz and Reymundo, Celia: My Life, 172.
16. Cruz and Reymundo, Celia: My Life, 252.

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