Sometimes, the only thing you can do is shake your head and laugh …
That's how Bobby Allende felt one day, not long ago, when he stumbled across a familiar video on VH1.
"When I was a kid, one of my favorite songs was 'Me And Julio Down By The Schoolyard,'" he says. "I knew it inside out. So here I am, watching the TV, and I see myself on the screen. I'm doing a show with Paul Simon. And he's singing 'Me And Julio …'"
And now the head shake. "Man, I never thought I would be playing the tune I loved most with the artist that did it. I still think I'm dreaming sometimes."
Dreams – or, depending on how you look at it, real life – got stranger still for Allende just a few months ago. He is no stranger to fame: in fact, when he was nine years old he was performing on national television with Buddy Rich. But even when you're one of the top congueros in the business, with a rsum that includes Rubn Blades, David Byrne, J-Lo, and Cyndi Lauper, things can still catch you by surprise.
Like that phone call that led to an offer to take the most coveted conga gig on the planet – with Santana.
As of April this year, Allende has been locked with drummer Dennis Chambers and timbalero Karl Perazzo into a fearsome rhythm section. They didn't record together, but from their first gig in Puerto Rico just a week after their initial rehearsal, and through shows in Panama, Mexico, Costa Rica, San Salvador, and on to their summer swing through the States and Japan, they've broadened their range and tightened their groove. And with Carlos Santana encouraging them to push past whatever impossible levels of excellence they'd achieved the night before, there seems to be no limit on where they can ride with this rhythm.
The fact is that working with Santana was never even an option in Allende's dream catalog. "Never, ever, ever," Allende chuckles. "Getting this gig is one of those things that words can't describe, but I thank God for it every day. I am truly blessed."
Born To Drum. Yet to those who knew Allende back when he was growing up on the Upper West Side in Manhattan, this was a matter of destiny all along. As soon as he was old enough to grab things and bash them against other things, he was making it clear to everyone within earshot that he was already a percussionist at heart. "My brother Tito and I kept crawling under the sink and banging on pots," he says, "or banging the forks and spoons at the dinner table. Somebody would hit me upside the head: 'Stop making all that noise!' But after a while my uncles took it upon themselves to start teaching us."
Given the size of Allende's family – he is one of seven children, with three brothers and three sisters – it's surprising that anybody could notice anything unusual going on. But Angel and Papiro were no ordinary relatives. Each was an accomplished percussionist: Angel played in pretty much every style, recording and playing with legends like Louis Armstrong, Harry Belafonte, and Stevie Wonder. Papiro stayed more within the Latin market, where he earned his reputation through gigs with Tito Puente, Charlie Palmieri, and other headliners.
Both would drop by Bobby and Tito's place to play records, teach fundamentals, and otherwise usher their nephews into the rhythm world. "And they took us out to the streets," he recalls. "Back then, Central Park was the place to be on Sundays, to learn rumba and rhythms of that nature. Everybody who was anybody in New York would take their drums to the fountain and play all day. My mother would wake us up and get us ready. She'd bang on the door: 'Get up! It's time to go!' She'd pack bags of beans and chicken and salad. We'd get on the subway, and from 10:00 or 11:00 in the morning until maybe 6:00 in the evening we'd be at Central Park. For us, it was like going to church."
Allende heard and saw a lot and absorbed it all. Not all the lessons offered there were about music, though. "It helped me in the sense that I could see what drugs had done to some of the people there," he says. "I thank God now that I had a choice, because there aren't many people in the world who did. I can't even tell you now how it feels to practice or play when I'm high because I've never experienced that. All I can tell you is that I love how I feel."
Even more important than rhythm patterns, drum position, and how to produce a great sound, Angel and Papiro imparted information to Allende that guides him to this day, in and beyond the music itself. "They taught me respect," he insists. "By that I mean respect for each other, for the instrument, for the tradition. That is still the most important thing in music. You can't learn that in a classroom."
Allende learned these basics on a couple of cheap congas that his parents had picked up for him from a pawnshop. Their sound fell short even of his young expectations – after all, there was plenty of upscale, pro-quality percussion to ogle at Central Park – but it was good enough to provide a gateway into the music that was a part of his family and their neighborhood. "My uncles and my mother and my aunt are all palladium dancers," he explains, "so everyone at home had clav; it was natural. And there was music everywhere in the streets too. There was a beautiful courtyard down the block from where I lived, and as I was growing up the Jazzmobile would come around on Riverside Drive at Amsterdam Avenue. You could hear people like Mongo Santamaria, Tito Puente, and a lot of the jazz greats play as the evening came."
The Jazzmobile, a jazz education project conceived by pianist and educator Billy Taylor, was based on the idea of bringing music into neighborhoods, where it could be heard as a part of life rather than as something to be isolated in concert halls or nightclubs. It was, in this sense, a product of an era that in retrospect seems less fractious and divided, whether by niche marketing or hostilities between different cultures. "What I remember was how everyone got along so well as they listened to this music," Allende says. "Music brought people together."
This same spirit applied to his progress as a musician. "The point is that music, back in that era, was music," he explains. "I got to see the best of the best. That's an education you couldn't pay for nowadays. But that's how I learned – by watching, being observant, and then coming home to practice. If I had any doubts, I'd ask questions. It wasn't like, 'Here's this book on how to play. Read it.' It was more about being curious. Don't be obnoxious about it, but don't be afraid to ask: 'How do you do this?
Why do you do this? Where does it come from?'"
Rubbing Elbows. Maybe some of that has to do with the fact that Allende was so young – too young, really, to learn through your typical instructional routines. However it happened, though, he was wailing on skins by the time he was in kindergarten. And through Angel's and Papiro's connections, he hooked up early on with artists who had reached the top tiers of their game – even though to Allende, they were simply guys who played with his uncles.
Buddy Rich, for instance. Allende was maybe eight years old when Angel introduced him to the jazz drumming icon. "You hear all these stories about Buddy Rich, but my experience was that Buddy Rich and I took a liking to each other," Allende says. "We would always be joking around. As soon as I walked into the room, he'd jump up in front of me in this karate stance and start swinging at me and allowing me to swing back at him."
They played together a couple of times too. Allende remembers sitting in with the band at Rich's nightclub. More vivid, though, are memories of their appearance on
The Mike Douglas Show. "I remember my brother Tito and me riding in the limousine all the way to Philadelphia," he says. "I got to meet George Kirby there and joke around with Freddie Prinze. And we had these custom-made outfits on, with rhinestones. It was like we were movie stars. I feel terrible, actually, that I never saw Buddy in the later years. It would have been great so get back together with him and reminisce."
A year or so after meeting Buddy Rich, Allende got to know Tito Puente through his other uncle, Papiro. "I remember seeing him play and noticing how much the people in his audience enjoyed what was going on," he says. "To see him leading that band and entertaining everyone with his playing and his charisma and his clowning ways, that motivated me to want to do the same thing. To this day, I love to entertain. It gives me a lot of joy when people enjoy what I do."
Allende would share the stage with Puente for a number of years, as a member of the Rumberito All Stars, a group of young Latin musicians who became the timbalero's regular opening act. Their story traces back to the day that Allende and a friend, future Allman Brothers percussionist Marc Quiones, sat in on a Puente show at Roberto Clemente State Park, just off the Harlem River in the Bronx. With guidance from Puente and Papiro, the All Stars took shape around Quiones and Allende, who remembers their friendly competitiveness fondly. "Playing with Marc was like coming to a gang fight," he laughs. "At first we'd give each other that initial look – and here we are, 30 years later, and there's not a day that goes by without us speaking to each other. He's like my brother."
There were other talented young players among the All Stars. Jose "Juicy" Jusino, who would later perform with La India, Celia Cruz, and other major artists, is an alumnus. Others were less fortunate. "There was this kid named Harry," Allende remembers. "He was an excellent player, with an incredible sound and a great mind for the rumba. When he played, it was like, 'Where does he get these ideas?' He could have gone really far but he got lost to the streets."
While they were all young and strong, through, the Rumberitos tore it up. Allende was just nine or ten when they played their first official gig – at Madison Square Garden, no less, before 20,000 screaming fans on a bill headlined by Puente and Julio Iglesias. More work filled the years that followed. They played nightspots like Ipanema and the Colgate Gardens. Occasionally they were booked at uptown venues, such as Avery Fischer Hall. But Allende has never forgotten those fiery sets at the Corso, on 86th Street and 8th Avenue, where Puente packed the place each Wednesday night.
"It was like Birdland or the Cotton Club, because only the best of the best played there," he says. "I stood in front of the stage and heard all these people I idolized, from all over the world. I'd just soak it all in. Then we'd go on at maybe 1:15 in the morning – and I had to go to school the next day. We'd just sleep on the tables in the club until it was our turn to play."
A Fate Cast In Stone. The clock ticked slowly through Allende's high school years. It was obvious to everyone that he was waiting for the day when he could break out of his classroom routine, or what was left of it, and commit full-time to music. And opportunity wasn't just knocking at the time; it was pounding impatiently at the door, demanding that he come out and
play. He made it practically to the end, through almost all of twelfth grade, but shortly before earning his last credits for graduation Allende decided he couldn't wait any more. "I didn't get my diploma," he shrugs. "I was so busy with local gigs that I didn't even think about how much you need school. Nowadays, I enforce that attitude with my children. I just wish I had stuck with it a little longer myself."
Drums: Pearl Bobby Allende Signature Fiberglass Congas
1. 12.5" x 28" Tumba
2. 11.75" x 28" CongaOn leaving school Allende got a day job in a Wall Street mailroom. His nights were devoted to gigs – long, late gigs that left him bleary and ill prepared for the early morning time clock. During his first week playing congas with Santiago Ceron's band he played nine full shows: "When I came to that last one I was in a lot of pain, and my fingers were so taped up that I couldn't hardly get a sound out of the drum. The thing is, I wanted to impress the older cats. I didn't want to let them down, so I played the hardest I could. And by the end of the week, I was hurting bad. It was," he concludes, with a smile, "wonderful."
Wonderful, that is, because it worked. The elders in New York's Latin music community took notice of the young conga wizard. "I got involved with a bunch of these guys and started picking their brains," he says. "I would hang out with Eddie Montalvo, who was my idol. And he'd say to me, 'Bobby, I got a recording today with Hector Lavoe. You want to come along?' I'd sit in the booth, watch the recording, and then ask Eddie all about it. And when he played live, I'd stand right in front and watch him. Eddie was totally entertaining. And he knew how to slap the drums and make it sound like a gunshot. From watching him and asking him questions, I learned that the drum is something you dominate. You don't let it dominate you. You work to find that 'sweet spot' to get your sound. You work on the form of your hand, building calluses. And you don't over-kill yourself; you just practice easily and it comes. Every time I speak with Eddie today, I remind him of how much an idol he still is. Of course, he just brushes me off and changes the subject – but I keep saying it anyway because I like to see him blush."
Big Breaks. Then, at age 17 or 18, Allende got an offer he simply could not turn down. "I was playing at the Copacabana, back when it was on 51st Street," he says. "We were downstairs, and somebody came in and told me that Ralph Irizarry was looking for me. So I went upstairs, and Ralph says, 'What are you doing this week? Rubn Blades needs a conga player to play with us in Paris and Switzerland. I recommended you.' I was like, 'You don't have to ask me twice. When is the trip?' He says, 'In two days.'"
Somehow he got a passport in time to make the flight to Europe. That marked the beginning of eight years with Blades, whose band at the time included Irizarry, keyboardist Oscar Hernandez, drummer Robby Ameen. But this was just the beginning: the run with Blades put him in place for other high-profile positions, including music director for Willie Coln, Marc Anthony, and La India, and on percussion for the Broadway production of Paul Simon's musical,
The Capeman.He's still involved in assorted musical projects, including an ongoing association with the 16-piece Spanish Harlem Orchestra and as music director for Tito Nieves. But, of course, the opportunity to play with Santana turned his life around. They'd actually played together as far back as 1986, when the guitarist and Rubn Blades shared the stage at the Amnesty International Festival. It took 20 years, though, for the offer for a full-time gig to arrive. Allende, of course, said yes, and in the next morning's mail there came a ton of Santana CDs. All had to be learned ASAP.
"I think everyone began hating me," he laughs, "because from that point all I played was Santana – in the car, in the living room, in the bedroom, on my iPod. But I had to learn this material, because I don't like to have people wait on me. And I'd say that by the time I went to rehearsal, I'd learned 97 percent of everything he'd recorded."
Allende has never taken a job lightly, but he admits that he's been through nothing quite like this one. "You can't go half-assed on this gig at all," he explains. "You have to bring your A-Game, because there's no slacking off. Carlos wants a thousand percent, even at sound checks. I don't blame him, because that's what he gives. That, to me, is a challenge. It makes me want to play more. I can go up there with pains in my fingers and I'll forget about it because it's like, 'You'd better jump onboard, because this train is leaving with or without you.'"
However, right before this issue went to press, Allende found himself back on the rails rather than riding the train. Santana's management company called to inform him that the bandleader decided to rehire Raul Rekow, the conguero that Allende replaced. "Raul spoke to Carlos, and Carlos felt that he wanted to give him another chance," Allende explains. "I understand and respect loyalty. After 30 years [playing together] it's almost like a marriage. I have no bitter feelings about it at all. I loved the experience. I got to play with a legend."
So he's once again back home in New York, staying connected to the city that gave him his music. He'll probably still be in Central Park too, though you're more likely to find him playing softball than congas. "They don't do those drum things on Sundays anymore," he says, "but if they did, I'd still be there."
Edited by Qwest - 19 years ago
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