Willie Colón: El Día de Mi Suerte

There are some icons who shine on both sides of the curtain.

Mm hmm, your prains, you're Pharrell.

The ones who know how to make a track sound just right, who can transform a song into a hit just by adding the perfect hook.

The icons behind the icons, the ones who go from supporting players to center stage slowly.

But Shirt and Today's icon, well, without him, some of the most important salsa artists and records might never have existed.

They'd be regulated to deep cuts, footnotes, stuff that a hipster friend might tell you about but you can't remember because he gives you a twenty minute lecture about it with no PowerPoint.

You hear that, Brian from cobble Hill. Next time, make it a PowerPoint party.

Yeah, Brian, Wait, PowerPoint party.

Whatever our producer said it was a thing.

We don't do that around here, but we get how it could be really funny. Luckily, Brian's genre of choice will remain Eastern European disco because Salza had a Wheelie Colonne for a hit.

Maker, trombonist, vocalist, arranger, producer and certified New yor Rican Royalty.

As a New Yorker, Golan is deeply tied to the city's roughest and some would say most artistically explosive years.

Fun fact, he also ran to be New York Congressman. He lost them.

As in Bourriqua, he uplifted the music of his fellow Garibagios, empowering a whole generation of salsa artists to bridge gaps within the Latino community.

We bah, it's weird to hear you say that. I mean, I like it. Listen.

We accept all we except all onto the island anyway. As a American and a New Yorker, Golan has been an outspoken critic of dictatorship and a voice for the marginalized people he grew up with.

Except these days where I'm not so crazy about the things Willie's been saying.

Yeah, we're gonna get there, I promise.

And like him or not agree or disagree with him, there is one thing that we can agree on. Willie Colonne is an irreplaceable part of Latin music.

He paid the way for some of our favorites, from Sela Cruz to Mark Anthony.

And it all started in the South Bronx.

We off to the Pooky Down.

I'm your host, Lilianavosquez and I'm Joseph Carrio and This is Becoming an Icon a weekly podcast where we give you the rundown on how today's most famous LATINX stars have shaped pop culture.

And given the world some extra.

Level Sit back and get comfortable.

Because we are going in the only way we know how.

With buenasas, buenasriesas, and a lot of opinions as we relive their greatest achievements on our journey to find out what makes them so iconic. Loyal listeners know when it comes to its importance in the world of Latin music, New York City can just about go toe to toe with any city in Latino America, from.

The King of Reggaeton Darayenki to Laina de la Salsa Cela Cruz. Everybody from Nicaribe comes through sooner or later.

Caribbean Latinos all have a unique.

Relationship with New York and that New York Caribbean connection is over a century old.

Cubans traced their New York ties back as far back as the late eighteen hundreds when Jose Marti organized the independence movement while he was in exile.

And that independence movement came to a head when after Cuba was years deep into its War of Independence, the US stepped in at the eleventh hour and declared war on Spain, an intervention with consequences spanning more than a century.

Including Puerto Rico status as a United States territory aka the stuff many podcasts and many arguments at Puerto Rican dinner tables over statehood versus independence.

And the reason for the huge Puerto Rican community in New York City. In nineteen seventeen, Puerto Ricans were granted US citizenship, making it far easier for Bordiquas to come stateside.

And so thousands of Puerto Ricans did just that. Known as Los Bionetros or the Pioneers. The first wave of Bodiquas turned to New Yorkers, or.

In my dad's case, Bodigua's turned Texans.

The Bionetto settled down in Brooklyn, East Harlem, the Lower East Side shout out Losaida and the Bronx.

And it's there in the South Bronx where Willi Colon's grandparents settled down in the nineteen tens with that first wave of bion Neros, and over the next forty five years, that Puerto Rican community grew, an grew, and grew.

With both new arrivals and New Aurekans.

Bourriqua was born off the island, and among those New Yorrekans was Willi Colonne born April twenty eighth, nineteen fifty.

Okay, Joseph, what do you got for Willy?

A Taurus just like me?

A Taurus' son, hardworking and patient in model, thrives in situations where he is in control, just like me, Let's say the recording studio. He would do best to embrace his sense of authority, but also be careful not to let himself become too narrow minded. When he learns a lesson in life, he doesn't forget it, and the streets are a hard teacher.

Mi hau Truer words have never been spoken.

Willi's mom had him at just sixteen years old.

And Mama was dealt a tough hand.

She grew up first generation New yor Rican way back when New Yorkers called bodegas corner stores.

It was based sickly the Stone Age. All this environment was not kind to foreigners like us. So it's no wonder when he's mom lost her Spanish, making matters worse. Daddy wasn't in the picture. So of course that meant Abuela picked up the slack. Shout out to all the Aboilas, picking up the slack for dead bee dads right, shout out to the Abolitas. Anyway, Willi Colan's grandmother, Antonia, was his guiding light. She taught him Spanish and instilled in him that Bourriqua pride.

Which was important because remember this was corner Story days, and then white kids were circling.

Cologne was shorter and had darker skin than the mostly Irish American white kids. He found himself at odds with day to day. He went to a school with segregated bathrooms and water fountains, there was no hiding who he was. Still, the insults only made him double down on his pride.

No grandchild of Antonio Goa had who he.

Is, Gracia.

But there was one more thing weely would get bullied over, and this one it stung deep.

Willie's abuela used to show her grandson a photo of his dad dressed as a soldier. She would tell him about the reason he wasn't around was that he was off fighting, but in reality.

Willi's father was in and out of prison and was often arrested publicly for robbery and other violent offenses. In one interview, Wily even seems to imply that he himself witnessed his father's arrest.

Willie's classmates knew about all of this, and they bullied him relentlessly for it. But Willie, being a tourus, wasn't taking that shit laying down. He was throwing elbows, getting in fight after fight.

Still with his father gone, Willi was the man of the house. That meant that he felt responsible for looking after his sister out on the streets.

And he looked after her the only way he knew how, by fighting with anyone who looked at her own.

Remember this was the South Bronx in the nineteen fifties and sixties, and while this was far from the Bronx's burning days of the seventies, times were tough in the Batrio right after World War Two.

Families like Willi's used to be able to get jobs at the factory, but now those factories were closing up. Lower paying, lower status service jobs took their place, making matters worse.

Heroin use was on the rise.

More and more, it felt like you didn't know who or what was around the next street corner. That meant Willy had to learn to defend himself in his own words.

Everyone else had brothers or dads to back them up.

I didn't, So Willie toughened up quick, and soon he earned a nickname, El Marlo.

It's hard not to assume that the nickname has some like father like sun vibes.

But WILLI would come to wear that.

Nickname like armor and eventually carry it into his career as a salsettle.

So he had the nickname, he had the attitude. There's just one thing missing.

The music, of course, And of all of the gift if Abuela Antonia would be still upon Willi, this was perhaps the most important.

At eleven years old, Willie received a trumpet as a gift from his grandmother. This was obviously her way of keeping Willy off the streets.

But it wasn't for lack of love of music either.

Antonia had enrolled Willy in music lessons and would have him sing for all of her friends.

But this wasn't just about proving te tiacuncita that you had the most talented grandkid. Antonia really cared about Willy's passions.

A plus plus for parenting y'all and Antonia's nurturing and her sacrifices would sit Willy on a course to change Latin music forever. It's nineteen sixty four and Willie Colonne, at fourteen years old, has formed his very first band, the Latin Jazz All Stars.

All Stars is some big talk for a bunch of sweaty.

Teens, especially in New York, which had long since earned its reputation as one of the great American jazz cities, and in the nineteen sixties Latin jazz in particular was taking off.

The last decade was ruled by legends like Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, and Solonius Monk. In the sixties they were still royalty no shade, but something else was.

Bruin rumba, mambo and merengue exploded out of dance halls Throughound, Manhattan and the Bronx. Meanwhile, groups like Machito and his Afro Cuban Boys experimented with weaving these styles into classic jazz arrangements.

An artist like Tito Puente and Lorena se La Cruz brought the og styles up from Las Islas to clubs like the Gongan Health Kitchen, Park Plaza in East Harlem and most importantly the Palladium in the East Village.

It was during this golden age of Latin Jazz that Williicolon saw his idol, the trombonis Mont Rivera live in concert, and then he basically looked at Rivera playing the trombone, then looked at his trumpet and looked up with sad little kid eyes.

And so Abuela Antonia La Santa saved about two weeks worth of living expenses to buy him a trombone.

Real talk, if you are lucky enough to have an Abuela Antonia in your life, you are set, like set, set, set for life.

So at the height of Mambo Mania, not.

To be confused with the Latin explosion.

I Hate you, Willie Colonne was playing wherever he could with the Latin Jazz All Stars at night and in the daytime he was working at a small record store.

Now, sometimes you want to keep your moonlighting and your day job separate, but this wasn't the case for Willie because the owner of the record store owned a small record label.

Willy invited the store manager to one of the Latin Jazz All Stars gigs, and the manager said yes, because what are you going to do?

Not go and then have to talk to Willie at work every day?

Seriously bad news. So the store manager dragged his ass onto the floor train and over to East Harlem, and to his surprise, Willie could rip. He was impressed, very impressed.

So impressed that he gassed up Willy Colone's band to the store owner, convincing him to sign the band to his label. So at fourteen, Willy and his band recorded an entire LP on the end.

But if you know anything about Willy Colonne, you already know this isn't a big break.

By the way, if you know anything about our podcast, you know that it.

Takes like eight label signings and thirteen records to hit it big. And same thing happened with Willy the label. It ended up going bankrupt. The store owner lost everything, including the rights to the LP Willy and the band had recorded.

Rule number one, read the contract, Rule number two. The repomen don't give no fuck about that contract.

So Real, however, really struck a deal with the store owner. If he could raise enough money to buy the rights back, the tapes would be his. So El Malo hustled and scraped and got his music back.

Meanwhile, across town, another independent record label was on the up and up, and.

Now we're getting to the good stuff.

In nineteen sixty four, an unlikely duo decided to found a record label. That duel was Johnny Pacheko, the legendary Dominican multi instrumentalist, and his divorce lawyer Jerry Mesucci.

Wait, really, we did not cover that in the Celia episodes because.

Some details you got to say for later. Otherwise we wouldn't have a podcast anyway. Jerry Mesucci, the cop turned divorce lawyer turned and presario, had spent some time in Cuba and had developed a love of Latin music. So when he learned that his client was selling records out of the trunk of his car, he decided to help a brother out.

Bacheco, as we mentioned earlier in the season, was sped up with getting a measly cut from record sales. Neither he nor Masucci could have predicted that their little operation would become a springboard for a whole generation of Latin musicians and a globally known brand.

We are, of course, talking about Fanya Records, and Willie Colonne was about to get in on the ground floor. In nineteen sixty seven, a few years after the label got itself a proper office, really showed up to Fanya with his Latin Jazz All Stars LP in hand.

Always make sure you own your work, kids, because that record got really signed.

But Willy still had work to do.

He had won Masucci over, but when he met Johnny Pacheco, the Dominican luminary had one thing to say.

To him, find a singer.

Paranto pronto you mean prono.

Yeah.

Luckily for Willie, it wouldn't take him long to find a singer, a singer who would become one of his closest collaborators and.

Fuel one of his biggest beefs.

Joseph, let's take a little beat as fellow New Yorkers. Okay, fine, one current New Yorker and one former New Yorker. I'm probably lucky if you even let me back on the island.

Well, real talk, have you changed your driver's license to California?

Negative? A massive negative?

No?

Never, I am holding out forever.

Okay, keep it that way and we'll let you back in every time. Anyway, we're taking a beat.

Yes, As you can tell from this episode, New York's music scene as it once was is legendary for a reason. Dance halls, discos, scrappy little DIY venues.

Are we about to get sentimental up in this bitch? You know it?

I have to ask you, because I know you used to spend your nights at your club. Is there any club that no longer exists in New York that used to like your stomping.

In this club?

Yes, it no longer exists. It was called Splash and it was also the very very first gay bar I ever been to in New York.

And when you.

Moved from Texas and I moved around the Paso, Texas and oh my god, made it so special.

You know? It was like, well, I would there used to be a show on HBO called Queer's Folk, and it was it looks like the gay guys would go into the huge warehouses with go go boys and just everyone was beautiful and people were like blah blah blah, and it just like, I don't know, it was exactly that what I walked into. So it was just such a core memory of like going into a huge, massive club, although now looking back at it wasn't that big, but it just felt like it because I had never been

Actually, okay, so the clubs that I remember were like I mean, it was like late nineties, early two thousand's heyday. So I god, I'm so embarrassed. Like the Tunnel, I'm like dating myself right now. I don't know if people know what that is, but like that was a club that I went to when I was sixteen years old, living in New York going to Columbia University for the summer. I had no business being at the Tunnel when I

Let's be very.

Clear, like club or was it like a music venue?

No, bungalowight was a club.

It was like it was like the heyday of like models and bottles, right, And I am not a model, nor can I affid a four, nor can I afford to buy a bottle, which is why I was never getting into Bungalow eight. But I finally got in. I cracked the code, and yeah, I had too much fun at those places. And then in terms of like music venues, trying to think of like classic, what was that there was a place that closed.

Because I was going to say, you know, it just hit me like I remember that was my first club. But then I at my actual first club that I ever went to was called Don Quinine, and it was a quads and it was a club until maybe like midnight, and then at twelve o'clock a live band would come on and play stuff like and Manna and but they were like a cover band and they would come from Argentina and it would turn into them when you could still dance live music because they would play it like

Right now, I'm trying to think of like a Latin there was. It wasn't a Latin club, but there was this place. It was downtown. I think it closed, it like became other things.

It was sob sounds of Brazil, and I remember going there like with my friends and like having way too much fun. But listen, old nineties and two thousands clubs in New York were just a vibe man like, I feel sorry for kids today.

Well, I mean, it'll never be like it was now.

It's everything true, true, true, And you know, it's easy to romanticize the good old days of New York live music venues and clubs. But for as long as there's been music, musicians in cities like New York have had to work their way up to big venues like the Palladium in the city.

Right, don't get it twisted.

Musicians on the come up in New York will still play at European Insanet.

Or, in Willie Colon's case, the American Legion Club on one hundred and sixty second and Prospect in the Bronx.

Wait, so they played salsa for World War two veterans.

Hey, Latinos did serve in both World wars. Okay, the more you know, so, yes, these teenagers are playing for war vets and God bless the troops. But in terms of crowd size the Palladium this was not Willie and his band had a shiny new label contract, but he still needed fans. He just needed someone to listen to his music.

So to get that, he needed hits, and to get hits, he needed a singer, and.

He would find one right upstairs at the Bonset Social Club, where another Latin jazz orchestra happened to be playing.

I'm picturing one of those buildings in k Town where there's like twelve floors, the karaoke bars and like a nightclub.

I love those places.

And a salsa band is crowded enough with just the percussion section, right, But if any place is going to make room for the band, it's the Boncees Social Club, one of many social clubs for Latinos that existed for decades throughout the city.

These were gathering places for expats to safely be themselves, speak Spanish freely, and discussed politics so locally and over in.

La Patria, and to dance, of course, and at Bonce they moved to the sounds of a Latin jazz orchestra named very creatively the New Yorkers.

They didn't have a catchy name, but they did have a singer, a gauky looking singer with a big voice.

A voice that would one day become his namesake, because we're, of course talking about Hector Juan Perez Martinez, or better known as Hector Leveaux.

When Willy visited the Poons Club for the first time, Hector's voice stopped him in his tracks. The next day he told Johnny Pocheko, you got to hear this guy. He brought Johnny to the club and right then and there they asked Hector to record with the Latin Jazz All Stars, and Hector said.

No thanks, leaving Willie confused.

But nevertheless, this tourus persisted and eventually won Hector over. So you might ask why the sass well in Hector's eyes, asking to record wasn't the same as asking to join the band.

He found it shady, which spoiler alert did not bode well for the future. But for now, Hector was in and thus a legendary duo was formed, one that would become known as the Bad Boys. Hmmm, Joseph, what's wrong? Is something glitching in your matrix?

No, I'm just having some major dejeba right now.

Two young, hunry Puerto Rican boys with big egos continue coming up in an underground music scene, giving voice to the struggle all around them. It's giving that Nikki jam uh Oh.

Like Los Congris Wood, decades later, Willis Colonne and Hector Levau redefined a whole strain of Latin music with a series of earthshaking records, only to come apart at the hands of drug abuse and interpersonal drama.

But that's next week. Kidos on the.

Next Becoming an Icon, The Rise and Fall of the Bad.

Boys, Bad Boys, Bad Boys.

What You're Gonna Do, What You're Gonna Do.

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