Some of the celebrated bandleader-singer combos in Latin music historical past, Willie Colón and Héctor Lavoe represented uniquely complementary halves of a partnership that revolutionized the salsa motion. Born and raised within the Bronx and nicknamed “El Malo” (“The Bad Guy”), Colón was the barrio-savvy Nuyorican with the uncooked trombone tone to match; the Puerto Rico-born Lavoe (whose adopted stage surname translated to “The Voice”) embodied the essence of jibaro, the agricultural populace synonymous with the center of the island, by his soulful, spirited phrasing, improvisational wit, and humor. Collectively, by a sequence of impeccable late ’60s/early ’70s albums, they merged mastery of conventional Afro-Cuban kinds with a shrewdly marketed unhealthy boy picture (posing as Wild West financial institution robbers, Godfather gangsters, and FBI “Wanted” outlaws on their iconic, Izzy Sanabria-designed LP covers) that visually captured their shared charisma and helped catapult them to stardom.
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By 1973, nevertheless, the duo’s relationship had deteriorated below the burden of success’s trappings – particularly Lavoe’s hard-partying way of life and slide into heroin dependancy, leading to his ordinary lateness (or flat-out absence) for performances. So if the undercurrent of Lo Mato (Si No Compra Este LP) (“I’ll kill him if you don’t buy this LP”) is understandably brooding (from the gallows humor of its title and canopy paintings to the sobering tone of its centerpiece compositions) the standard sustained by all is all of the extra spectacular.
Written by Colón with unmistakably cautionary subtext, fueled by a profoundly hook-y Joe Torres piano line, and delivered by Lavoe with all of his anticipated sway, “Calle Luna Calle Sol” actually and metaphorically describes the approaching menace of treading down a harmful road notorious for sparing no sufferer. “Todo Tiene Su Final” sees Colón’s lyrics lamenting life’s impermanence (“Todo tiene su final/ Nada dura para siempre/ Tenemos que recordar/ Que no existe eternidad”: “Everything has its end/ Nothing lasts forever/ We have to remember/ That eternity doesn’t exist”) whereas Torres unleashes an impressed solo and Lavoe’s at all times compelling adlibs chunk with true life edge (“Haz como yo nunca eche pa tras”: “Do as I do and never look back”). Much more private is the Lavoe co-composed “El Dia de Mi Suerte” (“The Day of My Fate”). Over a bomba rhythm, with Colon’s trombone mournfully inversing the signature riff of the group’s basic “La Murga,” Hector recollects the deaths of his dad and mom, his wrestle to take care of optimism, and contemplates when his luck will change.
Balancing the prevailing heaviness is the truth that Colón’s band continues to be as musically daring, dance flooring pleasant, and creatively potent as ever. “Junio 73” showcases Colón and Eric Matos’s ecstatic dueling trombones, “Guajira Ven” finds the ensemble blissfully extolling Puerto Rico’s pure magnificence, and “La Maria” provides an infectious Brazilian samba to their bag of musical tips. Upon its launch, Lo Mato was embraced as yet one more basic. However its progressions foretold Colón’s subsequent path: riskier, extra substantial, and topical in theme, and inevitably requiring a associate equally targeted and dedicated to this progress. Inside a yr, he would announce the disbandment of this longtime group (although he and Lavoe would proceed to collaborate as producer and artist). Lo Mato is that uncommon swan track: an acknowledgment of impending dissolution nonetheless ample with vitality and life.
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