What She Brought With Her
The last time I saw Celia Cruz perform was in Central Park in 2002, one of her final shows, when SummerStage was less managed and thus more exciting. Cruz would often save her signature "Bemba Colora" as the encore an audience had to deserve. Over time it became a relied-upon catharsis for her public to recognize their ancient past and to air their damaged present. On that late afternoon descended an out-of-nowhere, fire-and-brimstone summer thunderstorm. The mighty Celia, at 76 years old and not feeling at all well, refused to waver. She battled out hail, wiring, metallic stagecraft and every possible scenario considered dangerous, and kept singing. It was celestial conjure. The weather wanted to meet her, match her, counterpoint her song. We remained because she remained. We kept dancing while she threw lightning bolts back at the sky.
There is an official recording of the performance where we can't hear all these elements. How wonderful to imagine — or better yet, -- that on any recording there is all kinds of stormy material that might escape the ear. To write about women musicians is to dive into the recorded surface while fighting the demand to reveal everything
