‘Cocolos Modernos’: Salsa, Reggaetón, and Puerto Rico's Cultural Politics of Blackness

Abstract

I argue that a cultural politics of blackness links salsa and reggaetón. This cultural politics of blackness denotes a particular positioning that not only calls attention to the processes of racial exclusion embedded within Puerto Rico's so-called racial democracy, but also situates the island within the broader African diaspora. Salsa and reggaetón are thus connected through a diasporic cultural politics that centers on blackness. Consequently, while both emerged from various processes of diasporic movement and cultural exchange, we must also take into account the ways that salsa's cultural politics of blackness have informed reggaetón. I discuss the work of musicians Rafael Cortijo, Ismael Rivera, and Tego Calderón to demonstrate the diasporic connections between salsa and reggaetón.

Keywords:

• Salsa
• reggaetón
• blackness
• diaspora
• Puerto Rico
• racial democracy

Acknowledgements

Dr Rivera-Rideau wrote this article while a Postdoctoral Fellow in Latin American and Iberian Studies at the University of Richmond. The author received funding for this research from the Ford Fellowship Program, the Center for Puerto Rican Studies at Hunter College, and the Social Science Research Council.

Notes

[1] The term ‘salsa vieja’ refers to the early style of salsa that included hard-hitting brass, heavy percussion, and many barrio-centric lyrical themes of the 1970s, while ‘salsa romántica’ refers to the more pop-infused salsa beginning in the 1990s. I further describe these divisions later in the paper.

[2] One notable exception is Jennifer Domino Rudolph's (2011) recent discussion of the Los Cocorocos album in her analysis of Don Omar's reggaetón. Jossianna Arroyo (2010) has also described the relationships between bomba, plena, and rap and reggaetón in representations of blackness and Puerto Rican identities. In addition, analyses of salsa and reggaetón as barrio-centric practices are the most likely to also mention the genres’ connections to blackness (see, for example, J. Flores, 2009; R. Rivera, 1997a, 1997b; Santos Febres, 1996b, 1997); however, many of these studies do not examine these genres in relation to one another.

[3] Here I do not mean to suggest that reggaetón and salsa are exclusively Puerto Rican phenomena, nor that Puerto Ricans are the only people who have contributed to their development. Rather, my point is that while both salsa and reggaetón emerged from a variety of migrations and cultural exchanges throughout the Americas, they have been appropriated as symbols of Puerto Rican national identities (J. Flores, 2009; Aparicio, 1998; Lebrón, 2011; Negrón-Muntaner & R. Rivera, 2007). As Marisol Lebrón (2011) notes, narratives that present reggaetón (and, I would argue, salsa) as exclusively Puerto Rican neglect the complex histories of cultural exchange across Caribbean communities that have produced reggaetón and salsa. For more information about these histories, see essays by Marisol Berríos-Miranda (2002), Peter Manuel (1991), Wayne Marshall (2009), and Wayne Marshall et al. (2009).

[4] As with many Latin American countries, Puerto Rico relies on the idea of ‘racial democracy’ as the crux of the island's identity. Despite racial democracy's rhetoric that presents the island as racially mixed with European, African, and indigenous ancestors, ‘Hispanic’ – or Spanish – culture tends to be privileged in the definition of Puerto Rican identity (see, for example, Arroyo, 2010; Zenón Cruz, 1974; Godreau, 1999, 2008; González, 1993; Jiménez Román, 1996; P. Rivera, 2010; Torres, 1998). Within this context, the African element of Puerto Rican race mixture is often depicted as the ‘least’ influential aspect of Puerto Rican culture. Therefore, considering salsa and reggaetón exclusively as ‘national’ musical practices in Puerto Rico may follow the logic of racial democracy discourse by de-emphasizing their African diasporic connections.

[5] Dominant constructions of US Latina/o identity have often defined it as an intermediary category within the rigid black/white racial binary of the United States, in part because of the perception that Latina/os are racially mixed while US Americans are supposedly not (as if the United States did not have its own long history of race mixture) (Dávila, 2008; Jiménez Román, 2005). As a result, Latinidad and blackness are seen as fundamentally different in the US context (Jiménez Román & J. Flores, 2010). The music industry replicates these distinctions, portraying Latin music as more ‘hybrid’ than styles associated with other racial groups such as African Americans (Pacini Hernandez, 2010, pp. 5–6). As a result, definitions of salsa and reggaetón as ‘pan-Latina/o’ also may occlude their relationships to the African diaspora.

[6] It is important to underscore that this process does not mean that divisions between blackness and Latinidad are obsolete; rather, these affinities across communities develop in spite of such strict definitions of racial categories, and, at times, rifts between Puerto Rican and African American communities (see, for example, R. Rivera, 2003, pp. 32–34; Jiménez Román & J. Flores, 2010; J. Flores, 2000).

[7] Jorge Giovannetti (2003) observed similar race and class divisions between reggae fans, which tended to be upper-class whites, and rap fans, who were analogous to cocolos, in the 1990s.

[8] Several scholars have critiqued this argument. Keith Negus (1999) argues that such a linear narrative ignores how salsa incorporates diverse experiences and cultural practices. Frances Aparicio (2002) also notes that such arguments discount the ways that women relate to salsa romántica, sometimes in a ‘politicized’ way that counters the hypermasculinity of salsa and even society more generally.

[9] It is worth mentioning that dancehall and reggae en español also incorporate musical practices from other diasporic sites to respond to local experiences of racism and classism. For example, dancehall emerged in part as a response to the elitist construction of a ‘creolized’ Jamaican identity that discounted the cultural experiences of disenfranchised working-class, black communities both on the island and in migrant communities (see, for example, Stolzoff, 2000; Thomas, 2004). Panamanian reggae en español also integrated musical influences from African diasporic communities in the United States and the Caribbean to create a new sound that related to the experiences of urban Afro-Panamanian youth, many of whom were descendants of West Indian migrants to Panama (see, for example, Nwankwo, 2009; Twickel, 2009).

[10] It is important to note that the same musical aesthetics do not necessarily inform salsa and reggaetón. Indeed, some might argue that reggaetón, particularly in its early years, draws more musical influence from dancehall or hip hop than salsa. On the other hand, some would say that salsa and reggaetón share underlying rhythmic structures, especially the clave, and similar lyrical traditions such as boasting or ‘tiraera’ (Sosa, 2008).

[11] Here I do not mean to suggest that salsa and reggaetón always embrace a progressive stance towards blackness. Indeed, like most cultural practices, salsa and reggaetón represent what George Lipsitz (1994) has termed a ‘dangerous crossroad’ that might resist certain structures of power while simultaneously being subject to the problematic and often contradictory effects of market pressures and commercialization (see also Hall, 1996b). What I emphasize here is the notion of a cultural positioning that opens up possibilities for salsa and reggaetón to serve as potential spaces to counter the ‘Hispanic’ emphasis in the constructions of both Puerto Rican and pan-Latina/o identities.

[12] Historically called Cangrejos until 1880, Santurce was home to many free blacks from the 1600s until the abolition of slavery in 1873. While some of these people came from Puerto Rico, others came from elsewhere in the Caribbean including the Virgin Islands, Guadeloupe, and Martinique. Santurce was therefore the site of many processes of diasporic exchange among different Afro-Caribbean populations. For more information about Santurce, see the work by Marisol Berríos-Miranda and Shannon Dudley (2008).

[13] Some have criticized ‘El negro bembón’ for reaffirming stereotypes of blackness since the term ‘bembón’ often carries with it negative connotations that devalue blackness (see, for example, Ortiz Garcia, 2006, pp. 222–223). I argue, however, that this particular song actually critiques this image by presenting the violent effects of this stereotype on black communities. Ultimately, the debates about the use of the term ‘bembón’ in the song is but another example of the complexities and inconsistencies that occur in popular culture more generally, particularly the ways that popular culture might simultaneously perpetuate and discredit the same stereotypes (Hall, 1996b; Lipsitz, 1994).

[14] ‘Las caras lindas’’ status as an anthem of sorts is evidenced by the fact that several other artists, including Afro-Cuban salsa singer Celia Cruz and Afro-Peruvian performer Susana Baca, have since recorded the song.

[15] All translations from Spanish are the author's own.

[16] While Tego Calderón describes a local ‘survey,’ I assume he refers to the 2000 US Census in which 80 percent of Puerto Ricans identified themselves as ‘white.’

[17] See www.newyorkpost.com.