Few Latin artists have been recognized and celebrated by the Recording Academy like Panamanian salsa legend Rubén Blades.
He was nominated for the first time in 1983 for Canciones del Solar de los Aburridos — a now classic collaboration with trombonist and producer Willie Colón. Between 1997 and 2018, Blades won seven GRAMMY Awards, emerging victorious every single time he was nominated. His Latin GRAMMY bounty is equally impressive, including a win last November for a live recording of his legendary 1978 album Siembra. He was also named the Latin Recording Academy’s Person Of The Year in 2021.
Blades will be forever remembered as the singer/songwriter who brought to Afro-Caribbean music the spirit of social justice and political awakening. After moving to New York in the early ‘70s, he got a job in the mailroom of Fania Records — the Motown of salsa — and convinced many of the label’s stars to record his compositions. It didn’t take much effort; his songs always stood out for their nostalgic melodies and vivid lyrical imagery.
It was his collaboration with Willie Colón — already established as a solo artist and partner in crime of glamorous sonero Héctor Lavoe — that launched Blades as singing star and ideological ambassador. Their second effort together, Siembra was a visionary manifesto of progressive salsa, and remained the genre’s best-selling LP for decades. It also spawned the timeless "Pedro Navaja" — a wondrous, seven minute-long epic seeped in funky grooves and vitriolic wit, complete with nods to Kurt Weill and Franz Kafka.
This was only the beginning. Blades broke ties with Fania, revamped his sound in the ‘80s (no brass; cool textures on vibes, synths and trap drums), and eventually mutated into the pan-Latin hybrid that he classified as mixtura, borrowing liberally from sophisticated pop, ethereal folk and world influences. He also became a reliable film and television actor, ran for the presidency of his native Panama (he came out third,) and later became the country’s minister of tourism.
Now living in New York, Blades spoke with GRAMMY.com about the upcoming retrospective of his work at Lincoln Center, his future albums — all three of them — and the impending release of his autobiography.
So, this interview is part of our Living Legends series...
I only qualify on one of the two adjectives. [Laughs.]
I’d like to start by mentioning the obvious: the amount of GRAMMY and Latin GRAMMY wins and nominations that you amassed throughout the decades is unreal. What are your thoughts on this?
First, it is essential to acknowledge the quality of the people who accompanied me on these excursions, because I couldn’t have done it alone. The contribution of the arrangers, producers, and musicians in my band.
Second, the fact that I imagined that salsa fans would be interested in lyrics that ventured beyond the usual party vibes. My songs reflected the realities experienced by families and individuals, touching on political themes that didn’t appear on salsa radio stations at the time. I think it’s my lyrics that best survived the passing of time.
I also think that I started winning GRAMMYs only after Tito Puente and Eddie Palmieri got a bit old. Before that, it was them who consistently won all the awards.
Let’s not forget that you brought to salsa a level of poetic and sociopolitical consciousness that simply didn’t exist before.
It’s the lyrics, but also the person singing them, and what kind of credibility he has. I went to college and got a degree in law; I was active in politics in Panama and was openly against dictatorships and the stupid behaviors of governments that are allegedly democratic. Throughout the years — and we’re talking 50 years — the consistency of my behavior has given people a reference point. If one of the Kardashians recorded "Pablo Pueblo," the impact wouldn’t be the same.
You were also painfully ahead of your time with the trilogy of pan-Latin albums that you released between 1996 and 2002 (La Rosa de los Vientos, Tiempos and Mundo.) I was one of the many who gave you grief publicly because you didn’t stick to a straight-ahead Afro-Caribbean sound.
Those problems started earlier. When I left Willie Colón's band in the early ‘80s and bypassed salsa’s traditional brass section in favor of vibes, synths and drums, genre purists felt betrayed. Buscando América (1984) was more successful with Anglo listeners in New York than with the salsa crowd [in NYC]. They thought it was pretentious, even though the entire record follows the clave [the basic rhythmic pattern on which all salsa music is anchored].
But I did survive those changes, and some of the misunderstood songs gained traction. Like "Amor y Control" [the title track of a genre defying 1992 album], which has become a mandatory part of my set list, wherever I go.
Going back to the GRAMMYS, was there a particular victory that felt especially gratifying?
I tend to remember defeats over victories, and I still lament that we didn’t win for Eba Say Ajá, the 2012 album with Cheo Feliciano. I really wanted Cheo to win a GRAMMY, and would gladly swap all my wins for that one. It was a beautiful record, and Cheo’s version of "Manuela" was almost better than mine. He added an extra chorus that sounded great.
When I was nominated in 1983, the night before the ceremony I prayed to God that I would lose so that [salsa pioneer] Machito could win his first GRAMMY. He did win, and I was overjoyed to lose that time. Winning for Escenas in 1987 didn’t feel like a validation — in essence, I don’t make records for the awards — but I felt it was wonderful recognition to the quality of the arrangements by the musicians in my band, people like Oscar Hernández, Mike Viñas and Ricardo Marrero.
My favorite Latin GRAMMY event is the Person Of The Year, which you won in 2021. Any special memories from that?
I was blown away by Christina Aguilera, who’s such a big name in mainstream pop, and performed "Camaleón" in the style of an Ecuadorian pasillo. It was excellent; such a delightful surprise. Also [Spanish singer/songwriter] Joaquín Sabina was having health issues, and still flew from far away to attend the ceremony. That was extraordinary. He’s such a special guy, on account of his personality, and the songs that he writes.
It was deeply moving to see so many fellow artists together. I’ll never forget Carlos Vives’ expression when we were singing with Juan Luis Guerra. Also, seeing my peers performing my songs — outside of their musical comfort zone for some — and doing it out of respect and recognition for my work. Usually, award ceremonies have a bit of a difficult connotation for me, because your happiness at winning relies on someone else losing. This particular event serves as a complete vindication of music, and the process of sharing it.
I remember interviewing you for the first time in 1995, and telling you that you are the Latin American equivalent of an Elton John or a Bruce Springsteen. You looked at me in disbelief. Have you come to terms with the place of honor you occupy in Latin culture?
Not really, but I understand the meaning, because people tell me these things more than ever before. I see so many people at my shows — some of them crying, most of them singing along. I’m very accessible, since I walk a lot and use public transportation, and people tell me about my music helping them through difficult times.
When I released Maestra Vida [in 1980], I received about 200 letters that were incredibly moving, some of them written with pencil on a piece of paper. I kept them for many years, and eventually threw them away, because I didn’t see the point in keeping them anymore — it was like someone saving newspaper clippings about himself. Now that I'm older, I realize that my songs had a deeper effect than what I imagined at the time. This doesn’t mean that I’m loved by everyone, because my political views are not popular with some. But even people who dislike me admit that I’m a good musician.
Are you working on a new album right now?
I have three albums in the making. The first one is a big band salsa record with devilish arrangements by Roberto Delgado and Luis Perico Ortiz. The other one is with Paraíso Road Gang — that’s my mixtura concept, a hybrid of styles.
And the third one?
I’m doing something completely different and subversive: going back to the ‘60s sound of Eddie Palmieri’s La Perfecta orchestra, but without the flute. Just two trombones, the ferocious propulsion that Palmieri had going with Barry Rogers and Jose Rodrigues. I wrote a very intense song called "La Cárcel" that will be part of this record.
Last night, I was thinking of a string quartet intro that would precede the salsa section. It’s a return to "Calle Luna, Calle Sol" [the Willie Colón and Héctor Lavoe hit], and Palmieri’s "Café." I’m taking you back to that era, because it’s important for people to realize that the classic salsa sound will never die.
How did the retrospective of your work at Lincoln Center come about?
There are millions of Latinos in New York, and yet somehow we continue to remain invisible. The contribution of the Hispanic community has not been recognized as it should. In my case, there’s a 50 year-old career with GRAMMY Awards, a bunch of films, even the fact that I was Panama’s presidential candidate. None of this means you’ll be honored anyway — Machito didn’t get the recognition he deserved, and neither did Mario Bauzá, Ray Barretto, Eddie Palmieri, or even Willie Colón himself.
I’m very thankful, but also focusing on the precedent that’s being established. If one of ours is being honored today, then tomorrow it could be another artist — a man or a woman. I feel a lot of gratitude, being aware that there are more deserving people than me out there.
Are you done writing your autobiography? Is it going to be published soon?
It’s coming out in September. Gabriel García Márquez was the one who advised me to write my memoirs. "Just clarify everything," he told me. "Otherwise, other people will do it for you once you’re gone, and it will be too late." He got to write the first volume of his autobiography, and the second remained unfinished. But when you read it, you can see what everything was like at the beginning of his career — who helped him out and gave him food when he was starting out.
Was it difficult to condense such a prolific career into a single book?
At one point, the manuscript was 500 pages. I also didn’t want it to become some sort of hagiography. I tried to draw a coherent connection with the facets of my career, trying not to sound self-serving. It’s a wacky story: a salsero who graduated from Harvard and ran for president. What is this? Who is this guy? Who does he think he is? I’m going to put this book out and try to disappear for a year so no one can find me. Maybe I should hire a plastic surgeon and become like Emilia Pérez.