Keeper of the Drums: Milan Gali Riveri

Milan Gali Riveri is a name well known to those who are connected to folkoric music and dance in Santiago de Cuba. The maestros in Matnazas and Havana know him as well. Born in 1939 this spry septagenerian resides in Santiagao de Cuba. One room is full of drums—batas from Santiago, Matanzas and Havana, abaqua, Carnaval drums—a beautiful site to behold—percussion heaven. Outside, apprentices are working the hides that will be for congas. Gali inspects the workmanship, hits the heads and passes on a few suggestions for better sound. Walking indoors was a nice break from the July heat. We sat in the two rocking chairs, cold water and beer in hand, and began.

Q: When did you begin playing and start as a musician?
Milián Galí Riverí: I’ve been into percussion ever since I was a child. My father was a musician who played the trombone, and he wanted me to play the trumpet, and so I started writing music because of that. I learned music theory, but I learned it in order to play the trumpet. When my father would come home from work, he would take a bath and he would say, "Come on, let’s hear the lesson I taught you yesterday". I didn’t remember what I had done the day before. And that’s how I learned music theory. It was always behind the purpose of learning the trumpet. Every time I played drum, with bamboo, I would hit some leather, my father would come home from work and would hear me and he’d break them. I’d start crying. He would look at me and say "Leave it alone, Milián. I don’t want any rumba in this house!" Anyway, when the revolution triumphed, I was playing already. I played a few times before the revolution was over. But you know what? Before the revolution was over, the culture here was not developed. So I started with Vivian Tolí, a dance group [present Ballet Folklorico Cutumba] , we set up a contract and they paid us, but then, the audience, like in so many countries, whenever they like a show they throw money on stage. I worked several times in San Pedro del Mar before the revolution ended. And when the revolution was over, I wanted to learn the drums because of what I heard in San Pedro del Mar in 1960. And when I heard that, I was amazed. Carlos Aldama was in it—he now lives in Oakland, California.

Q: Yes, he lives nearby.
Galí: You know him? See? I’m telling you the truth - - also Supere and Armando Sutulongo who died in New York many years ago. I told Jesús, I want to learn the drums. I spoke with him and he told me, "We don’t have inexpensive drums here; you have to go to Havana or to Matanzas". There are two ways to play the drums: Havana style and Matanza style - - and that worried me. Well, I tried to learn how to play the batá drums through the writings of Fernando Ortiz who is the dean and pioneer of Afro-Cuban studies and examples appear in his books on Africanism. The transcripts on theatre and dance of Blacks from Cuba were made by Aparagüero and not by Fernando Ortiz. Asparagüero was a pianist; he got together with Hidaldo Rodriguez, Díaz Trinidad and would play. In his appreciation for music he would transcribe it. There were many errors there, because many of the pieces were played in a common beat and that’s not the way it is. Most of the beats are syncopated. I learned that since I studied music theory as a child. So the next thing that happens is that Benny Moré dies in February of 1973, and I went to Havana. As soon as he saw me, I greeted him, and I said to him, "I know how to play batá now!" And he asks, "How did you learn it?" Fernando Ortiz. So he says, "I worked with Fernando Ortiz". The house was full of drummers, Armando Sotolongo was there, Andrés Cruz was there…so Jesús says to me, "Well, the drums are tuned up", since they were going to go and play up on the hill. I sat down and started playing, and suddenly Armando Sotolongo says, "Where did these people get that rhythm from?" That is what is in Fernando Ortiz’s books. And I was resigned to the situation, when Andrés Cruz says to me, "Look, we’re playing drums out on the hill. Come with me". I went, and everyone sat around there. I’m telling you the truth. When they started playing, I couldn’t understand a thing. All I heard in my mind were strange noises. How am I supposed to learn this? I sort of understood one of the rhythms because of its repetitiveness. That was the reason [why] I started writing my own batá notations, and I stopped trusting Asparagüero’s writings, instead of Fernando Ortiz. I started writing things that are in his book.

Now I’d like to change the subject to something important which is based on this matter. I used two patterns, or two lines: cha chá and anú. I threw away the staff, with five lines. So, when I demonstrated my work, people were saying, "No, where’s the staff?" So I said, no, there’s no need for a staff because the tone of the batá drums doesn’t conform to the diatonic scales of European music; it conforms to an African tonality, similar to the Chinese, and their music has nothing to do with it - - with the staff, that is. No one understood me. I was the first one to break that rule here. I took my book to Havana, I met Ordulio Morales. He supported me with certain things but with others, he did not understand. Supere Puentes was a source of support. He said, "Let’s do the book", but he passed away in 1983, in April. So, five years passed, and I forgot all about it. I have to show my book as soon as I get the idea again to complete it. There were problems with cha-cha when I used to go to Matanzas with Supere.

People used to say, "That’s not how you play that!", and they would argue about it. I would say, "What’s the problem here?" I believed that Matanzas style was the same as Havana’s, but I soon realized it wasn’t. There are details that are not similar. That is what Fernando Ortiz called "cultural transformation". So, as far as percussion here is concerned, from the East, I had a lot of support with regards to buyú. I’ve never studied French, I learned it in Santiago de Cuba and in Guantanamo. In Pompadú with Cucú, Esmerejildo Bidó, Santiago, the late Benjamin, who was a war veteran; Balón, Guevara, Pablo. I’d go to the rumba, I played at the rumba, starting at night and ending the next morning; in Guantanamo it was the same thing. Vudoo has different styles: it has ravá and bo, nagó and congó, because gagá doesn’t belong to vudoo. Gagá is a masquerade that is only played during Easter.

The idea behind the name Galí Batá was not mine; it was Enrique Bornes Castillo’s idea. I made a recording with him entitled "Bembé Chequeré y Batá". When I was done playing my parts with the batá, I went up to the studio and he says, "Well, we have to give the Galí band a name!" And he’s watching me play and he says, "That guy plays an amazing batá! Call him Galí Batá!" So whenever you buy the LP you’ll see a mention of Bornes it says Galí Batá. So when he called me to make the recording, I remembered the name, so I decided to name it Galí Batá. So what did I do with Galí Batá? I wanted to do two cultural currents. I recorded Eastern batá styles which were ours, and that’s what is on the records. I won two awards: opera prima and folklore.

Q: When was this?
Galí: This year!

Before heading outside, Gali showed me his 250 page manuscript, all hand written and diagramed. Once published, it will be the first book to demonstrate the difference in batá drumming techniques and rhythms from Havana and Matanzas.

Gali's passion for the drum and interest in the disemination of information about drumming styles is infectious. I walked away with visions of drums and the sound of his voice singing a rhythm in my head.

.

Click 'Refresh'or Reload' in your browser window to view a video clip of Gali.

Interview, photos and video ©2003 by Julia Sewell
Transcription and translation ©2003 by Wright Interpreting
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Keeper of the Drums: Milan Gali Riveri

Milan Gali Riveri is a name well known to those who are connected to folkoric music and dance in Santiago de Cuba. The maestros in Matnazas and Havana know him as well. Born in 1939 this spry septagenerian resides in Santiagao de Cuba. One room is full of drums—batas from Santiago, Matanzas and Havana, abaqua, Carnaval drums—a beautiful site to behold—percussion heaven. Outside, apprentices are working the hides that will be for congas. Gali inspects the workmanship, hits the heads and passes on a few suggestions for better sound. Walking indoors was a nice break from the July heat. We sat in the two rocking chairs, cold water and beer in hand, and began.

Q: When did you begin playing and start as a musician?
Milián Galí Riverí: I’ve been into percussion ever since I was a child. My father was a musician who played the trombone, and he wanted me to play the trumpet, and so I started writing music because of that. I learned music theory, but I learned it in order to play the trumpet. When my father would come home from work, he would take a bath and he would say, "Come on, let’s hear the lesson I taught you yesterday". I didn’t remember what I had done the day before. And that’s how I learned music theory. It was always behind the purpose of learning the trumpet. Every time I played drum, with bamboo, I would hit some leather, my father would come home from work and would hear me and he’d break them. I’d start crying. He would look at me and say "Leave it alone, Milián. I don’t want any rumba in this house!" Anyway, when the revolution triumphed, I was playing already. I played a few times before the revolution was over. But you know what? Before the revolution was over, the culture here was not developed. So I started with Vivian Tolí, a dance group [present Ballet Folklorico Cutumba] , we set up a contract and they paid us, but then, the audience, like in so many countries, whenever they like a show they throw money on stage. I worked several times in San Pedro del Mar before the revolution ended. And when the revolution was over, I wanted to learn the drums because of what I heard in San Pedro del Mar in 1960. And when I heard that, I was amazed. Carlos Aldama was in it—he now lives in Oakland, California.

Q: Yes, he lives nearby.
Galí: You know him? See? I’m telling you the truth - - also Supere and Armando Sutulongo who died in New York many years ago. I told Jesús, I want to learn the drums. I spoke with him and he told me, "We don’t have inexpensive drums here; you have to go to Havana or to Matanzas". There are two ways to play the drums: Havana style and Matanza style - - and that worried me. Well, I tried to learn how to play the batá drums through the writings of Fernando Ortiz who is the dean and pioneer of Afro-Cuban studies and examples appear in his books on Africanism. The transcripts on theatre and dance of Blacks from Cuba were made by Aparagüero and not by Fernando Ortiz. Asparagüero was a pianist; he got together with Hidaldo Rodriguez, Díaz Trinidad and would play. In his appreciation for music he would transcribe it. There were many errors there, because many of the pieces were played in a common beat and that’s not the way it is. Most of the beats are syncopated. I learned that since I studied music theory as a child. So the next thing that happens is that Benny Moré dies in February of 1973, and I went to Havana. As soon as he saw me, I greeted him, and I said to him, "I know how to play batá now!" And he asks, "How did you learn it?" Fernando Ortiz. So he says, "I worked with Fernando Ortiz". The house was full of drummers, Armando Sotolongo was there, Andrés Cruz was there…so Jesús says to me, "Well, the drums are tuned up", since they were going to go and play up on the hill. I sat down and started playing, and suddenly Armando Sotolongo says, "Where did these people get that rhythm from?" That is what is in Fernando Ortiz’s books. And I was resigned to the situation, when Andrés Cruz says to me, "Look, we’re playing drums out on the hill. Come with me". I went, and everyone sat around there. I’m telling you the truth. When they started playing, I couldn’t understand a thing. All I heard in my mind were strange noises. How am I supposed to learn this? I sort of understood one of the rhythms because of its repetitiveness. That was the reason [why] I started writing my own batá notations, and I stopped trusting Asparagüero’s writings, instead of Fernando Ortiz. I started writing things that are in his book.

Now I’d like to change the subject to something important which is based on this matter. I used two patterns, or two lines: cha chá and anú. I threw away the staff, with five lines. So, when I demonstrated my work, people were saying, "No, where’s the staff?" So I said, no, there’s no need for a staff because the tone of the batá drums doesn’t conform to the diatonic scales of European music; it conforms to an African tonality, similar to the Chinese, and their music has nothing to do with it - - with the staff, that is. No one understood me. I was the first one to break that rule here. I took my book to Havana, I met Ordulio Morales. He supported me with certain things but with others, he did not understand. Supere Puentes was a source of support. He said, "Let’s do the book", but he passed away in 1983, in April. So, five years passed, and I forgot all about it. I have to show my book as soon as I get the idea again to complete it. There were problems with cha-cha when I used to go to Matanzas with Supere.

People used to say, "That’s not how you play that!", and they would argue about it. I would say, "What’s the problem here?" I believed that Matanzas style was the same as Havana’s, but I soon realized it wasn’t. There are details that are not similar. That is what Fernando Ortiz called "cultural transformation". So, as far as percussion here is concerned, from the East, I had a lot of support with regards to buyú. I’ve never studied French, I learned it in Santiago de Cuba and in Guantanamo. In Pompadú with Cucú, Esmerejildo Bidó, Santiago, the late Benjamin, who was a war veteran; Balón, Guevara, Pablo. I’d go to the rumba, I played at the rumba, starting at night and ending the next morning; in Guantanamo it was the same thing. Vudoo has different styles: it has ravá and bo, nagó and congó, because gagá doesn’t belong to vudoo. Gagá is a masquerade that is only played during Easter.

The idea behind the name Galí Batá was not mine; it was Enrique Bornes Castillo’s idea. I made a recording with him entitled "Bembé Chequeré y Batá". When I was done playing my parts with the batá, I went up to the studio and he says, "Well, we have to give the Galí band a name!" And he’s watching me play and he says, "That guy plays an amazing batá! Call him Galí Batá!" So whenever you buy the LP you’ll see a mention of Bornes it says Galí Batá. So when he called me to make the recording, I remembered the name, so I decided to name it Galí Batá. So what did I do with Galí Batá? I wanted to do two cultural currents. I recorded Eastern batá styles which were ours, and that’s what is on the records. I won two awards: opera prima and folklore.

Q: When was this?
Galí: This year!

Before heading outside, Gali showed me his 250 page manuscript, all hand written and diagramed. Once published, it will be the first book to demonstrate the difference in batá drumming techniques and rhythms from Havana and Matanzas.

Gali's passion for the drum and interest in the disemination of information about drumming styles is infectious. I walked away with visions of drums and the sound of his voice singing a rhythm in my head.

.

Click 'Refresh'or Reload' in your browser window to view a video clip of Gali.

Interview, photos and video ©2003 by Julia Sewell
Transcription and translation ©2003 by Wright Interpreting
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.