Page 45 - Effable Encounters

The African Dog

stripped-down sound analogous to a universal language. James
Brown was the precursor, I now realize: strong heavy bass patterns,
punchy horn riffs, primal screams. African-American music has not
taken the world by storm this century simply through its association
with the dominant national power. As every culture, thanks to mass
media, becomes mongrelized, it looks to the top dog, as it were, for
leadership. All my projections and extrapolations confirm your
hypothesis, Professor.”
A drummer dragging electronic percussion appeared from
backstage, to a scattering of applause. Mombeau raised his voice to
be heard.
“Again I thank you, Señor Mosca. But what is your plan?”
“Don’t you see? I finally found the algorithm; I know where we
are on the curve. I can tell you, within certain broad limits, exactly
what will grab the imagination of the music-buying public in six
months or a year. What I need is a group with a sound already close
enough to be easily molded into that style. And those musicians must
be hungry, willing to follow directions. So I am here: the music of
Cuba has been lying in wait for decades. Now is its chance to regain
center stage. Poverty and hard times have dissolved most of the
trappings of charanga, of son montuno, of ballroom mambo. The
hard new Havana beat will be instantly recognized as the master style
of world music—but we must find a group and drill them into a well-
oiled studio band, ready to capitalize on their first big hit. I’ve got the
money to invest, Professor, and you know the music scene here.
What do you say? Are you up for some serious profit?”
Xavier Cugaracha plugged his keyboard into a battered old
amplifier and tapped out a few notes. The crowd suddenly hushed,
making I. K. Mombeau’s reply perfectly audible.
“Señor Mosca, you have a new partner. Xavier is my wife’s cousin;
if you think he fills the bill, I’m sure we can sign him to a contract
with—what is the name of your company?”
“Bulldog Records.”

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