magazine of the philadelphia folklore · pdf file“sound tap dancing,” that’s...

� LaVaughn Robinson / in memoriam

� Jewish klezmer / Elaine Watts

� Philadelphia klezmer / interview excerpts

� Felix Pupi Legarreta: Charanguero Mayor

� Lois Fernandez: changing that white man’s law

� Bootstraps: Suzanne Povse

Volume 21:1-2 summer/fall 2008 ISSN 1075-0029

magazine of the philadelphia folklore project

3 From the editor

4 In memory of LaVaughn Robinson

6 Elaine HoffmanWatts: “From then on,I never dropped the sticks”

10 Klezmer interviews: “50 years ago,I played the same”

12 Felix “Pupi” Legarreta: Charanguero Mayor

14 Lois Fernandez: “You think you’re gonnachange that white man’s law?”

16 Suzanne Povse: Bootstraps

18 Afterword

Front cover:Elaine Hoffman

performing at the CurtisInstitute Christmas Party,

1951.Photo courtesy Elaine

Hoffman Watts

insid

e

Works in progress is the magazine of the PhiladelphiaFolklore Project, a 21-year-old public interest folklifeagency. We work with people and communities in thePhiladelphia area to build critical folk cultural knowledge,sustain the complex folk and traditional arts of our region,and challenge practices that diminish these local grassrootsarts and humanities. To learn more, please visit us:www.folkloreproject.org or call 215.726.1106.

philadelphia folkloreproject staff

Editor/PFPDirector:Debora KodishAssociate Director:Germaine IngramProgram Manager:Dana DormanProgram Assistant: Thomas OwensDesigner: IFE designs + AssociatesPrinting:Garrison Printers

[Printed on recycled paper]

philadelphia folkloreproject board

Linda Goss Ife Nii-OwooMawusi Simmons Yvette SmallsEllen Somekawa Dorothy Wilkie

we gratefully acknowledgesupport from:

� The National Endowment for the Arts,which believes that a great nationdeserves great arts

� Pennsylvania Council on the Arts� PennsylvaniaHistorical and MuseumCommission

� The Pennsylvania Humanities Counciland the National Endowment for the Humanities'We the People’ initiative on American history

� The Pennsylvania Department of Community andEconomic Development

� The Philadelphia Cultural Fund� The William Penn Foundation� Dance Advance, an artistic initiative of thePhiladelphia Center for Arts and Heritagefunded by The Pew Charitable Trusts andadministered by The University of the Arts

� Philadelphia Music Project, a grant programfunded by The Pew Charitable Trusts andadministered by the University of the Arts

� The Pew Charitable Trusts� The Malka and Jacob Goldfarb Foundation� The Samuel Fels Fund� The Philadelphia Foundation� The Douty Foundation� The Hilles Foundation� The Henrietta Tower Wurts Foundation� Stockton Rush Bartol Foundation� and wonderful individual PhiladelphiaFolklore Project members

� We invite your support:thank you to all

editorStrength of character, nerve,sheer persistence, creativity,real mother wit: a catalog ofsterling virtues fills thesepages of stories about localpeople. A community activistand single mother forced thestate to change policy onbirth certificates for children:this is the proudest achieve-ment of Lois Fernandez,better known as founder ofthe long-lived ODUNDEfestival. The first woman per-cussionist to graduate fromCurtis Institute and a work-ing mom long before it wascommon, Elaine Watts keptplaying her family’s klezmertunes, even when no Jewishbands would hire her. Oneof the first women to worklocally as a transmissionmechanic, Suzanne Povse fig-ured out how to advance inher trade, one hard-won stepafter another. Playing Cubancharanga music for morethan sixty years and well-known as one of the FaniaAll-Stars, Pupi Legarretabecame an electrician whenmusic wouldn’t pay the bills.And in these pages, the lategreat Philadelphia hooferLaVaughn Robinson keepsdancing, his sound andPhilly-bred style rememberedby his protégé and dancepartner, Germaine Ingram.Each of the remarkable peo-ple in these pages broke newground. None had an easyroad. All of them persistedand endured—and we are sograteful!

For 21 years, we have beenusing this magazine to offer

small but penetratingglimpses of inspiring neigh-bors—people who sustainsome of our city’s greatestartistic traditions or whohave been part of grassrootsefforts for equity and justice.From our perspective, thepractice of significant culturalexpression and grassrootssocial activism are similar intheir positive effect on thesocial fabric of our city andits neighborhoods. The paral-lels and similarities arereflected in the stories con-tained in this volume. Eachstory is about an "everyday"Philadelphian—someonewho could be our next-doorneighbor—whose passionand vision led each to defythe conventions of the day.For Fernandez, it was a pas-sion for the worth andblessedness of each child,regardless of the marital sta-tus of his or her parents.Povse was motivated by avision of respect and fairnessin the workplace, regardlessof gender or race. Wattsrejected limiting assumptionsabout the value and place ofwomen musicians and ethnicmusic. Robinson andLegarreta proved that excel-lence and artistry can beachieved in cultural expres-sions that were disregarded,devalued, or even denigrat-ed. These people have fedsustenance to a vision of ourcity as a place where eachperson receives equal respectfor his or her humanity andpotential, where the power ofsignificant cultural practice tobuild and sustain communi-

ties is understood and nur-tured, and where talent andaccomplishment are recog-nized in a multitude ofdiverse forms and faces.

We tell these stories to honorinspiring individuals, butalso to remind ourselves andour readers that paying atten-tion to the cultural treasuresamong us is something weeach can do—individuallyand together, in large andsmall ways—to build a senseof shared promise and anavenue for collective invest-ment in social progress in ourcity and region. The work ofbuilding never stops. Rarelydoes a week pass without aheadline announcing anincident of disregard, neglector abuse of this city's chil-dren. The fact that a man ofcolor, born of an Africannational and raised inIndonesia could become ourcountry's next presidentshould not obscure the con-tinued existence of unfairbarriers to opportunity basedon gender, disability, religion,language, race,sexual orientation and otherinvidious distinctions.Commercialization andhomogenization of culturethreatens our ability to knowwho we are and teach ourchildren who they are. Tellingthese stories is our modestcontribution to showing andbuilding a way forward. Weinvite you to read on.

— Debora Kodish andGermaine Ingram

f r o m t h e

2008 Summer /Fall WWIIPP 3

4WWIIPP 2008 Summer /Fall

I N M E M O R Y O F

L A V A U G H NROB IN SON

With sorrow, we announce the passing of thegreat Philadelphia tap dancer LaVaughn

Robinson this past January. In many ways, thisfeels like the end of a defining era of

remarkable tap veterans and entertainers. Jointhe Folklore Project in the coming year for

programs recalling the contributions ofLaVaughn and others, all now passed, who

were part of our Plenty of Good Women Dancersand Philadelphia Tap Initiative projects dating to

the 1990s: Hortense Allen Jordan, LibbySpencer, Edith “Baby Edwards” Hunt, Henry

Meadows, Delores and Dave McHarris, IsabelleFambro, Michelle Webster Roberts, Patricia

Perkins. We are privileged by their presence.

Above: LaVaughn RobinsonPhoto courtesy of the artist

Right: Master tap dancers and elders Henry Meadows,Edith “Baby Edwards” Hunt and LaVaughn Robinson,with their students and dancer partners Pete Briglia

and Germaine Ingram. Photo: Jane Levine

LaVaughn Robinson and Henry Meadow at a PFP“Stepping in Time “ rehearsal. Photo: Thomas B.

Morton, 1994

February 9, 1927 - January 22, 2008


For LaVaughn

Philly street dancer romancing the floorboards like Cyrano diggin’ Roxanne;Tapping beguines that breathe the urgent purr of felines drunk on catnip.Swingin’ like a Hampton jump—like Lunceford layin’ down “For Dancers Only”—like Frankie Manning stompin’ at the Savoy… like Ella chasin’ her yellow basket…Skippy ain’t seen no smooth like his soft shoe, and the moon ain’t been so highas me, watching from the wings, him putting an exclamation point on “Artistry.”Fernando jumped out the Hideaway just long enough for him to run an armada’s worth of paddles;And “Lover” drew near to hear the rapture of staccato heels tradin’ with stop-time tune.Papa Smurf catchin’ his wind while tellin’ jokes older than New Years Day.“Sound tap dancing,” that’s what he’d say, ‘fore pouring fire on the stage.

“Peace be still” you say? Death can’t hush his satin roar.Sod and stone can’t quell his story. Sunset can’t out his flame. I stood on the banks of Jordan to see his ship go by… While his song lingers, lingers, lingers, in the air.

Germaine Ingram, January 27, 2008

6WWIIPP 2008 Summer / Fall

Susan Wattsand ElaineHoffman

Watts. Photo:Julie Brown,

2005

In May 2008, PFP presented a major concert with Elaine and Susan Watts and a band of klezmer greats, premiering new arrangements of the music that these exceptionalwomen have learned from two older generations of musicians in their family. The following conversation was recorded on March 4, 2008, at the Havertown home ofElaine Hoffman Watts by PFP staffer Elizabeth Sayre. Three other women were present, representing two generations of the Hoffman family: Elaine’s sister, LeanoreNathans, and two of Elaine’s daughters, trumpeter Susan Watts and LorrieKeammerer.

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interview by Elizabeth Sayre

“ from then on,i never droppedthe sticks”Elizabeth:Tell me about the musicallife of your family. Leanore:When Elaine was a toddler,Daddy [Jacob “Jake” Hoffman] wasalways at that piano. Elaine tookDaddy’s drumsticks in her hands, andthe practice pad, and she started toplay in time with him. Daddy said,“Give me the sticks, I’ll show youhow to hold them.” From then on...Elaine: I never dropped the sticks.Leanore:… to perfection. My fatheralways took interest that she beproperly educated in music,percussion. She had the finestteachers, like Benjamin Podemski andDavid Grupp.1 I have nothing ofmusic. My ability is in handwork.Susan:And dancing. She has a fantastic sense of rhythm. Lorrie: She does have musical ability.They just did never find the rightthing for her. Elaine: No, no, my father made herstop when she was sixteen, because,you know, to become a chorus girl—was terrible. Elizabeth:Where was the house thatyou grew up?Elaine: 6205 Ludlow Street.Elizabeth: What was theneighborhood like at that time?

Elaine: Mixed. It wasn’t a Jewishneighborhood. It wasn’t Gentile. Lorrie: But then they moved. Susandoesn’t even remember. Mygrandparents moved from that houseto Wynnefield. We used to lay andnap under this piano, and Pop-Popplayed and played and played. Youknow, your concept of what isnormal is relative. When there wereparties, or even just dinners, therewas always live music after. It didn’teven have to be a party. You alwayscame into the house, and Pop-Popwas playing a freilachs on the piano.Whether it was a big holiday or wewere just there being babysat, youalways had music. In the basement,we used to put on puppet shows, andPop-Pop used to play the xylophonewith our puppet shows. So, Eileen, myolder sister, and I were constantlyexposed to anybody playing anythingat any time. Leanore:You would come home fromschool, Daddy was either teaching orplaying. It was always happy. Everyholiday, every dinner, every Fridaynight dinner, family dinner, it wasbeautiful.Elizabeth: So, where was JakeHoffman born?

Elaine: Krivoe Ozero in Russia.Elizabeth: How old was he when hecame over?Elaine: Seven.Elizabeth: How did he meet your mom?Elaine: He played her brother’s bar mitzvah.Leanore:And he put a telephone intheir home in Strawberry Mansion,so that he could call her and talk toher on the phone.Elizabeth:Tell me about your mom’sfamily a little bit. Was she born here?Elaine: No, she came here when shewas three, from Kiev, Russia[Ukraine]. She didn’t find this out tillwe were all grown—there were twochildren, Aunt Margaret and mymother. My mother was three orfour, they were like eighteen monthsapart, and they wanted to get out,from the pogroms. They gave the little girls wine, put them to sleep,and they were in the hay wagon, withhorses, and they covered them in thehay. And they drove them out ofRussia into Poland. A cousin told mymother the story.Leanore:When they were in Russia,and the Cossacks — my mother toldme this — would trample into theirhouse with the horses. The floors

[Continued on next page >]

elaine hoffman watts


were dirt, mud. My grandfather duga tunnel. When they would come in,the Cossacks, and raid, he wouldput the two girls in this tunnel. Andhe put the mud back on them, andthe rug. Elizabeth: Did your parents speakRussian or Yiddish?Elaine: My mother did say they hadan old grandmother that lived withthem, she did speak Russian. Butwhen the grandmom died …Lorrie:They spoke Yiddish.Elizabeth:Tell me how your fatherlearned music.Elaine:They were shamed into it. Hegraduated high school, whichnobody did then. He was going toBrown’s, one of thosepharmaceutical prep things. AndGrandpop said, “What, do you want

to make sodas at a fountain? Be amusician!” Lorrie: But the whole family played.The grandfather wrote music, andthey all played. He had lessons atSettlement Music School …Leanore: Seven lessons, he alwaystold me, seven. Then he would comehome at night, a little boy, playingweddings. …Elaine: Polish weddings …Leanore: or affairs that went on andon and on. His hands were frozenfrom carrying the drums, and hewould kick with his foot on thedoor and call his mother in Yiddish,“Please open the door, my handsare frozen.”Elaine: But I’ll tell you another one.He always worked, he made money.They lived in this little hole of a

house in South Philly. He put inindoor plumbing, a toilet. He made money! Elizabeth:This was before you were born.Elaine: Oh, he was a young man!Lorrie:You’re talking 1910, ‘12, ‘14,before even the First World War. Hewas born in 1898.Elaine:The Second World Warwouldn’t take him because he wastoo short. He wanted to go in theNavy Band. It would have changedhis whole life.Leanore:Uncle Morris was taller. Hewas drafted in the band.Lorrie:All the brothers played. Hehad how many brothers? Therewere four boys …Elaine: Uncle Johnny, Uncle Harry,Uncle Morris, and Daddy.

Uncle JohnnyHoffmanplayingdrums.

Philadelphia,c. 1920s.

PhotocourtesyElaine

HoffmanWatts

elaine watts/continued from p. 7

Jake Hoffman, Elaine’s father, andthe “ershte eynikl,” firstgrandchild, 1945. Jake Hoffman at a family Passoverseder, with grandchildren Eileen,Robert, Joanie and Lorrie. Photoscourtesy Elaine Hoffman Watts

2008 Summer / Fall WWIIPP 9

Lorrie: There were four boys and a girl.Elaine: Two girls, Ida and Esther.Lorrie: Oh, I didn’t know Aunt Ida. But, anyway, they all played. All the boys played.Elaine:They all went to Settlement. Aunt Ida went to Settlement, she would perform …Lorrie: She never played professionally,concerts.Leanore: She played concerts for organizations.Susan: How about Esther?Leanore:Violin and piano.Elaine: Esther, she could play, but shewas crazy.Elaine: Uncle Morris told me that Aunt Ida at one time taught piano at Settlement.Lorrie: Uncle Johnny played the drums. . .Elaine: … Good jazz!Leanore:With Paul Whiteman.Lorrie:And then Uncle Morris Hoffman,he’s still alive, he’s 95, he played at the— what was the name of that place?Leanore:The Latin Casino.3

Elaine: From the day it opened till theday it closed, at shows and theaters. Hewas a doubler; he played all the reeds.He played sax, clarinet, flute, bassoon.Lorrie: He taught me how to play clarinet.Leanore:Daddy got to hate music!Elizabeth:What did he hate about it, the business?Susan: I think it just eats you up. It’s very difficult.Elizabeth:Was it different then than

it is now?Susan: It was different then becausethere was more work and you couldmake a good living. But it was still very difficult.Elizabeth:You mean, like, competitive,and people not treating you well?Elaine: Right, right, right, right!Leanore:You were not looked up to. Youwere a klezmer.Elaine: No, I’m not talking about that. I’mtalking about the shows, the theaters. Daddy didn’t depend on theklezmer work. This man was a musicianfor anybody! Before the sound came inmovies, every theater had a symphonyorchestra as good as the PhiladelphiaOrchestra. Daddy used to play in those60-piece orchestras. Podemski — this iswhen Leanore was born, in 1923 — hesaid, “Why don’t you come in thePhiladelphia Orchestra?” Daddy said,“I’m making $60 a week playing at thetheater, and you’re only making $40 aweek at the Academy.” Daddy did notdepend on klezmer. Susan: Nobody depended on klezmer! Elizabeth:What was klezmer for inthose times?Elaine & Leanore: Weddings.Elizabeth: Just weddings, or were thereother events?Lorrie: No, like at our house …Leanore:Organizations. The Krivozer[Krivoe Ozero]…Elaine:The landsmanschaft organization— these people that came over from

the same town in Russia, they werecalled landsmanschaft organizations.They would have parties and banquets,and Daddy would play them. The KrivoeOzero was the town that Daddy camefrom, and that’s the musicians they used.The German Jews used Abe Neff, thisone used this one, and it’s a whole mish-mosh, I found out. Daddy was not abusinessman! Daddy was a virtuosomusician. He couldn’t care less aboutthe business!Leanore: He used to play an act, “Singalong with Jake.”Elizabeth:What was that like? A solo act?Leanore: He’d play the xylophones,starting out with “My Baby,” and thosesongs, all Fred Astaire type of numbers.He used to write to Lawrence Welkconstantly, “Please, let me audition for you.”Elizabeth: He was a composer, too, right?Tell me about his compositions.Lorrie:We always heard them. Heplayed them all the time. He played“Eteleh”; he played “Lakeleh”…Leanore:And another one, “FirstGrandchild”…Elizabeth:Were there charts?Elaine: Yeah, two, for “Lakeleh” and“Eteleh.” And one was lost. I have a little cassette that he made in the livingroom on Braddock Lane — you [Susan]were not born. I’m playing drums andDaddy is playing piano. I have it, and heplayed those three freilachs. And off ofthose, we had the music for “Eteleh”

[Continued on p. 20 >]


>from the*ar

chive<

For the documentary video on ElaineWatts that we are making, we’ve had thepleasure of recording dozens of people:members of Elaine’s family, fellowmusicians, long-time friends, herstudents, and klezmer scholars. Wethought we’d share some of this pleasurewith you! Interviewing, transcribing, andpouring over careful transcriptions canchange how you hear: time slows downand you savor the nuances, rhythms andfeeling in peoples’ voices. Eventually we’lluse nuggets of these interviews to fillout a picture of who Elaine Watts is andwhy this family legacy of klezmer is soprecious. For now, we offer a smallsampling of the rich reflections peoplehave shared in interviews. Interviewswere transcribed by Thomas Owens, andedited by Debora Kodish.

Hankus Netsky:There's already thesefamilies in Jewish music [in Philadelphia].There's a scene already for JosephHoffman to come into when he showsup in 1905; it's already here. And whathappens is they add on to it— itbecomes a cumulative thing. It becomesthis in-gathering of the exiles. Becausesomebody comes from Krivoe Ozero—and he comes with his book [of music].Harry Kandel's already here and he'sfrom Krakow, you know, and he's fromGalicia and he brings his book. Thenyou've got these guys from around Kievwho come also. And then you've gotMorris Fried from Belarus, and he bringshis book. And the Alexander family, alsofrom Belarus. It's one community, andthe musicians are basically puttingtogether a repertoire that becomes thePhiladelphia repertoire. And then it's ascene with families that continue

throughout the generations.So you have generations of Lemisches.Or you've got the Hoffmans, with JosephHoffman, Jakey Hoffman, Elaine Hoffman,Susan, you know. These families stay. Theyjust stay here for generation togeneration. So, it just continues. It's aplace that has its own feeling and its ownkind of atmosphere. It's not like thesepeople played klezmer music everyday— they didn't do that. They'd play itat weddings. But at a wedding you wereback in the old country.Morris Hoffman: Oh yeah! Pesach wasthe day. After the Seder, my father wouldsay, "Get the clarinet!" He gave just oneorder, and that was it! So I would playthe clarinet. My brother Jake, he playedpiano, and my brother John played thedrum. And the family had a good time. Infact, we lived in South Philadelphia,where we had a porch. All the neighbors

“50 years ago, i played thesame way”: excerpts from interviews



would be on the porch, wouldwatch us. We had fun! My fatherloved to dance. He was very osten-tatious. He had to be the boss. Andwe had a good time. The whole fam-ily was together. And then, we wereenjoying ourselves. But my fatherwas the boss! He had my whole lifeplanned. And I didn’t dare disobeyhim. If he said this was green, thiswas green. The older generation,whatever they said, went. That'show it was. Elaine Hoffman Watts: My cousinBuddy studied drums with my father,Jake. And he said, "Your father waseccentric," he said. "But what amusician." I said, "Nah, you're tellingme he was eccentric?" He was abrilliant musician. Very troubled guy,you know. He worked hard to makea living. And he was just great. And

he didn't go to Curtis or Julliard. Hetook a half-a-dozen lessons at theSettlement Music School when theywere, you know, "Got theseimmigrants, teach 'em something,"you know. That's what that schoolwas for. And he started out as apiano player, and he did play forsilent movies. He had a sister, AuntEsther, she's only died in the last fiveyears or so. She played violin andpiano, and would never play foranybody—one of those. And UncleMorris, great saxophone andclarinet. And there was anotheruncle, Johnny, handsome guy, whowas a jazz drummer: he worked forPaul Whiteman orchestras. I'm goingback! And, uh, there was anotheruncle, Uncle Harry, screwball, greatviolinist who ran away fromPeabody. And then there was

another sister, Aunt Ida, who was a great pianist. Henry Sapoznik:This is what's sotragic and poignant about this. If youwanna play Irish music or Bulgarianmusic or old-time music, you justget in a plane and you fly to thosecountries, and you just roam around.You'll find some old guy on a porchand he's playing, and you're off tothe races. We [Jews] don't have that.We need our elders. We need thecarriers of the tradition. Drummerswere in reasonably short supply. Butto find an old-time drummer whowas still actively working, and awoman! I mean, c'mon—break allthe molds right here in this oneperson. She forces us to re-examinethe received wisdom. Elaine Hoffman Watts: When Istarted already to play, Daddy didn't

A page from JosephHoffman’s books. Jake

Hoffman on xylophone, inan Italian band in

Philadelphia. Photoscourtesy Elaine Hoffman

Watts


“50 years ago, i played thesame way”: excerpts from interviews


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Pupi Legarreta. Photos:

Elizabeth Sayre

A personal note: For me, writingabout the life and work of musicians is thenext best thing to playing music, but it canalso be daunting. Basing my writing oninterviews and research into the historiesof sounds and places, I strive for twogoals: accurate, nuanced representationand increased visibility and understandingof the artist’s work and life in cultural andhistorical context. I used to find this taskmost challenging when I was faced with anunfamiliar musical style or art form andhad to learn enough about it, quickly, torepresent it well. It turns out thatdescribing something better known canbe equally challenging. How do I capturewhat I, and others, have heard and feltover years, or even decades? How do Iexpress the visceral feelings andunderstandings that certain sounds giveme? How do I relate those personalthoughts to a bigger picture? How do Iconnect an individual’s story to acomplicated cultural history in just a fewpages? How do I inspire in the reader thesame respect that I have for a musician,based not only on his or her reputation,but also on my own accumulated musicalexperiences?Writing about Pupi represents exactly

that kind of challenge. I first saw him

playing with the outstanding Puerto RicanLatin jazz drummer/percussionist SteveBerrios at International House in the1990s. I met Pupi several years agothrough AMLA, a North Philadelphia–based non-profit arts organization thathas worked on behalf of Latin music andmusicians for more than 25 years.* In2003 I had the unforgettable opportunityto rehearse and perform as apercussionist with Pupi and 22 othermusicians as part of a two-year projectthat brought new arrangements of“classic” Latin tunes (mostly Cuban) toaudiences in Allentown and Philadelphia.Under the direction of Johnny Pacheco (aDominican star of salsa music from thesixties and seventies) and Elio Villafranca(Cuban, a former resident of Philadelphia,and a Latin jazz pianist from a youngergeneration), the orchestra was made up ofpeople from the Philadelphia area. Manywere experienced Latin musicians; otherscame from different genres, such asclassical music or jazz. (The concerts weretitled “A Night of Latin Classics;” majorfunding was provided by the PhiladelphiaMusic Project.)Sitting across the stage from Pupi was a

remarkable experience. I had played inLatin rhythm sections (which usually

consist of congas, bongó, timbales, bass,piano, and percusión menor), but I hadnever been part of a charanga. I had neverexperienced first-hand the unique soundof violins in Latin dance music. In thatcontext, the violin is an important rhythminstrument, as well as a melody andharmony instrument. A skilled charangueromust have the instrumental technique of a classical player, the ready-to-invent ear ofa jazz musician, and the rhythmic sense ofa Latin percussionist. The violins incharanga play legato melodic lines, butthey also cook! They add to the collectiverhythmic energy of the music by playingrepetitive, syncopated patterns (calledmontunos), just as all the instruments do at certain times. The montunos of themelodic instruments along with thetumbaos of bass and percussion create a rhythmically dense engine to propeldancers, and a thick platform of sound tosupport melodic soloists and singers. Theconfidence, attitude, knowledge, and heartthat Pupi put into his playing — bothmontunos and solos — during thoserehearsals and shows made the wholeexperience inspiring, energizing, and fun.Pupi plays the simplest line with feelingthat makes clearly audible his more than50 years’ worth of experience. — ES

by Elizabeth Sayre

FFeelliixx ““PPuuppii””Legarreta,Charanguero Mayor


Master musician Felix “Pupi”Legarreta has performedand recorded with the bestof the best in Latin dance

music since the 1950s. By turns aviolinist, flutist, singer, arranger,composer, and bandleader, Pupi haspersonally witnessed and participatedin the birth of several importantmusical genres: charanga, cha-cha-chá,pachanga, salsa, boogaloo.1Yet he ishumble, accessible … and,unfortunately, not so well known bypeople outside his community orgeneration.Pupi was born in 1940 in the city ofCienfuegos, also known as La Perla delSur, the “Pearl of the South,” for itsFrench-influenced colonial flavor.Cienfuegos is on the southern coastof Cuba, the heart of the sugar-growing lands. It was the originalhome of Orquesta Aragón, founded inthe late 1930s and one of Cuba'smost important charangas (a type ofCuban dance orchestra that usesviolins, cello, and flute instead ofhorns). This was the music that Pupigrew up hearing. By the age of sevenhe was studying violin—and more:

Our fathers, they are very strict.We’re poor, so our fathers have to be sure that we get some professionbecause they cannot support us fortoo long. It’s not like here. All themusic courses in Cuba are the longway. Studying reading four or fiveyears, with la teoría, el instrumento, laforma de la música, harmony,counterpoint, orchestration,conducting. Oh, please. Ear training….[When you begin] music in Cuba, theteacher will be sincere with you. If theteacher puts you to do, let’s say, thescale — [sings] “do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si,do” — and he sings that to you. Andhe says, “I want you to catch the samenote. I’m giving you this scale by ear.”And you don’t do that? He’s going totell you that you cannot do [music].Teachers in Cuba used to say to someof us, “Hey, you don’t have the ear formusic. Try to be a barber, or a tailor,or something. But quit music, 'causeyou got problems.”By the age of fifteen, Pupi hadmoved to Havana with his uncle, whowould escort him to gigs. He soonjoined another of Cuba's best-knowncharangas, Orquesta Sensación:When I was around twelve, I was

playing with a band by the name ofOrquesta Sorpresa over there inCienfuegos. And I played with thatband maybe two years, and then Iwent to Havana. [OrquestaSensación] used to go to Cienfuegossometimes to play. The guy whoplayed the drums, he used to be myfriend, Chuchú [Jesús Esquizarrosa].He saw me in Havana. I went to seeSan Lázaro around December 17,2

and [Chuchú] saw me down inRincón, Santiago de las Vegas. He sawme there, and he said, “Hey,Cienfueguero, you’re here?” I said,“Yeah.” He said, “What are youdoing?” I say, “Nothing, I don’t evenhave a violin.” He said, “Don’t worryabout it. Go tomorrow to the radiostation, and we’re going to get you aviolin, and you’ll play with me. You’reworking with me. That’s it.” And that’sthe way I started playing withSensación. We used to do RadioMambí, a radio program. We used todo Radio Cadena Habana. We’d dothree radio stations, live, a day.Pupi began his professional life at a time when Latin dance music of theSpanish/Afro-Caribbean variety wasinternationally popular, and well-

by Elizabeth Sayre

Felix “Pupi”Legarreta,



“Mother wins fight to end stigma ofillegitimacy” was the headline in thePhiladelphia Bulletin on December 10,1978, announcing that all children inPennsylvania would have the right toreceive a birth certificate, regardlessof the marital status of their parents.Lois Fernandez, best known as afounder of ODUNDE, was the majorforce behind the effort to changePennsylvania policy. She says, “This isthe big one for me, This was mybiggest victory. ODUNDE definitelywould take second place. This is mygreatest achievement.” Thirty yearslater, we offer Fernandez’s storyabout this struggle, transcribed froman interview in the PFP Archive, andinaugurating our new series ofstories offering first personperspectives on local history andcultural heritage. Like her work atODUNDE, this struggle reflectsFernandez’ commitment to self-determination, equity and respect—and her courage.

It started in 1971. I started talking with my motherabout the rights of children bornout of wedlock, because

I hadn’t gotten a birth certificate formy son. And I said to her I hadn’t receivedanything. And she was working forthe Bureau of Vital Statistics at thetime. And she said in her own way,“You won’t ‘cause he’s a bastard. Il-legit.” And she looks at me and she said,“I don’t believe what I see in youreyes! You think you’re gonna changethat white man’s law that’s over twohundred years old?”So, I was at Community College atthe time. I think I was part time,working for the Department ofWelfare as a gang worker andmajoring in Library Tech, so theytaught me how to do research. So I started looking and seeing somethings about children born out ofwedlock. A friend of mine was

working at Blue Cross told me Icould use their law library at lunchtime. So I started going over there toBlue Cross, right across the streetfrom City Hall. And I becameobsessed one night. I remember calling my girlfriend and saying, “I’vewritten this letter to StateRepresentative Hardy Williams forthe rights for children born out ofwedlock.” And in that one big paragraph thatI wrote to him I said that I’d givenbirth to a prince, but according tolaw I didn’t have a birth certificatefor him because the law says that,you know, he was a bastard or il-legitborn out of wedlock, and you don’tget a birth certificate. You can get anotification. And the notification onlyhad the child’s name on there, nomother or father. And I consideredthat like it was nobody’s child.Andwhen my child was born, I gave allthat information—his father’s nameand everything, you know— to the

>from the*ar

chive<

Lois Fernandez atODUNDE, c. 1991.

Photo: Thomas B. Morton

.

hospital. But that was the law and mymother had told me. And I couldn’taccept the fact that because I wasn’tmarried, that my son would not have abirth certificate. And how key, in myview, a birth certificate was: a passportto life. You couldn’t go to schoolwithout it. You couldn’t go in the armywithout it. You couldn’t get marriedwithout it. You needed a birthcertificate. And so I asked HardyWilliams could he help change thelaw, so children born out of wedlockcould have their birth certificate. Andso I sent that letter to Hardy. I didn’t hear from him. It was a weekor two, and I ran into him one day intown. And I was crazy, so I asked him

why he hadn’t responded to my letter.And he said, “What letter?” So I pulledthe copy out of my bag, said, “There itis.” And he said to me, “Well I’ll checkup on this, and you will hear fromme.” And I did in a couple of weeks,and he said he was going to introducea law that he thought would be theforerunner for what he called the“most wanted human rights legislationthat should be in the state.” I still havethe original letter he sent me. Andthat was how that got started. And Iwas so happy when he wrote thatback to me. And then after that, I decided weneed some publicity on this thing, inorder to get it out there. I don’tknow— I’d go on my gut. I just felt itwas time. But I needed to get somepublic interest stirred up about it. Andso I knew this woman from thenewspaper, Sarah Casey. She wasworking for the Inquirer. I calledSarah, and I think that she wrote thefirst article about children.

And so folks saw that, and aclassmate of mine from CommunityCollege, she said to me that she had agood friend who was heading theUrban League here, and she felt theyneeded an issue. And so she said,“Lois, I’m gonna have them contactyou, and get in contact with you.” Andshe did. And so I met with them, andhe decided that he would let me gomake a presentation to their board.And I did, and they were veryreceptive, and several of them saidthat they too were born out ofwedlock, and that they knew aboutthe birth certificate issue. Otherpeople were amazed. Other peopledidn’t believe that they had separate

birth certificates. So they were gonnafinance the legal part of it. And we went to court, but it gotthrown out, if I remember, the firsttime, because they said we didn’t havea father who said that children couldinherit from him. Because the way thelaw had it, inheritance was a differentissue. If you were able to getinheritance, you had to pay a higherrate of inheritance tax. So the wholething was out of whack for children ifthey allowed you to inherit from yourfather. But if you inherited from yourmother, you still had to pay a higherrate of tax because you’re born out ofwedlock. And so finally we got a father. Theman who came—his uncle heard meon radio, and told his nephew. Thenephew, after he’d got in contact withme, and he said, “I’ll be your father forthat part of the case. I heard that youall got thrown out of court becauseyou had no man who wanted his child to have the right to inherit,

whether he was married or not.” And we got that. And then I went on to talk to thePublic Interest Law Center, Ned Wolf.Because I think the Urban Leaguedidn’t have but so much money to putinto that legal part of it. And I heardabout the Public Interest Law Center,and went to do a presentation forthem. And when their lawyer finishedtalking about it, I said, “You ready tolisten to me?” And finally they let mehave my say, and when I finished NedWolf said, “All right, I’ll write thebrief.” ‘Cause I took the position afterdoing all my research that it wasunequal protection under the law,‘cause here were two separate birth

certificates. Children born in wedlockhad a certificate with their mother’smaiden name and their father’s name.Children born out of wedlock, justhad a notification with the name ofthe child. But obviously there had been a thingwhere, you know, it was anembarrassment for many women. And women— as my research hasshown—women had to take a wholelot of heat for having children out ofwedlock. You were a spoiled woman. Imean you had been tainted. If you gotmarried, you were supposed to be sohonored that this man gave you hisname. You were now married; youwere legit yourself, and it made youhonorable. And I just didn’t feeldishonorable. I always felt like, “I’m ahuman being as anybody. Had mychild, and I’m just ready to go towherever I have to go to deal withanybody. I’m as honorable as anybody,and I ain’t taking nothing from nobody.And I will kick ass and take names for

2008 Summer /Fall WWIIPP 15[Continued on p. 29 >]

by Lois Fernandez

“You think you’re gonnachange that white man’s law?”

16 WWIIPP 2008 Summer / Fall

by Suzanne Povse

Bootstraps

Suzanne Povse and the RCAbuilding in Camden where sheonce worked. Now they areupscale lofts. Photos: Eva Himmelein, 2008


[Continued on page 24]

M y first co-workers were 1977vintage RCA employees: all men. Theolder men were WWII and Korean Warvets, and many of the younger ones were less than

ten years removed from their Viet Nam experiences. I spent my first day on the job in asection of the machine shop that did assembly of sheet metal parts. It was a back shop behind the main machine shop.

The six-story brick building covered a whole city block along the Delaware River. It had floor-to-ceiling windows: they were selling points when the building was converted into upscale loftapartments. Its loading dock is now a bar/restaurant carrying the name of a company that at onepoint employed thousands of people in the region. My shop was on the top floor of the building. In the winter the wind blew through the wall of windows facing the river. I was hired at the end ofOctober. The temperature became unkind in November along the river. Standing on cement floors insteel-toed work boots made a machinist’s feet particularly cold. On these cold and windy winter daysmy friend — a welder who was responsible for my getting the interview that landed me my job —would wheel in a hand truck carrying a large hunk of aluminum that he had heated up with a weldingtorch. He would drop it on the cement floor and shove it under my bench. My feet would stay warmfor a good hour.

Handling steel and aluminum for eight hours a day in bitter cold weather was not kind to the fingerseither. On days like this, the senior men in the back shop would take apart a pallet and fill a steeldrum with the wood and some of the brown wrapping paper we used for shipping our parts. Thenthey would douse the contents of the steel drum with isopropyl alcohol, which we used for cleaningand as a lubricant for drilling aluminum. They would create a blaze, and we new hires would standaround the drum laughing at their ingenuity and bravado while we warmed our bodies and thawedout our fingers. This behavior was more a statement to the bosses about the horrible conditions wehad to work under than a real solution to our discomfort, but it was good for our morale.

18WIP 2008 Summer / Fall

How do people come to be featured in Works inProgress? Certainly, they are inthese pages because we think theyhave something to say— but also,their presence usually means thatthey are involved with one of PFP’sprograms. Elaine HoffmanWatts was featured in a major PFPconcert last spring and is the subjectof a documentary in progress. The

late LaVaughn Robinson wasinvolved in Folklore Project effortsover decades, including both themajor production Stepping in Timeand the documentary Plenty of GoodWomen Dancers. Pupi Legarretaand Suzanne Povse haveparticipated in PFP’s technicalassistance program. LoisFernandez first came to a PFPtechnical assistance workshop more

than 15 years ago, and ODUNDEand PFP have been friends and alliesever since. We’ve worked together inmany ways, including collaborativeefforts from a landmark project onsocial dance (From Hucklebuck to HipHop), to the multi-year Philly DanceAfrica programs, and a 2007documentary photo exhibition inhonor of ODUNDE’s 30th birthday.On that occasion, we showed a

>after*w

ord<

behind the scenes at pfp

selection of Tom Morton’sbeautiful photos of this importantcommunity event, offering copiesof the images in exchange forpeoples’ stories about them. Thiswas a chance for us to hear about (and to document) some of whatODUNDE means to people, and away to make the exhibition live onin homes around the city, wherethe photographs are deeply knownand treasured— and where theysurely continue to stimulateimportant storytelling. As part ofthis process, Nia Bey Al-Rasulshared a story about LoisFernandez— saying that she wasbeloved in the community for herfight around birth certificates. Thatprompted us to get the storydown on tape. It is now preservedin both our Archive and atODUNDE. What appears in thesepages tends to be part of suchlarger and ongoing efforts (andpart of how we learn what weneed to be doing). We are initiatingthis new “Afterword” column toshare some of these behind-the-scenes matters. But all that said:we are happy to entertain yourideas about what might be in thesepages. We focus exclusively oncommunity-based cultural heritagein this region, paying closeattention to local folk andtraditional arts and artists, and to

documenting significantcommunity experiences, especiallyregarding social change. We preferwork in which people speak forthemselves, in their own words. Ifyou have an idea, we would behappy to hear from you.

This summer the wonderful folksat Mill Creek Design built a newback shed at PFP and made someother needed repairs to ourbuilding. Thanks to them (and agrant from the City’s CapitalFund), we’ll be opening a new folkarts resource room for public usethis fall— a home within ourhome for our long-runningtechnical assistance programoffering services to peopleworking in folk and traditional artsand cultural heritage. We areproud that over the last 21 years,we have helped local traditionalartists and grassroots groups toraise more than $2.876 milliondollars in outside funds to supportcommunity-based folk arts activityhere, but that is just one mark ofimpact. The learning andconversation among workshopattendees has always been rich:now we have a permanent spaceto support this activity. Look forexpanded “office hours” inaddition to our second Saturdayworkshops, beginning this fall.

These services are always free.Our 21st year was filled withactivity: two major concerts (soldout, artistic successes), a busy yearof technical assistance (resulting inmajor awards to many localtraditional artists— see ourwebsite www.folkloreproject.orgfor details), a full complement offolk arts education programsreaching more than 400 studentsat the Folk Arts – CulturalTreasures Charter School(FACTS), founded by AsianAmericans United and PFP, andmore. The photos give someglimpses of activities at ourbuilding.

If you are reading this withineasy distance from PFP, we hopethat we’ll see you this fall. Visit ourwebsite for current programs,See www.folkloreproject.org forvirtual exhibitions, glimpses of ourarchive, and of course, to purchaseour books and documentaries andback issues of our long-runningmagazine. Or call or email andwe’ll add you to our mailing list:215.726.1106 [email protected]

—Debora Kodish


Photos: Liberianperformers BlamohDoe, GbahtuoComgbaye, KormassaBobo and FatuGayflor at PFP’sfarewell party forlong-time staffer ToniShapiro-Phim. TaiJoselyn and Dr.Joanie May Cordovamaking birthdayhats at PFP’s 20thbirthday celebration.Board memberMawusi Simmonswith PFP materialsand glimpses of ourHmong exhibition.PFP board and staff:Germaine Ingram,Ellen Somekawa, IfeNii-Owoo, DeboraKodish, Mary Yee,Toni Shapiro-Phimand Dorothy Wilkie.Photos: Ife Nii-Owoo.Above: LinfordMartin and AndyPeifer, from MillCreek Design, hard atwork at the new PFPresource room,summer 2008. Photo:Thomas Owens


and “Lakeleh,” and Susan’s friend, wesent him the tape, and he transcribed “The Ershte Eynikl.”Elizabeth: That’s “The FirstGrandchild”? And you’re going toplay those three tunes in the show?Elaine:Yeah.Elizabeth: Tell me about what elseyou’re playing.Susan:Well, we’re playing all themusic that my great-grandfatherwrote. I never met him. He seemslike the most interesting, nutty. Mymother’s father’s father.Elizabeth: What was his name?All: Joseph Hoffman. Susan: He wrote these books. Idon’t know whether he did it frommemory. Nobody knows aboutthese books. Elizabeth: So these books of his thatyou have are dated 1927?Susan:Yeah. I don’t know whetherhe had sheet music and copied it.He did it in three different keys: B-flat, C, and E-flat. Elizabeth: It’s for the differentinstruments, in other words.Leanore:He also wrote poetry,beautiful poetry.…Susan: He learned Yiddish, helearned how to play cornet in theRussian Army. So in this bookthere’s all these really nice Russianmarches. And there’s concertpieces. There’s things he wrote —there’s Naftuli Brandwein doinas.4

Naftuli Brandwein is a klezmerclarinetist. Dave Tarras, who was abig klezmer clarinetist at the time,that wrote popular stuff …Elizabeth: You mean, these compositions from other peopleare in the books?Susan: Yes, yes!Elizabeth: Did he transcribe them?Susan: I don’t know, that’s what I’msaying. I don’t know whether he didit from his memory, or if he did itfrom other sheets of music …Elaine: Or old phonographs, the 78s.Elizabeth: So, these books are a mixof his compositions and otherpeople’s stuff?Susan: And “Trad” pieces,traditional klezmer tunes, traditional

eastern European tunes.… Elaine:That they’re still playing today.Elizabeth: Well, Elaine, your fathersaw your talent, and he reallysupported you. Tell me what elsehappened to you, and how did youbecome a musician?Elaine:Actually, I can’t do anythingelse. My family will tell you that.Susan: She certainly can’t nurse. Lorrie: She can’t cook, she can’t …Elaine: I can cook, I don’t want to cook!Lorrie: She can’t sew, she can’t type.Elaine: I can’t sew and I can’t knit. Soit was default — play the drums!But I can make kasha. No, I alwayswanted to be a drummer. Leanore:She went to junior high,Holmes Junior High at 55th &Chestnut. Elaine: It’s an African American oldage home now.Leanore:When Elaine went tojunior high, I said, “Go down andapply to play in the band.” She camehome and she said, “They gave methe triangle.” I said, “You hit thetriangle. Someday something willhappen and they’ll need you.” Andshe became the drummer. Elaine: No, want to hear a story? I had become a famous drummer bythen, in junior high. The teacherwrote a musical. I was the only onethat could read music, sit down andplay the set. I had the chicken pox.The principal of the school came tothe house, and they covered me upwith calamine lotion—the rash wasalready all out already—and I wentand played the show and camehome!Leanore:And did you not perform— Paul Whiteman had a program… Elaine:An amateur hour. Yes. I did that.Elizabeth: When was that?Elaine: I was eighteen years old. Iwas at Curtis. I was on television.He had an amateur hour.Elizabeth:What did you play, drum set?Elaine:The drums, and I soloed,whatever. Elizabeth: So, tell me a little bit

about Curtis and what it was likebeing there.Elaine: Oh, it was nice! When I firstgot in there, a couple of guys cameand said to me, “Are you the girlthat plays the drums?” Because Ididn’t realize, not till many yearslater, that I was the first female thatwas ever accepted there to playpercussion.Susan:And graduated.Elaine:Yeah, that graduated.Elizabeth: Did the other studentsand the teachers accept you?Elaine: Oh, yeah! These studentsthat I went with, they all becamefamous symphony musicians.Elizabeth: So, how long were youthere? You went straight from highschool to Curtis?Elaine: Yeah, I went two years there,then I went a year to the NewOrleans Symphony, which I did notlike. It was boring.Susan: You sit there and count …Elaine:And then you come inwrong. Then I came back to Curtis,and I was really devastated becausemy teacher left. Elizabeth: So it was two years, andthen the New Orleans Symphony,and then another year, and then yougot your diploma.Elaine: Right. In 1952 I was in theNew Orleans Symphony. Of coursemy mother came with me. Youcouldn’t let a nineteen-year-oldJewish girl go by herself. Anyway, itwas still segregation there. On thebuses, they had signs: “Colored.”They had pegs in the signs, and theseats had holes in them, and thenyou moved them. So, my motherand I get on the bus, and there’snobody on the bus but us, so wetook the sign and hid it. All thepeople, white or black, didn’t knowwhere to sit. It was hysterical,they’re looking for the sign —“Where’s the sign?” Somebody saidto me, many years later — Susanand I were together, they said, “Whydidn’t you steal the sign?” I said, “Ididn’t have anything, I just stuck it in the bottom.” But it was ahysterical story.



Elizabeth: And then what happened?Elaine: I jobbed around, played, taught …Susan: Had children, got married …Elaine: No, no! Got married first,then had children! Anyway, but — Iplayed and then I got married.Elizabeth: What year did you get married?Elaine: 1955.Elizabeth:And you played … there’sthat picture of you playing drums atyour own wedding, right?Elaine: Yeah! Daddy was playing asolo, and I played along.Susan:You had to play at familythings whether you wanted to ornot. She played at my wedding. Wehad a jazz quartet, or something likethat, and she played the drums. Shesaid, “Get out of there, get up, I’mgoing to play!”Lorrie:We just went to a wedding inApril, in Brooklyn, our cousin’swedding. The band was terrible.Susan and my mother, and thenBuddy’s kids, who really play good,Jordan and Larry plays saxophone,they took over the band, becausethis band was horrible. Susan knewthe guitar player, and she goes up,and she goes, “What’s up with this band?”Elaine: Susan played, we all played. Elizabeth: Elaine, how was Susan asfar as music when she was little?Elaine: Genius! From the get-go.First she went to Suzuki piano. Shewas really good. Elizabeth: How old was she?Elaine: How old, Susan? Three or four?Susan: I don’t know. I just rememberloving it. And Lorrie was a fabulousclarinet player! She played so good,and I remember her clarinet teachercoming over to the house, teachingher, and giving her lessons — JoeSmith — and she had such abeautiful sound. She thinks shewasn’t any good. I don’t know whyshe thinks that.Lorrie: ‘Cause I never could count,and Mommy used to say, “You can’tcount, you can’t count!” I could playreally good, but you have to do that

counting thing when you play. So Inever felt that I was as good aseverybody else.Elizabeth: Susan, when did you startplaying trumpet?Susan: When I was eight; she said Iwas seven. I didn’t like my pianoteachers, and what wound uphappening was I quit the piano, but Inever stopped playing. I still, to thisday, love playing the piano. Lorrieplayed the clarinet, Eileen played theaccordion and the bassoon, Pop-Popwas always there playing the piano,we had a vibraphone set up.Mommy’s vibraphone was set up inthe living room. I would come homefrom school, and she [Elaine] wasteaching, and I’d sit on her lap whileshe gave lessons, you know? So wehad this closet, and it was A, B, C, D.It was a sliding closet, the panels onthe closet. A was coats, B wasanother sliding [door], then C….There were four doors, and in thefourth door on the bottom, ooh, itwas always a mess. On the bottomwere all kinds of instruments. Therewas the accordion, there was aviolin, there were all sorts ofpercussion instruments, and mydad’s trumpet from high school wasthere. I remember one day, justpicking it up and playing it, and Iloved it. I just could do it right away,naturally; it just came out. Iremember saying, “I want to taketrumpet lessons.” That’s how Istarted to play. I couldn’t counteither. I didn’t learn how to countuntil I started teaching. Elizabeth: Did you play in groups inmiddle school and high school?What kind of groups?Susan: Everything.Lorrie: You didn’t have your ownbands and stuff, no, no. She played inschool orchestra and districtorchestra.Susan: But I was in PhiladelphiaYouth Orchestra. I was the youngestperson they ever accepted forbrass. That’s how I got the travelbug. ‘Cause I went to Australia. I wasfifteen. I was like, “Oh, my God! I love this!” Then we went to …

Elaine: Scotland! England, Scotland,and Wales. We were in Dover …Susan: I got sick as a dog. Do youremember?Elaine: They wanted to take hertonsils out in England. Susan: Yeah. And I missed a concertin Bath. Then I went away to St.Louis Conservatory of Music. It waslike Curtis, you had to live on yourown. It was too much, it was too faraway, I was too young. It didn’t workout. But I came back home, andthat’s when I started playing more. Iwent back to Temple, and I startedplaying in Haitian bands, and Istarted working in radio, and Iworked at WRTI, and I got into jazzmore. I was in the scholarship brassquintet at Temple. To make a longstory short, I never graduated witha music degree. Then I went and gotmarried, and I went back to schooland got a bachelor’s degree inEnglish literature from Rosemont,and quit playing the trumpet. Then,eleven years ago, I left my husband,and I came home to this wonderfulworld of klezmer! Elaine:That’s true, that’s it! That’show she found klezmer.Elizabeth: How did klezmer go frombeing something that was bad tobeing what it is now?Elaine: If you were a musician, youwouldn’t want to be called aklezmer. It meant you were a bum inthe park. It died out. Dead! Gone!For 20 some years. I would say fromthe Second World War on. Thesemusicians in New York, FrankLondon, Henry Sapoznik, andHankus Netsky here in Philadelphia,and several other people. They wentand they said, “This music is toogood to die, to leave it like that.” In1976 Hankus Netsky called me andsaid, “I’m looking for Jake Hoffman.”I said, “You’re two years too late, hedied!” Then Hankus came here andI showed him Grandpop’s books,and he [Hankus] had that KlezmerConservatory Band. Which is a jokebecause klezmer was not a




pupi/continued from p. 13

known bands toured frequentlybetween Cuba and the UnitedStates. Mexico City was also adesirable working environment forCuban musicians; Pupi headed thereafter a few years with Sensación towork with a group led by NinonMondéjar (1914–2006):With Sensación, I played a fewyears. From around 1956, I wasplaying with Sensación. And then,Ninon Mondéjar from OrquestaAmérica, he had problems with [his]musicians in Mexico, so then I quitSensación to go to Mexico withAmérica. 'Cause that’s the peoplethat did the cha-cha-chá, so I said,“Let me go with Ninón Mondéjar.”And besides that, I was going toMexico. Anybody, to really be amusician [at that time], you had tobe in Mexico and live two or threeyears. Music and art in Mexico, it[was] like in Cuba. If you were amusician in Mexico, you were aprofessional. I used to be very good friendswith Enrique Jorrín [1926–1987].3

I was in Mexico, I was with himalmost every day, seeing the musicthat he got on top of the table,writing music. He played the piano— that’s how he wrote his music.And he was incredible, an incrediblemusician, Enrique Jorrín. Violinplayer, piano player, good composer.He did incredible music. Top of theline. The time of the cha-cha-chá,the tunes that he did, I’m not goingto see a Cuban person do thatagain. He was very intellectual, hiswords about the music, incredible.The melodies, type of connectionsin music, you know that he studiedmusic. You know, the system we usein Cuba is very long, but in the longrun, we are musicians.When he returned to Cuba in thelate 1950s, Pupi realized that dailylife there was changing because ofpolitical developments. He decidedto leave and soon found a way todo so:I stayed in Mexico from, I wouldsay, ’57, ’58, beginning of ’59. I wentback to Cuba. I saw Cuba real

depressed, you know what I mean?No dancing, nothing — everybodywas scared to go outside. So, I wentback with Sensación. When I cameback from [Orquesta] América,from Mexico, right away Rolando[Valdes] said, “Pupi, all right?” That’sthe way I went back to Sensación.At that time, América dissolvedover there [in Mexico]. Thecontract finished, and somemusicians stayed, and others wentback to Cuba.When Fidel Castro came in, I wasin Cuba. A little before that, I meetRudy Calzado [1929–2002], thesinger. I understood there weresome Cuban people — they usedto have Orquesta Nuevo Ritmo deCuba in Chicago, with RolandoLozano on the flute, RenéHernandez on the piano … a bunchof those Cuban musicians. So I said,“Rudy, can you get me out, and talkto Cuco, the drummer, andArmando Sanchez [1920–1997]?”To see if they can bring me there toChicago with that band. “I want toget out of here.” Rudy used to singwith Enrique Jorrín in Mexico, so heknew what the problem was inCuba. He was living in this countryalready. So Rudy said, “Pupi, let metalk to Armando and Cuco, becausewe need a violin player there. Let’ssee, maybe they’ll help you out.” Itwas like that. One day, Rudy said,“Pupi, those people, they’reinterested in bringing you to goover there.” He gave me the papersthe Palladium in New York gave mea contract.4Yeah! To make thembelieve that I’m going to play with[José] Fajardo [1919–2001] at thePalladium in New York and to comeback to Cuba. But it was not true, Iwas not going back to Cuba. 1959.November 18, 1959. It was verycold, Chicago! Whew!!After coming to Chicago in 1959,Pupi stayed with Nuevo Ritmo tillthe early 1960s, when the banddissolved at the end of a tour thatwound up in Los Angeles. He andsome of the other musicians in thegroup were picked up immediately

by Mongo Santamaría [1922–2003].Pupi recorded four albums on theFantasy label with Mongo’s group5

and eventually moved to the Bronx,where he lived till the 1980s exceptwhen he was gigging and recordingin Colombia or Venezuela or someother place. In the early 1960s,Mongo’s group was the mostsuccessful among severalcompetitors in New York, playing atthe Palladium, the Village Gate,Birdland, clubs in the Bronx aroundHunt’s Point, and other venues. In1962, Pupi ventured to put togethera band and eventually made a dozenrecords of his own on the RemoRecords label. In 1962 he becamethe first person to use the term“salsa” in a record title — SalsaNova with Pupi Legarreta — on theTico label, anticipating the rise ofthis new term for Latin dance musicin the late sixties. In the mid-1960sPupi decided that he needed tolearn the flute. He practiced for ayear or so and came out playing thefive-key wooden “charanga flute,”which is preferred by somemusicians for its full-sounding highnotes. The flutes he prefers weremanufactured by Martin Frères inParis in the 19th century.On a lot of my records, I play theflute, not the violin. Because [thefive-key] is the flute we use in Cuba.And that’s the one we need reallyto make the sound of this thing thatwe play.The late 1960s saw the rise ofFania Records, and the 1970s, thecreation of the Fania All Stars.Arguably the best-known salsagroup in history, the All Stars wereessentially a collection of superstarperformers who had all had theirown groups at different times. Pupiperformed with Fania through themid-1980s, touring the U.S., PuertoRico, Europe, Japan, and Africa.We used to travel there like crazy.One time we went in one week tothese countries: we went toMadrid, Madrid to Barcelona,



Barcelona to the French Riviera,Nice or Cannes. [Then] to Paris.From Paris to Amsterdam. In oneweek. In 1980 we did it, those fivecities like that, in one week.Because when I came back, that’swhen those people were leavingCuba. I cannot forget about thattrip. When I came back they say,“Oh, people leaving from Cuba!”6

[In 1974] we traveled from hereto Spain to change planes. We wentto Congo, Zaire, Kinshasa. We wentthere, we waited there about threeor four days with that weather. Andthen the day of the concert, westart playing, on the stage, and wewere playing [sings] “Que baile migente.” I was playing the flute. I grabthe flute from [Johnny] Pacheco,and put the violin on the [ground]…I was standing right there by thedrum, so I put the violin on thefloor, and I grab the flute [laughs]. Itstarts raining, and you know whatthe guy with the camera says?“That’s it, fellas!!” We start playingthe tune. They canceled the [Ali-Foreman] fight,7 and we startplaying the concert at the baseballstadium…and the guy, the cameratechnician, he said, “That’s it!” Theydidn’t want to get those cameraswet. Just like that. We started theconcert, and finished! After the mid-1980s, live musicscenes declined as disc jockeysbecame more prevalent; work fordance bands —in all styles of music— became scarce. Salsa bands,usually large ensembles withrhythm section, horns, and singers,were affected too. Pupi foundhimself obliged to seek other work.I’m going to tell you the realtruth. After Fania and the salsa wentdown or whatever, I had to look fora job. Music — people really cannotmake a living with music,sometimes. So, I liked electrical[work]. I found a job with thisperson, that’s where I learned, andhe helped me 100 percent. Afterthat, I went to school, I got mylicense. I went to take the test withthe City [of Philadelphia]. I went

there three times; I failed. And thefourth, I took the test. When I cameback to the job, the lady at theoffice said, “Pupi, go back, youpassed the test.” I say, “What?!What you say?” “Go back. The ladyfrom the city called that you passedthe test. You have to go over thereto fill out all the papers.” “Ah, OK!”You know how many times peoplefail this? Twenty-seven, 30 times! It’sserious!I’ve been having more badmoments than good moments. Inmusic … this is a dangerous jobhere … the economic situation. To be a good musician, most of thebest musicians, they’ve beensuffering in life a lot. No, I haven’tstopped playing! I’m still playing,but I cannot count on … coveringthe expenses of this house withmusic. So, I got a living. Thank God Igot that. Some other people, theydon’t even have that.Pupi settled in Philadelphia in themid-1980s, although his connectionswith musicians here date back tothe early 1970s. He continues toplay with local musicians. Mostrecently he played on a 2006 CD bylocal band Foto Rodríguez y Charangala Única.That CD was dedicated tohim and his work with PhiladelphiaLatin musicians. He is still regularlycalled to New York and PuertoRico to bring his expertise to othermusicians’ projects, particularly inthe realm of charanga.To close, I would like to share thewords of my friend and teacherOrlando Fiol, himself a youngmaster of Latin dance music and a newer addition to Latin musicscenes in Philadelphia.8 He offers anexpert bandmate’s perspective onPupi’s musicianship:By the time Pupi left Cuba in1959, he'd already played with allthe great charangas. If he didn't playwith a group, he knew everyone init. Like most charanga violinists ofhis day, Pupi received classicaltraining. That classical background isprobably responsible for Pupi'smastery of not only the violin, but

also the Cuban five-key flute andthe piano. Upon arriving in theStates, he quickly got incorporatedinto New York's burgeoning salsascene. He helped ArsenioRodríguez realize many of his latter-day arrangements and arranged for[Johnny] Pacheco, [Ray] Barreto,Orquesta Broadway, and othercharangas. As we all know, hebecame a Fania All Star during the1970s and has remained closelyassociated with that enterprise, forgood or ill. But there is so muchmore to Pupi than biographicaldetails. Pupi is one of the mostdeeply knowledgeable andcontinuously probing musicians Iknow. His solos are simultaneouslysoulful, jazzy, dotted with Cubanfolklore, tuneful, and emotionallygratifying. His intimate knowledgeof the charanga, bolero, son montunoand jazz standards repertories istruly breathtaking. I fondly recall myfirst gigs with him, where he'd tellme the key of a song, very brieflyfamiliarize me with its chords, andschool me on how to play it, all livein front of an unsuspectingaudience. Pupi seems veryinterested in modern Cuban musicand frequently cites Paulito FG asone of the best of Cuba's currentcrop. His harmonic grasp is trulyunparalleled, at least inPhiladelphia's Latin scene. Pupi hasschooled us all. I've seen him teachtumbaos to bass players, breaks topercussionists, and coros tovocalists. We've spent manymoments critiquing arrangementsor live performances, alwayssticking to the music itself andevaluating harmony, beauty inmelody, and tightly structuredpresentation. In today's Latin musicworld, careers are oftenmeteorically launched and quicklydiscarded before musicians get achance to apprentice in truly greatensembles and familiarizethemselves with the vastness of themany repertoire strands that


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My first couple of monthsworking at this company weredivided between this back shop andthe paint shop, where my job wasputting masking-tape circles overholes in machined parts that wereto be painted in the spray booth.My trainers in the back shop wereJoe, a big Serb who was a widower,and Felix. Most of the time theroom was noisy with the stamp ofthe rivet machines attaching sheetmetal parts to other sheet metalparts, the sound of hand drillsmaking holes in parts, and the tapof ball peen hammers against metal.I noticed too that when it wasnoisy, communication between themen consisted of whistling acrossthe shop at one another. Someonewould whistle a few notes, andsomeone else would whistle a fewnotes back. This was generally thepractice of the older men.Now, 30 years later, I work in alarge shop as a transmissionmechanic, and I’ve noticed that thisway of communicating throughwhistling is something that happensbetween some of the youngermechanics. Someone will start witha few funny and unique notes, andacross the shop someone else willpick it up. I laugh to myself becausethey’re actually having fun with thisback and forth response.Sometimes three or four peoplewill pick up on this from differentsections of the shop. Perhaps whenyou’re working on a job, you haveto have some fun, and the closestperson may be at a distance. Andsometimes the call and response isjust a way of taunting a coworker. Ifthe noisy shop were full of womenmechanics, I wonder what ourattempts at communicating wouldbe like.In the back shop, we wereworking on sheet metal cabinetsthat housed the electroniccomponents for the Aegis defensesystem. I worked at a benchassembling parts with simple handtools: ball peen hammers,

screwdrivers, pliers, socketwrenches, and hand-held rivet guns.The object was to build a finishedassembly from many individualparts. My first job in this sectionwas placing individual aluminumsheet metal louvers into 8 x 10metal spot-welded frames. Thefinished products were air vents forthe large cabinets that containedthe electronics.My lead man was Felix. A leadman is a worker with a lot ofexperience on the job who hasbeen appointed by the boss tooversee others in the sameoccupation. In a union shop, he isusually top on the seniority list. Hecan train, assign jobs, and make surethat the jobs are done. I liked Felix.We got along well. But all of myjobs were assigned to me by Joe,the second senior man in this shop.He oversaw my work and alsoenjoyed cooking lunch in hismakeshift kitchen behind a rack ofshelves. A half hour before lunch,you could hear the refrigeratordoor open, followed by the rattleand scrape of pans over the twohotplates. Joe would signal thatlunchtime had begun by placing aplate of wonderfully tasty pierogisor blintzes in front of me as Iworked at my bench. I had no ideawhat lunch was like in other partsof the machine shop because I haddecided that I would not ventureout to the main floor unlessabsolutely necessary. As the firstand only woman in the shop, I wasuncomfortable with the attention Ireceived. The less interruption Icaused to the work process, Ithought, the more obvious it wouldbe to the bosses that I could fit intothat environment. At least one ofthe older men must haveunderstood my situation. It wasHerb who took me aside mysecond day and showed me theback way to the break room andthe back way to the ramp to thefifth floor, where the ladies’ roomwas.There was only a men’s room

on our floor. I was one of four newly hiredmachine operators. We had all beenplaced in the assembly shop tobegin our training. After two weeksof placing small 8 x 3/4–inchlouvers into the tacked frame andpeening over the tabs to hold thelouvers in place there, I noticed thatthe three other new people, whowere men, were being trained touse different air-driven hand tools,drills, and hand rivet guns. Theywere being shown how to set upand run the single spindle drill pressand the freestanding rivet machine— learning the skills on simplemachines that were the next stepon the way to becoming a first-classmachinist. It occurred to me thatperhaps few people —in this case,few of the men — had a positiveassessment of my ability to becomea first-class machinist. When Iapplied for the entry-level machineoperator job, I had every intentionof working my way to first-classmachinist status. It didn’t occur tome that I might be incapable ofthat. I expected to get that job andthe money and other benefits thatwent with it, such as good healthinsurance and a retirement plan.Soon after I noticed the disparitybetween my training and that of themen who were hired with me, Felixcalled me to his work area. In hishands was a thick roll of paper thatI assumed was a blueprint for a jobwe were going to do. But when hespread it out on the work table, Isaw that it was a schematic drawingshowing the locations for smallelectronic terminals pressed intofiberglass boards. These boardswere the forerunners of computerchips. “This is what you should belearning,” he said. He explained thatone floor below us was an assemblyshop where women sat at benchesall day and pressed small electronicterminals of various diameters andlengths into fiberglass boards. He, ofcourse, was implying that by

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bootstraps/continued from p. 24

learning to read the schematicdrawings, I could get a moresuitable job. I was appalled by thediscrepancy between what I wasexpecting of myself and what hewas expecting of me. After theshock wore off, all I wanted to dowas strangle him. A machinist’slabor grade and pay were muchhigher than a board assembler’s. I’msure that Felix did not intend toinsult me, but his words clearlyexposed his opinion. I never knew if he thought I wasincapable of being a machinist or ifhe just thought that this was anunsuitable environment for awoman — dirty, hard, andsometimes heavy work with menwho spent their lunch hour in thelocker room watching 16mm films.(I might add that when there werefinally three women working in theshop, the lunchtime films werediscontinued. The reason, I was told,was that they no longer seemedappropriate.) I never asked Felixwhy he thought I should be workinga floor below because I had nointention of following his advice. That day I learned that there wasat least one man who thought I wascapable of becoming a first-classmachinist. After Felix spoke to me, Ithanked him for the informationand went back to my bench. Joecame up to me. “What did Felixwant?” When I told him, all he didwas shake his head. That was all Ineeded to see. He might not havebeen able to do anything about it,but it meant the world to me thathe disapproved of what was going on.That first year in the back shopwith Joe and Felix, when it becameevident that I was not going away,the general manager who had hiredme said, “Well, if you’re going towork in this shop you might as welllearn something.” I had been in theshop about three months at thatpoint, and two other women had beenhired after me. They had beenmasking parts in the paint shop.

Now we were all placed in the drillpress section under the supervisionof a new lead man, George. Georgeliked us and enjoyed setting up ourjobs and overseeing our work. Ourjob was to load milled parts ofvarious sizes into drill fixtures andspot-drill, drill, and tap holes. Attimes there were four to sixdifferent procedures to execute onone loaded part. This would requireusing six spindles. After loading apart into a fixture, I would spot-drill; scoot down to the nextspindle on the multiple spindletable, and drill either a blind hole ora through hole; then move down toa third spindle and put threads inthe hole at the tap-spindle. Andsometimes there were hundreds ofthe same part to be loaded, drilled,unloaded, etc. The difficult part ofthe job was staying awake.One day, soon after I startedfeeling confident about my new skillas drill press operator, I askedGeorge if I could see the blueprintand set the hole depth myself. Hehad seen that we were competenton the drill press and seemed to betickled that he might have a crew ofwomen who actually could set upjobs. All that setting up the jobrequired was knowing how to reada simple print, how to measure thedepth of a hole, and how to use pingages to see if the hole I was drillingwas within the allowed tolerance.My small toolbox now held a set of0–1 inch micrometers, 1–2 inchmicrometers, a set of verniers, asmall selection of slot and phillipsscrewdrivers, an adjustable wrench,pliers (needle nose and blunt nose),and a set of hex wrenches. Afterfinding the information I waslooking for on the blueprint, Iproceeded to set up my row ofspindles by simply adjusting thesetscrew on each spindle to therequired depth. I would then checkthe size and depth with a pin gageand my set of verniers. It turnedout that setting my own stopscaused a stir. The men were

astounded by my mechanical skills. Iaccepted their complimentsgraciously and reserved for a latertime my outrage at their lowexpectations of me. The men whohad been hired with me werealready operating horizontal andvertical milling machines. Needlessto say, my determination to be an Amechanic was strong. But it was atthis time that I realized thatpeople’s low expectations weredeadly and that their well-meantprotection was undermining myconfidence. Over the 30 plus years I’veworked in machine shops andmodel shops, tool and die shops,and transmissions shops, there havealways been special men who haveunderstood my position orrecognized my ability or just likedme, who have both taken the timeto teach me new skills and takenthe generally unpopular role ofbeing my advocate and ally. Therewas only one time when a womanwas in a position to help my career.When I started working for RCA,the company had an apprenticeshipprogram for tool and die and modelmaking. Once a year applicationswere taken and interviews were setup for four or five positions. Thethird year that I submitted anapplication, I was not feeling goodabout going into the interview, butwhen I walked into the room I wassurprised to see a friendly faceamong the ten interviewers. Thatyear the company had decided thatit might be wise to include the headof Employee Relations, and the headof that department was an AfricanAmerican woman. I was at ease; theinterview went well. I was acceptedas an apprentice tool and die andmodel maker. The next time thiswoman was walking through theshop, she took me aside andcongratulated me. She said that Ihad done well on the interview.With a slight smile as she waswalking away, she said, “I gave you aone hundred.”


klezmer /continued from p. 11

want to play the klezmer businessbecause it had a terribleconnotation. "What are you, aklezmer musician?!" And this man,he played for years with LeopoldStokowski in the PhiladelphiaOrchestra. And, 40's, 50s, after thewar, he traveled with Arthur Fiedlerand the Boston Pops. The BalletRusse de Monte Carlo came here,and he traveled with them. I mean,this was a musician, and so thisklezmer stuff— he would laugh atthe whole thing. He would. Hewould say, "What do you mean?What a joke," he would say. But heknew songs. And he played for theJewish Theater, when it was on ArchStreet, and he knew all the stars—Molly Picon, Paul Muni. All thecomposers, conductors—they allknew Jake Hoffman. And, lateryears, at the Locust Street Theater, Iplayed. It was a Jewish performance.And one of the men—I can'tremember his name—they wantedto know who the drummer was,whatever, and they said "It's JakeHoffman's daughter. Jake Hoffman." Morris Hoffman: Elaine, she was anice little girl, and when she wasgrowing up, my brother [Jake]taught her the drums. And then shewent to Curtis, and her schoolingwas superb. And she was a fine, finedrummer. She could play thesymphony orchestra, that's howgood she was. Very talentedmusician. The klezmer stuff— no,she didn't play much of that. Shewas an excellent Jewish drummer.She knew all the tricks of the trade.[But] in those days, the menwouldn't hire a girl! And sheresented it terribly. And, uh, it’sdifferent [now], but the menresented the ladies.Elaine Hoffman Watts:The JewishSociety bands, they wouldn't useme. "She's a girl." My own cousin:"Elaine, you're great but you're—."I was a married woman. Mychildren heard him say it! "Butyou're a woman," what's that got todo with how I play? They didn't

wanna use me. I did play Sundaymornings— Town Hall. RememberTown Hall? Broad and Race. Wasthis great theatre. And the B’naiChaim used to bring in these verypoor productions from New YorkCity. Remember? And, they had asmall orchestra. They hired me onlybecause of Daddy, because I knewthe music. Ernie used to come withme. And I had to bring drums. TheTown Hall had acoustics:unbelievable. The PhiladelphiaOrchestra used to record there onthe whatever. And these programswere for nothing that the B’naiChaim used to give. And do youremember the people used to hiteach other over the head to get in?It was hysterical. And theproductions were—they werepoor. But they used me 'cause Iknew the music. That was it. Theyweren't thrilled about it, but theyhad to have a drummer. And all theactors knew I was Jake's daughter,so I had to be all right.Elaine Hoffman Watts: I played—fifty years ago I played the sameway: where were you? It isn't thatovernight I became this marvelousdrummer. I remembered that theboys in high school used to makefun of me, and I played rings aroundthem, honest to God I did. Andthen, then I went to Curtis. Goknow I was the first. It didn't evendawn on me. I just went on mymerry way, dumb way. Hankus Netsky: I mean, Elaine, youknow, I had no idea that her fatherhad taught her the traditionaldrumming exactly as he played it,and that they'd made recordingstogether with him playingxylophone and her playing drums.He would show her everything todo, just like she's doing for hergrandson now, you know.Susan Watts: The fact that this is afamily thing—it means something. Itmeans something to me. I thinkthat's one of the reasons it feelscomfortable. Most most peoplethat I talk to— my friends that are

musicians—their families veryreticent to support them being amusician. My family was reticent tosupport me NOT being a musician.So it's a totally different paradigm—totally, totally, totally different. Andbecause [Elaine] made a living at it,and all her uncles made a living atit, and her father made a living at it,and his father made a living at it, itwas okay for me to make a living atit, you know. But here's, again, herthree children, each one in theirown right, like, a full—like, reallygood, fine musicians and artists.And, I just think that that's kind ofamazing, to be honest with you.Elaine Hoffman Watts: That's whereI learned to play the drums.[Daddy] would take me down tothe cellar, in West Philly, on LudlowStreet and he had a drum set,'cause he taught there, and axylophone, and that's how hetaught me. I sat down at the drums,and he would say, "Do this, and I'llplay that." And that's how I learnedto play. And I remember him sayingto me—he would show mesomething and I didn't get it, and hewould say, "I'm showing you,dummy! Dummy, dummy!" But Ididn't learn to read music, or therudiments and all that stuff, until Iwas twelve years old.Hankus Netsky: Elaine startsplaying, and I'd never heard anybodyplay like that. Everything in themusic —first of all, she kneweverything. She knew exactly howthe songs went. But she wasn'tplaying a beat on the drums; shewas playing the tunes on the drums.It was different for every tune heplayed. Elaine played a style thatwas an older style. It really was astyle that was like a tone paintingwith the drums. It was not like thisRussian military kind of beat. Shereally was playing the music on thedrums. Then I listened back to howJakey Hoffman played on thoserecordings, and that was how Elainewas playing exactly. And it wasamazing; it was like a time machine.


It's like, here was this person in1995 playing a style that I don'tknow if anybody had played sincethe 20s. And it turned out that thereason that she had stayed withthat style was basically that becauseshe was a woman, she couldn't geton the scene. The Jewish klezmerscene was really a male thing inPhiladelphia. And it was kind of aboth blessing and a curse in a waybecause, you know, because shenever modernized, and never didwhat the guys did—you know, interms of playing, really kind oftransforming the klezmer into justkind of general club date rhythm.She still played this incredible musicon the drums, and it was likemeeting someone who was ahundred years old. Henry Sapoznik:Those of us whohave had the chance to work withthese representatives of anotherera, like Elaine, are fortunate.Anyone who doesn't take advantageof playing with the old musicianshas missed a glorious opportunity.For example, last night when wewere setting up the bandstand, Iwas one musician separated fromElaine. I said, "No, I wanna be nextto the drums." And I'm sitting therelistening to Elaine, and I'm saying,"I'm stealing that. I'm stealing that.I'm stealing that. I'm gonna play thisback for her on the next repeat."And then I'm hearing Elaine hearingme, and I'm saying, "I don't careabout anyone else, we've got ourown concert going on back here.I'm her audience and she's myaudience." The thing I always foundmost interesting was listening tothe drummers to understand thepress rolls and those tight patterns,and that became the goal for playingbanjo. So, when working withsomeone like Elaine, whosemusicality is so immense that shecan coax out a variety of tonal ideasin the playing—not just easy stufflike volume or stream ofconsciousness playing—it's reallyabout, "How can I support and

enhance what's going on in thefrontline?" So that's why I alwayslike sitting next to her; it's like I'mstill learning.Elaine Hoffman Watts: But when Istarted out, you know, my fatherwas just worried I wouldn't getmarried. I did play in the NewOrleans Symphony. I didn't like thatkind of work. I liked playing theshows, and different stuff. In theSymphony, you sit there for threemovements, and come in with atriangle, or whatever. It wasn't mycup of tea. But I was a very, verygood tympanist, and I could've madeit as a tympanist in a symphony. ButI, you know, I was married. I hadEileen. I would have to take myfamily to North Dakota or someplace, you know.Hankus Netsky: I think of Elaine assomeone who really plays the oldstyle. It’s like putting something in atime capsule in about 1920, and westill have it because of her fatherteaching her, "This is the way it'sdone." Whereas Jakey Hoffman wasnot a very modern drummer, [hisbrother] Johnny Hoffman was.Johnny Hoffman played with swingbands. I mean, Johnny Hoffman didmake that transition more. Jakeywas more of an orchestraldrummer. When swing music camealong for that generation, they had achoice to either go with it andmodernize or not. And I don't thinkJakey was a guy who modernized.He stayed with that orchestralapproach, and he learned, youknow— the right way. I mean helearned, he was a trained drummer,and he could play with theorchestras. And the Jewish musicfor him— and this is the key withElaine— the Jewish music was anoutgrowth of the orchestral music.It was not a subset of swing, but inNew York it became one.Susan Watts: The live music in thehouse was Jewish; there reallywasn't anything else. The only otherthing was that when I was a kid, youknow, she taught every day after

school, and I would sit on her lapafter school while she taught herstudents, 'cause otherwise I nevergot to see her. And she played thexylophone with the kids too, so Igot to learn all these other songsthat she played on the xylophone.Then, starting at a very early age,she schlepped me to her jobs.Elaine Hoffman Watts: And the firstdate we had, Ernie came with meon the job to carry the tympani, andhe's been carrying the drums eversince. But I always worked! Oh,from the day I got married. Listen, Iwent out with boys who said, "Oh,you can't play the drums." I said,"Yes. Goodbye." A couple of them.What are you, crazy?Elaine Hoffman Watts:This is a littlestory about Jacob Neupauer. Weused to rehearse every Sundaymorning Saturday—whatever—Richmond and Allegheny on top ofa taproom. And my oldest daughterhad just been born. And I used tobring her. We all used to go to therehearsals! My mother, Ernie— andI used to bring her in a wickerclothes basket! I was the tympanist.And he made this unbelievablearrangement! They were all great.They all went on to become greatmusicians. And I became a klezmerdrummer. And then Marco Farnese,we did these great operas. And Iused to take my mother. And weused to play in South Philly on allthe playgrounds. And he was just awonderful man to me. Also, youdidn't make a lot of money. But Iwas the only drummer, and I had todo everything. And he used very,very good musicians. I mean, thesewere all good jobbers: a lot ofretired orchestra violinists. And itwas a pleasure, and it was good.Then I used to do some jobsaround Columbus Day for Italianbands. Ernest'll tell you about it. AndI used to take the kids. We had funthere. Not a lot of money. You'llnotice this strain runs through it.Marco Farnese: I had a small opera

klezmer/continued from p. 26



company here in the city, and the manwho was getting me musicians for theperformances, the contractor, said, "Ihave a little lady for you that you mightbe able to use. And, so that's how I metElaine. So, of course, she did ask mewould we have anyone else. I said, "No,you're it." And, to make a long storyshort, she'd just go through that music,and she would select every crucialsection of whatever section had to play,and she just would make up, you know,either in her mind or a separate sheetor something, and cover everythingthat had to be done, which wasincredible. And fortunately she also hadall her own instruments. She carriedthose back and forth. And she just wasincredible. Incredible, for all the yearsthat she did this for me. I would havecertain people that I knew I coulddepend on. And, of course, Elaine wasright at the top of the list. Once I gotto know her, then I wouldn't hireanybody else She was just great, youknow. To me it never meant anythingthat she was a woman playing, youknow, percussion. She was apercussionist, and period. And top flight. Susan Watts: She really taught me tolisten to singers—'cause she alwaysused to play for operas. And she wouldsit over there when we lived here, andwhen we lived on Braddock Lane shewould sit in this big, fuzzy brown chairthat was right next to the stereo. Andshe would put the opera on, and shewould have the score in front of her,and she would read the score as theopera was playing, where she would—and when her tympany came in, shewould practice. You know what I'msayin'? She learned her part in a waythat—she listened! Do you know whatI'm saying? This is big, huge andimportant. This was a big, huge lessonfor me that carried me throughout mywhole, entire musical life, to this day.You have to listen. You have to listen tomusic. Music is an aural click thing, youknow. And it's all about your ears. Andyou can only get out what's in. Andwhat's—you can only get what's in byputting in, you know. And so I listened,

and I listened, and I listened, and Ilistened, and I listened, and I listened,and I continued to listen, daily, tosingers, to everything I can— anything Icould get my hands on. I'd buy just anyold Jewish record for a quarter at yardsales. Whether it's good, whether it'sbad, it doesn't matter. It's all good; it'sgot somethin' on it that I need to listento, you know.Gwen Foster:We couldn’t do Handel’sMessiah without her unless she wasjust unusually busy and couldn’t come.After that first performance, we justfell in love with her—this little Jewishlady. And that was controversialenough, but when Elaine— you knowhow she is full of passion; we just fell inlove with her. But wherever she was,she just fit in and just electrified theperformance, brought not only class,but excitement, to every performanceand still does. Nothing bothered her. Imean, we would just do somethingshe’d never heard of before, she said,“Just bring it on me.” Whatever youwanted, she could make it happen.Elaine Hoffman Watts: How did I dothis? I don't know how I did this. And Icarpooled Hebrew school too. When Istarted working the theaters and thingslike that, my husband got disgustedwashing dishes, and he bought aportable dishwasher. That's how I gotmy portable dishwasher!I taught for the Philadelphia publicschools music. They had— this was inthe 50s, the 60s— such a musicprogram like you wouldn't believe, andthe man's name was Dr. Lewis Worsen.He was a marvelous, marvelous man.When he died, forget it, and now it'snothing. And I taught on Saturdaymornings for them; they had satellitethings. And I was making three-something an hour. I was making tendollars for the whole morning. Andthey had all good musicians comingthere and teaching. I started teachingGerry Brown when I was abouteighteen or nineteen. Daddy startedhim, and he said, "No, Elaine, you teachhim. He's better off with you." He usedto come in a little sailor's suit. AndEileen used to sit on my lap when I

taught him. Eileen was in her Dr.Dentons. And he was just good. He was good!Gerry Brown: So they took me to thisplace— the West Philadelphia MusicCenter. Well, they brought me there,and the teacher that was there was thisgentleman by the name of JakeHoffman. However, as it turned out, hewas busy with touring and things likethat so I studied with [his daughter]Elaine for, I guess, about nine years. Thatwas the foundation of my career.People can come up and say, "Oh, yeah,yeah, you know, you're a world-classdrummer." You know. And, "How didyou get started?" Well, I actually got itstarted with a woman. I'm very proudto acknowledge that and to give Elainethe accolades that [she] deserves. Youknow, she was dropping little seeds, andof course it was up to me to, youknow, "Okay, I need to check this out."I didn't know where it was leading, butthere was this trust. The desire wasthere, but I [also] trusted her and that'spriceless.Susan Watts:When she had students inthe basement, which she still does, butwhen I lived there, I would go downand play the xylophone with herstudents. I would play the xylophone,she would play the drums some times.Like, I've been playing with her forever.From the get-go. When she schleppedme to jobs, she schlepped me 'causeshe was playing the drums. I was playing with her. So, I [have] played with her forever.Theresa O’Brien: She would never pullany punches with you. She'd say, "Comeon, get it right! What are you doing?Did you practice?” She would get onyou. We'd trudge down to herbasement, where she had a drum set ofpads, and that's where I started takinglessons and learning how to play moreclassical music. And she opened myeyes gently. She was harsh on me in anice way, you know. But she alwayspushed me to try to do better, justbecause she wouldn't take less thanwhat I could do. You know, it's all aboutconfidence, and I think that's whatElaine gave to me, which I'm trying to



my child,” you know. “’Cause he’s thesame as anyone else. His momma justwasn’t married, that’s all,” you know. Isaid, “But that is not their fault, and thesins of the parent I would never allow,in my view, to fall on the children —ifthere was a sin.” And so that was my position. I know folks even said I was arrogant,or whatever. But I just was adamantabout it, you know. That these childrenhad no right to be stigmatized, or noright to be discriminated against. Andabove all, not even have their parent’sname on their birth certificate?Nobody’s child? And that’s what Iwrote to Hardy Williams. I just couldn’taccept it. And Hardy introduced thelaw. And then we needed some morelegal help. So then we went toCommunity Legal Services. It wasJonathan Stein. And we end up gettingthe Women’s Law Project involved withit. There was Jonathan Stein, who was abeautiful legal mind, and anotherwoman— Ann Freedman. And with that, the long legal battlebegan, you know, with things back and

forth. And Ann Freedman from theWomen’s Law Project, she came to meone day and said, “Lois, they’re sayingthat the woman gonna have to provethat the fathers are the fathers.” And Isaid, “Why?” You know, “Are they callingus a bunch of whores, like we don’tknow who we laid down with?” I said,“Now I don’t like that.” I said, “So letthe fathers disprove that they’re notthe father. Why not put that on them?Everything’s on the woman. She got toprove this. The men don’t getstigmatized; they’re still Mister so-and-so. I don’t accept that either. They’reMister. I’m Miss. Therefore, they don’tget no stigmas, and I ain’t takin’ none,”you know. “And I ain’t gonna let nobodythink that I’m just choosing some guyto father my baby. No, I laid down withhim,” I said. “I wasn’t raped. It wasconception by consent, and I know whofathered my children. And that’s it.That’s definitive. I ain’t got to qualifynothing; let him prove that he ain’t.That’s what I’m saying. I’m tired of thewomen carrying this weight.” Too long:women had to sack their babies, killing

babies ‘cause they didn’t want to bestigmatized if people knew. Women hadto go through hell. She went with thatstrategy, she did.It took seven years. We started in ’71;we won in ’78. The Attorney General ofthe Commonwealth of Pennsylvaniawrote a legal opinion, I think it was,based on laws and precedents that hadbeen set in other states, and then theyfilled in all the other gaps. But we won;that was a big one. That’s the one with the picture whereyou see Ade and Bumi. Bumi is fouryears old and Ade is eleven. And wewon. And I was just – I mean, it broughttears to my eyes to see it in mylifetime, for my children being able tobenefit and the millions of otherchildren that it had affected, you know. Isaid, “Oh my God, this is just a gift. Thisis just a wonderful gift,” you know.

Interviewed and edited by Debora KodishTranscribed by Thomas Owens


lois fernandez/continued from p. 15


give to my students, is you can't lose ifyou don't try. She always wanted me todo better. Elaine Hoffman Watts: In 1959, I wasteaching I think it was the LoganElementary. They had Saturday morningmusic classes, and wonderful, wonderfulteachers. Those kids—it was great. Iwas pregnant with Lorrie, my middledaughter. And the supervisor came in. Iwas sitting at the desk and I got up. Andhe said, "Hup! You can't teach whenyou're pregnant. Go home, and whenyou have the baby, you can come backnext year." That's the way it was. It isn'tthat they fired me. They said, "You can'tteach when you're pregnant. You'll comeback in the fall."Susan Watts: People are starting to giveher attention, and I think that whatinitially came out is important but it'snot the whole story. What initially cameout was, you know, "Huh! You men, youhad the monopoly, but here I am!"And

that's true and right and feh! to all youmen who had the monopoly, but that'snot what makes her so fascinating. Andthat's not what makes me lucky, youknow. And it's not what makes her anamazing musician. And it's not whatmakes her a great teacher. And it's notwhat makes Marco Farnese hire her. Imean, it's this one thing that happenedto her. And, because she is the kind ofwoman that she is — very strong—people saying things to her goes in oneear and out the other, you know. Imean, anger motivates her. And that'swhat she's done from the beginning. Soshe's getting all this attention becauseshe's this woman musician, and womandrummer, which is rare. And she's stillplaying. She's never stopped. She's full-time. All these wonderful things abouther. And, you know, she doesn’t see thatwhat she's done has made a difference.And, fine. But it has. Do you know whatI'm saying? I mean, it has made a huge

difference. You throw a pebble in thewater, and the ripples and the ripplesand the ripples. Well, she has sixty yearsof ripples! Do you know what I'msaying? She's still rippling! So it's stillhappening. . .

contribute to our great traditions,including folkloric music,commercial popular dance music,American jazz, and Westernclassical music. There is anindescribable charm toencyclopedic knowledge, and Pupidefinitely possesses it. He seespatterns between songs,distinguishes between similarchord progressions, and alwaysreserves his most prized mentalfaculties for the veneration ofbeautiful melody.We look forward to morecontributions from Pupi soon; heplans an album with a few of hisown compositions alongside classicbut forgotten Cuban tunes, as wellas songs written by some of hisFania compatriots. He was recentlyhonored with a prestigious PewFellowship in the Arts — well-deserved recognition. I can onlyencourage you to take anyopportunity to hear the history ofCuban music in Pupi’s sound.

—Elizabeth Sayre

Notes

* “Latin music and dance” canrefer to any music and dance fromLatin America, from any socialregister — classical to pop to folk.A more specific term is "SpanishCaribbean popular dance music,"describing the music developed inCuba, Puerto Rico, New York City,and other locations over the 20thcentury. Son montunos, guarachas,cha-cha-chás, salsas, boleros,danzones, and other forms may beheard in an evening of “Latin dancemusic.” Another common umbrellaterm, “salsa,” refers specifically to acertain type of instrumentation(the inclusion of trumpets andtrombones) and tempo (mediumfast). Musicians and others havechallenged the use of this word,which some view as a marketinghandle pushed by Fania Records

and other labels in the 1970s, andothers see as a valid rallying pointfor Puerto Rican cultural pride.1 Cuban-influenced rhythmsections have evolved from lightersounds of bongó, güiro, andmaracas (son) to the louder andfuller rhythm sections of today; inCuban timba (the island’scontemporary dance music,distinct from salsa ininstrumentation and feeling), therhythm section also has a drumset. "Charanga" refers to both amusical ensemble and a musicalstyle, first heard in the early 20thcentury, that grew out of theelegant dance orchestras, charangasfrancesas, of 19th-century Cuba;instrumentation usually consists offlute, violins and cello, piano,percussion, and male voices inunison. Orchestras typically playdanzón, cha-cha-chá, and pachanga.Pachanga is an up-tempo variationon Cuban dance music from theearly 1960s. Boogaloo, from the1960s, is a New York City blendingof Cuban and Puerto Rican dancemusic with rock, R&B, and soulmusic.2 San Lázaro is the saint rulingillness and healing in Cuba. OnDecember 17 there is a majorprocession of devotees, somecrawling on hands and knees, to hisshrine in Rincón, Santiago de lasVegas, near Havana.3 Enrique Jorrín created the cha-cha-chá in 1951, a rhythm designedto have universal and easy appealfor dancers. Jorrín played withMondéjar’s Orquesta América, theband that popularized the cha-cha-chá, but after a dispute over creditfor this invention he left forMexico City, where he formed hisown orchestra. Mondéjareventually followed him there andre-created Orquesta América withnew personnel.4 From 1948 to 1966, thePalladium Ballroom, a second-floorhall at 53rd and Broadway in New

York, programmed Latin bands; itwas a famous destination fordancers and musicians.5 One source,http://www.donaldclarkemusicbox.com/encyclopedia/detail.php?s=2184, says he appears on six ofMongo’s albums.6 This was the “Mariel boatlift”exodus from Cuba in the springand summer of 1980.7 This concert coincided with the1974 “Rumble in the Jungle” fightbetween Muhammad Ali andGeorge Foreman.8 Orlando is a pianist,percussionist (both popular andAfro-Cuban folkloric music), singer,arranger, and composer. He wasraised New York playing fromchildhood in his father Henry Fiol’ssalsa band. Orlando is also anoutstanding student of NorthIndian classical music. He has livedin Philadelphia since 2001.

Resources for further explorationBooks:Bardfeld, Sam. 2002. Latin Violin: How

to Play Salsa, Charanga, and Latin JazzViolin. New York: Gerard/Sarzin (bookand CD).Gerard, Charley. 2001. Music from

Cuba: Mongo Santamaría, ChocolateArmenteros and Cuban Musicians in theUnited States. Westport, CT: Praeger(includes a chapter on Pupi Legarreta).Moore, Robin. 2006. Music &

Revolution: Cultural Change in SocialistCuba. Berkeley & Los Angeles:University of California Press.___________. 1997. Nationalizing

Blackness: Afrocubanismo and ArtisticRevolution in Havana, 1920–1940.Pittsburgh: University of PittsburghPress.Sublette, Ned. 2004. Cuba and Its

Music: From the First Drums to theMambo. Chicago: Chicago ReviewPress.Waxer, Lise (ed.). 2002. Situating

Salsa: Global Markets and LocalMeaning in Latin Popular Music. NewYork: Routledge.




conservatory kind of music! It wasfolk music. So that’s how it started.What we found out is that every cityhas its own kind of klezmer tunes,because the people that settled inNew York came from somewherever, and they brought theirmusic with them. Boston has its own.Philly is known for its particular kindof klezmer, and a lot of it is inGrandpop’s book. Everybody hastheir own shtick, their own genre,and we don’t do that. We doPhiladelphia klezmer. That’s whatwe’re known for. Elizabeth: Can you tell me any ways that it’s different from theother styles?Elaine: It’s just different melodies,that’s all. It’s still klezmer. It’s still afreilach, it’s still a bulgar,5 it’s justdifferent tunings. Some tunes areexactly alike, but they start indifferent places in different cities.Elizabeth: Since klezmer has comeback, or been revived, by theseyounger guys, how has that affectedyou? You’ve been able to do sometraveling, and you go teach at workshops?Elaine: We didn’t know about theseklezmer things. This KlezKamp inNew York, Henry Sapoznik — it’sbeen there! I said, “Susan, you and I

are going to go.” It was at thisbroken-down hotel in the Catskills.We go up there, and we start to play.They had no idea who we were. Theywent, “Oh, my God, who are they?”And that was it. in 1996. And then,Alicia Svigals — I played on herrecord, Fidl. I always say shediscovered me. She played for me inWashington at the concert we didfor the NEA.6 So, [now at]KlezKamp, I have a class. Year afteryear after year. And then Hankus gotme into KlezCanada.Elizabeth: Do you see a lot of youngpeople who are interested?Elaine: Oh, it’s marvelous! It is reallygreat to see all these kids, and mygrandchildren, of course.Elizabeth: So you think it’s going tocontinue to live?Elaine: Oh, I hope so, yeah. They travel — some of theseethnomusicologists travel to Europe,to these little towns, to dig up things.Leanore: Elaine is a genius musician.She was properly educated to bringit out of her, the finishing touches.Now through change of environmentand situations, the horah, the Jewishdances, it’s all being recognized andproperly brought forward. Before, aklezmer played on a corner in astreet, with my father’s time, before

the War, before the Depression.Times change, that’s all it is. Ofcourse, you get disappointments andfrustrations, and fortunately, now, atthis age, Elaine is being recognizedfor what she worked for and reallydeserves. Really, it’s a wonderfulfeeling.

Notes

1 Podemski was a percussionist in thePhiladelphia Orchestra and author ofthe now-classic Standard Snare DrumMethod. Grupp was timpanist in thePhiladelphia Orchestra in the 1950s.2 A type of lively Yiddish dance andtune.s3 Originally located in Center CityPhiladelphia, this well-known areanightclub relocated to Cherry Hill,NJ, in 1960, and finally closed itsdoors in 1978.4 Another common klezmer tunetype: improvised, said to derive fromthe music of Romanian shepherds.5 Popular klezmer dance tune.6In Summer 2007, Elaine and otherwinners of the National Endowmentfor the Arts (NEA) National HeritageFellowship were honored inWashington, D.C.

watts/continued from p. 21


Online:Legarreta biography/discography:

http://www.donaldclarkemusicbox.com/encyclopedia/detail.php?s=2184Orquesta Sensación, past and present:

http://www.cubamusic.com/pg018_op-lookup_t-FIGURES_s-BIOGRAPHY_v-133.shtmlUniversity of Texas online resource on

Latin American music:http://lanic.utexas.edu/la/region/music/Archived articles from

http://www.descarga.com, an excellentcommercial Latin music resource: http://www.descarga.com/cgi-

bin/db/archives/index?RJ4ZvDhQ;;453

(articles on charanga, charanga 5-keyflute, various musical groups, and muchmore)Fania Records: www.faniarecords.com

Selected Recordings:Fania All Stars. 1980, reissued 2006.

Commitment. Fania/Emusica remasterededition 130 184.____________. 1976, reissued 2007.

Fania All Stars Live in Japan 1976.Fania/Emusica remastered edition 130278.Larry Harlow. 1975, reissued 2006. El

Judío Maravilloso. Fania/Emusicaremastered edition 130 115.

Pupi Legaretta. Reissued 1993. Pupy ySu Charanga. Tumi 33.Israel “Cachao” Lopez. 1977, reissued

2005. Cachao y Su Descarga. Salsoul 7015.Orquesta Nuevo Ritmo. 1960, reissued

1999. The Heart of Cuba. GNP 2264(reissue with Peruchín recording).Foto Rodríguez y Su Orquesta La

Única. 2006. En Honor a Pupi Legarreta —el 27 Aniversario. CM/Corre Music 52.Mongo Santamaría. Reissued 1996.

¡Arriba! Fantasy 24738._______________. 1963, reissued

1998.Watermelon Man. Milestone 47075.Various Artists. 2007. Charanga at the

Palladium, Vol. 1. Universal/Protel 160

2008 Summer / Fall WWIIPP31

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