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This is a famous photo I took...

during the October Missile Crisis, outside the Hotel Riviera.

The entire Malecón was full of antiaircraft guns and cannons.

We were expecting a U.S. invasion.

I took this one in 1959 in Washington.

Fidel placed a wreath before Abraham Lincoln.

The photo's called "David and Goliath."

The little guy and the giant.

This is Che Guevara and Fidel playing golf.

Who won?

Fidel.

Che let him win.

Ah, the Buena Vista Social Club!

Compay Segundo! Darling!

We should ask these people, the older folks from the neighborhood.

"Where was the Buena Vista Social Club?"

Where are the old folks?

This guy will know.

We're looking for the social club. - The Buena Vista?

That's long gone.

The Buena Vista was... let's see. You go up that way.

It's a private house now.

- It was No. 48. - But it's not there anymore.

- We're looking for the old location. - Sure, the building's still there.

- Between 21st and 42nd. - At 31st.

If you go up this way, it's right there.

- You used to dance there? - Yes. I was born around there.

It's a private house now.

You take the divided highway.

It's that house with a line painted on the door.

It's been gone since 1944. We've lived here since then.

I remember the guys who'd throw parties at the Buena Vista.

In its day, the best bands in Cuba played there.

Know what I eat when I've had too much to drink?

Black cocoquetta soup.

Chicken consommé.

You take a piece of chicken neck and fry it up.

When it's no longer bloody, you toss in some chopped garlic.

I think there are still some remains of the bar.

Anyone who eats that will have no aches or pains.

You like mutton consommé?

It clears everything out.

From Alto Cedro I head for Marcané

I get to Cueto and head for Mayarí

The love I have for you

I cannot deny

My mouth is watering

I just can't help it

When Juanica and Chan Chan

Sifted sand together on the beach

The way she shook the sieve

Got Chan Chan all aroused

Clear the dry cane leaves from the path

Because I want to sit down

On that trunk over there

Or I might not make it

Attack!

From the front.

It's great, so let's enjoy it!

Asleep in my garden

The spikenards and the roses

The white lilies

And my soul

So very sad and sorrowful

It wants to hide from the flowers

Its bitter pain

I don't want the flowers to know

Of the torments

Life brings my way

If they knew how I'm suffering

They too would weep for my sorrow

Hush...

For they are sleeping

The spikenards

And the lilies

I don't want them to know

Of my sorrows

For if they see me weeping

They will die

Omara Portuondo!

I, Ibrahim Ferrer Planas...

was born in a small town in the province of Santiago de Cuba

called San Luis.

I'm the son of Aurelia Ferrer,

registered as her natural-born son.

I say this because...

I want everyone to hear directly from me

who I am and what I am.

At 12 years of age...

I lost my mother.

I'd already lost my father.

I was left an orphan,

my mother's only child.

So I had to make my way in life.

I attended school just like my friends,

but I had to drop out,

because life back then

wasn't like it is now.

It was harder.

I had to find my own way in life.

You need a hand?

We were just taking a break.

Rubén loves to improvise on his own, and then I join in.

So I started singing. "Compadre, pick up this tune."

Two gardenias for you

With them I mean to say I love you, I adore you

My love

Give them your full attention

They'll be your heart and mine

Ry Cooder heard it too.

I'd sung that number casually...

just to loosen up.

And he recorded it.

Two gardenias for you

With them I mean to say

I love you

I adore you

My love

Give them your full attention

They'll be your heart and mine

Two gardenias for you

With all the warmth of a kiss

Those kisses I gave you

And that you'll never find

In the arms of another love

They'll live in your presence

And speak to you as I do

You'll even believe they're saying

"I love you"

But if one evening at twilight

My love's gardenias should die

It's because they've realized

That you've betrayed me

For the love of another

... It wishes to hide

Its bitter pain

I don't want

The flowers to know

Of the torments

Life brings my way

If they knew how I'm suffering

My name is Omara Portuondo.

I was born here in Havana

in the area known as Cayo Hueso.

Two blocks that way?

My father was a famous baseball player.

He was one of the first Cubans

to play outside this country.

They took Cuban baseball to the U.S.

My mother and father

used to relax after lunch,

and they'd sing a few duets.

And that's when my love of Cuban music began.

For example, I started singing La Bayamesa when I was a little girl.

My father would sing lead and I'd sing harmony.

And the song I recorded on the album that won a Grammy, "Veinte Años" ‒

I've known that one since I was a child too.

What's it matter if I love you

If you don't love me anymore

A love now past must not be brought to mind

I was the love of your life

Once so very long ago

But now I'm part of the past

And I just can't accept it

If we could have

Everything we wanted

You'd still love me the same

As 20 years ago

With such sadness we watch

As love fades away

And a part of our soul is so heartlessly torn away

Here on the beach how María enjoys herself

Here on the beach, María how you excite me

I was born in 1907.

On the coast, by the sea...

in Siboney.

I lived there with my father.

He drove trains for the manganese mines.

I lived in Siboney until I was about nine,

until my grandmother died.

Then my brothers and I moved to Santiago de Cuba.

But I couldn't leave Siboney until my grandmother died.

She told me that.

"Grandson, until I die, you cannot leave my side."

I used to light her cigars.

I was five years old.

She'd say, "Light me a cigar."

And I would, from the age of five on.

I'd hand it to Grandma, and she'd smoke it.

So you might say...

I've been smoking for 85 years.

I have to work hard, because Ry Cooder's here.

In the trunk of a tree a young girl

Joyfully carved her name

And the tree, moved to its very soul

Sent a flower floating down

To the young girl

I am that tree

So moved and so sad

And you're the young girl

Who cut into my flesh

I'll always treasure

Your dear name

But tell me

What have you done with my poor flower?

I learned that when I was this big.

That's it.

Music is so beautiful!

My name is Eliades Ochoa Bustamante.

I was born in Santiago de Cuba on June 22, 1946.

My mother, Jacoba Bustamante, played the tres.

So did my father. We were a musical family.

I was born in the countryside,

so of course I'd hear music

from the moment I woke up in the morning.

Besides having music in my blood,

I heard music night and day.

In 1958, when I was no bigger than a guitar,

I began playing all around Santiago.

In the red light district I'd play and pass the hat:

"Support Cuban musicians."

That's how I made some money,

which I took home to help out my parents.

Along the road by my house a merry cart driver went by

His songs came from the heart

In his jolly way he sang

"I'm going to the ferry

To unload my cart

And finish another day of my back-breaking work"

We ride up into the hills

Hey, compay!

I work without rest

So that I can get married

If I can manage that

I'll be a lucky country lad

My days of passing the hat are over.

You never forget it, but it's in the past now.

I'm a country lad and cart driver

And I live well on the land

The countryside is the Garden of Eden

The loveliest in the world

We ride up into the hills

Cultivate the hills and the plains

And reap the fruits of your toil

Hey, how are you?

We've been waiting ages. You're late.

I thought maybe the cops got you.

Come on up.

Come in.

Make yourselves at home.

At one time, in Santiago de Cuba,

my grandfather was

president of a French society.

It was called "El Cucuyé."

A delegation of Africans

came to visit him there,

and my mother really liked one of the African women.

And when that woman left,

she gave my mother this staff.

My mother was a firm believer in this Lazarus,

which I now have.

I firmly believe in my Lazarus too.

They call him "the beggar."

He's a powerful figure.

He opens up paths

and helps the destitute, you might say.

The other one's the same...

but this Lazarus is the one I carry inside,

the one who asks for alms.

I place flowers before him.

Sometimes I light a candle to him.

I give him honey.

See? I pour honey in here for him.

And lots of perfume.

Lots of perfume.

Every time I go out I spray him

and myself too.

His little shot of rum.

I like it...

so I just assume if we like it, he must like it too.

So he gets his little shot of rum.

Sometimes my wife makes him a meringue.

You know what that is?

She makes it, and we place it there for him.

We dedicate it to him.

So that's how he gets all these things.

We Cubans can be thankful

to, I don't know, the man up there that we are the way we are.

If we cared about possessions, we'd have vanished long ago.

But we Cubans are unique.

We're a small country,

but we're strong.

We've learned how to hold on

through good times and bad.

Cienfuegos has its guaguancó sound

Today I'm filled with emotion

I will sing to my land

To that famous region

Known as the Pearl of the South

Its women are the finest

Radiant as the stars

And for the elegant way they walk

They're admired throughout the land

Cienfuegos, I carry you

Deep within my heart

That's why with special pride

I sing you this inspiration

So you see, my brother

Cienfuegos has its guaguancó sound

That's the ending!

That's how Juan de Marcos wanted it.

My name is Rubén González y Fontanills.

I was born in the city of Santa Clara...

in 1919.

At the age of seven I began studying piano.

My family had bought a piano.

It was a very good one, a John Stowers.

It was a player piano too.

It sounded wonderful.

When I saw that instrument, I went crazy.

I really liked it.

I'd do all kinds of things on it.

So I started studying.

When my mother saw I had the potential

to be a great piano player,

she arranged lessons for me

with a private teacher

from Cienfuegos.

So I studied with her for one year...

then two, three, four...

up to eight years.

That's when she told me...

"Rubén, you're going to be a good pianist.

You have great skill with your hands."

I was forgotten. I just stayed home.

But I wasn't going to starve.

I shined shoes, I collected trash.

I sold coal. I had a family to support.

I'm not ashamed to say that.

We moved from Santa Clara to Havana.

But in the capital I started feeling insecure.

I thought, "There are lots of piano players in Havana!"

So I began to study

everything I could.

It turned out that next door there was a man

who later came to be known as Arsenio.

He formed a famous band.

He heard me play.

But Arsenio was blind.

He wasn't born that way.

He'd lost his eyesight in an accident.

Anyway, one day he said to me,

"Would you like to play in my group?"

I said, "Sure."

His pianist had left

and gone to Europe.

So I took his place and played with Arsenio for four years,

and it was a successful time for me.

People talked about how Arsenio would get argumentative,

and they'd argue back...

and he'd get really angry.

You know what he'd do?

He'd stand like this...

and then lunge toward any voice he heard to grab that person.

But since he was blind,

everyone would just scatter.

We'd tell each other, "Keep quiet so he won't know I'm here!"

And he'd come at you like this.

He'd get really mad

when people didn't show him respect.

He was a big, strong, fat guy,

and taller than everyone else.

I'd laugh like crazy.

I swear I'm not gonna smoke anymore.

Honest.

Well, just a bit.

Just a little.

And no more drinking either.

I used to drink.

Man, did I ever drink!

But I've got my bodyguard here.

She won't let me.

This is Arsenio Rodríguez. It's the best picture of him.

May 24, 1946.

The band toured a lot in Mexico,

and also in Venezuela.

This guy died a while back. Most of them are gone.

This guy's still alive.

He's almost 100 now.

Pascualito is his name. He plays the timbal.

Yes, he died in Spain.

Thank you.

I just don't want to die ‒ at least not right now.

The man up there and my wife over there

ought to grant me a bit more time to enjoy all this.

Because sometimes you don't get time.

As long as I have blood in my veins...

I'm going to love women.

Because in life,

women, flowers, and romance

are all so lovely.

One night of romance is priceless!

It's priceless. And I haven't forgotten how yet.

I'm 90 years old,

and I have five children.

You met Salvador and Basilio.

Salvador is the youngest.

I have five,

but I'm working on the sixth.

I want one more.

Well...

see you some other time.

One afternoon, out of the blue...

Juan de Marcos knocked at my door.

I was polishing some shoes.

He said, "What are you doing?"

I said, "Just shining my shoes."

"I've been looking for you. Come with me."

"No, I don't want to sing anymore, " I said.

But he said, "Man, I need your voice."

So I asked him, "When? Tomorrow?"

"No, right now." "At least let me shower."

"No, right now."

He barely gave me time to wash my face

and wipe off a little shoe polish.

So we came here to the EGREM studios,

where I found Eliades Ochoa.

He was here

with Compay Segundo and the rest.

Rubén was at the piano.

When Rubén saw me,

he began playing...

...a number I'd made very popular here in Cuba.

It's called "Candela," by Faustino Oramas, "El Guayabero."

There goes a dancing rat having a great old time

While a mouse drums out a rhythm to brighten up the day

A cat comes along too so elegant and affable

"Good evening, friend" he says to the drummer

So I started singing the number.

And Ry was in the booth. It seems he had his eye on me.

He heard me...

and decided to record the song.

I thought, "Okay, no problem." So we recorded it.

That's when I got back to doing my thing.

Fire, fire! I'm burning up!

Faustino Oramas and friends, put this fire out for me!

Just dial seven zeros and the firemen will be right here

My name is Orlando López, "Cachaíto."

I'd like to tell you a bit about how I became a musician.

I started playing when I was nine.

At 11 years old, I joined an orchestra led by my aunt, Coralia López.

My uncle and my great-grandfather were both bassists.

I was going to study violin,

but my grandfather said, "No, it has to be bass."

It was one of those things.

I was a little afraid of the bass,

but it just took getting familiar with it.

My way of playing is to get very focused.

I like music so much.

I've studied classical music, every genre.

And I feel... I don't know.

For me playing music is like a game.

I played in lots of orchestras back then,

and that's how I met Rubén.

I'd played with a lot of pianists, but never Rubén.

Now it turns out we make a great pair.

My great strength is that I have a good ear.

I can also sight-read very quickly.

So before he plays a note, I already have that note in mind.

Chanchullo!

Chanchullo! Let's dance!

Chanchullo! Let's have a good time!

Amadito Valdés!

He's a wild man!

My name's Amadito Valdés. I'm a percussionist.

I use my father's name, since he was my main motivation

in going down this path.

In the field of percussion,

the timbal is a very limited instrument.

So anyone who plays it must be aware of that

and really use their imagination

with this instrument that's so limited

in its physical design, you might say.

It's a very modest instrument,

but one that lends a lovely color

to popular dance music.

My name is Manuel Mirabal Vázquez,

better known as "El Guajiro."

I began playing at age 18,

so I've been playing trumpet for 47years.

It's been quite an experience playing with all these guys.

If it hadn't been for Buena Vista ‒

All these folks were basically forgotten.

If it weren't for Buena Vista, no one would remember Ibrahim,

or Rubén, or Compay Segundo.

To see Compay at 90 playing the tres so well,

and Rubén playing the piano so well ‒

I think that's a key to the success

of these recordings by these groups.

My name is Bárbaro Alberto Torres Delgado.

In musical circles I'm known as "Barbarito Torres."

I've played the music of the Cuban countryside

since I was ten years old.

I play the lute, which is Arabic in origin.

The Moors took it to Spain,

where it underwent its first metamorphosis.

There they made a lute with a longer neck,

a little larger than the one used here.

Medieval troubadours brought it to Cuba,

where it underwent its second metamorphosis.

That resulted in the Cuban lute, the one I play.

Tula's bedroom has gone up in flames

She fell asleep and didn't put out the candle

Get the firemen here quick

And bring lots of hoses

Tula's bedroom has gone up in flames

Tell Compay to hurry and bring his hose

Tula's bedroom has gone up in flames

Barbarito's on the loose!

He's crazy!

Lock him away!

Fire, fire!

I'm burning up!

Tula's bedroom has gone up in flames

I'm Pío Leyva...

"the Cuban highlander."

I'm Manuel Licea, "Puntillita."

I'll trounce you good!

A blank!

I win!

I'm the greatest!

I tell you, you can't beat me, Puntillita.

At dominoes, I'm number one.

You may be the best singer, but at dominoes, I'm the best.

- Shall we go join them? - Wait till they call us.

Puntillita! Pío! Come on!

Jeez!

Just when I'm thrashing this guy, I have to go to the studio!

- It's 3-2. - We'll continue this later.

Let's see how the recording's going.

- You can't play with me. - Give me a chance!

- What chance! - Don't get ugly about it.

I'm particularly happy

to have been involved in coordinating this project.

It's brought together all the great names in Cuban music,

who sadly had been practically forgotten here.

People like Rubén González, whom I consider

one of the three greatest son piano players of all time.

Ibrahim Ferrer, one of the greatest Cuban singers ever,

who had sadly also been forgotten for over ten years.

And other people, like Puntillita, Pío Leyva...

Compay Segundo, Eliades Ochoa.

As an artistic undertaking,

this album will have an enormous impact on Cuban music.

The dancers are coming

And the roads are jammed

Recording, please.

There's a party at the cabin of Don Ramón

The pig is on the spit

The locals are on their way

They're gonna bring the house down

For Don Ramón's birthday

The dancers are coming

And the roads are jammed

The bongos the tiple, and the güiro

All play nonstop

Because that's how these country folk are

They have no particular time to call it a day

It's been a custom in the countryside

Since colonial times

Your kisses rained down in a tempest of love

An unquenchable desire

To join our lives in love

Yet in spite of it all

Your departure was my downfall

And put an end to all my dreams

And they won't be revived

Unless that day returns

That day

Of our last encounter

Of love

I want to dance at the beach

Because the African's asked me out on a spree

On the beach I walk along

Omara helps me with a song

Let me hear you play it

Whenever I ask you

How, when, and where

You always answer

"Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps"

Look at that beautiful building!

- A marvel. - It's enormous!

It's extraordinary.

- These avenues are so beautiful. - Just imagine!

This is really great.

Really beautiful.

Are you calling Cuba?

There's so much hustle and bustle.

Look at the gun that guy has.

- Don't shoot! - Look there.

All the greats are there.

All the greats.

There's Charlie Chaplin.

- Remember Laurel and Hardy? - The fat guy and the skinny guy!

And look here.

One of the most famous trumpet players.

Who's this guy?

Who was the greatest trumpet player ever?

The one who used to play out under the stars

and played the highest note ever at that time.

This guy was blind, remember?

A great piano player. And look who else is here.

It says right here.

They're all here.

- Who's the one in the middle? - With the saxophone?

No, next to him.

Let's see if I can remember.

I can't remember,

but he was one of the great leaders.

This is the life!

This is so beautiful!

You can see everything. - My plane flew in right along there.

There's a plane taking off now.

So they must fly in from this direction.

- But not right over this building. - Let's go.

- Where's the Statue of Liberty? - Over there.

With the big point on top.

Near those two towers there. You saw it when we came in yesterday.

- Near that tower over there? - No, this one over here.

That can't be the statue.

It's all by itself, on the tip of an island.

It's like that tiny one down there, but much bigger.

I thought the Statue of Liberty had a crown.

You can't make out the crown from here.

You'd have to look through the viewer.

You can't see the crown from here.

Yeah, you'd have to get closer.

But we know it's in that direction.

That we do know.

Let's move into the sun.

You want sun? Let's go.

- Have you ever been here before? - Yes, many years ago.

- Up here? - Up here?

- Who were you with? - No, not up here.

I went to the statue, and we looked down ‒

Who'd you go with?

Some tourists.

- That was in the 1920s, you said? - I don't know the year.

I was about 30, and I'm 80 now.

I want you to know this is the first time...

that I find myself in New York, in the U.S.

I've always longed

to see this city.

I'm not an American, and I can't speak English,

but I think I'll start learning a few words...

so that I can hold my own.

I wish I could bring my wife and a few of my kids to see this.

So they could see how beautiful it is.

This is just beautiful.

Look, Radio City.

At least I'm getting to see it.

I'm so happy to see all this.

I could never have imagined.

It's so beautiful. I'm really happy.

About two years ago...

I decided to retire.

I didn't want to sing anymore. I was disillusioned.

I'd been through so much. You know how life is.

I thought, "I'm bored of singing. I'm not earning anything."

I'm burning up!

The fire's burning me

I want to go on having a good time

I want a little something without having to work for it

It's above the knees and below the waist

Mama, I'm goin' crazy

The fire's burning me up

I want this good time to go on

I don't want to be burned up

I want to go on living

I don't want to die tonight

Mama, I'm burning up!

Thank you!

I tell you, my staff is like my mother.

I've carried this staff for 58 years.

That's how long I've had it. Since my mother died.

THIS REVOLUTION IS ETERNAL

WE BELIEVE IN DREAMS