Victor Boa Interview Part 2

Click here to read part one.

To interview Victor, Bush, Marcela and I traveled through the maze of unmarked streets in the sprawling neighborhood of Juan Diaz, past Rio Abajo in Panama City. We stopped along the way to ask various people if we were getting closer. A Chinese store owner pointed us further down the road; a barber working out of his house told us Victor lived in a cul-de-sac two blocks up and two to the left. All saluted Bush loudly, as he is known not only as a famous musician but also as an intelligent, down-to-earth fellow with a ready smile.

“El Maestro” himself greeted us at the door, as great-grandchildren ran about and women played bingo using red beans for markers. He is a lean man with a white moustache and goatee, with white hair poking out from under his dark blue beret.

“Spanish Bwai!” he calls out to Bush. Victor speaks perfect English and Spanish, his English with a touch of a Jamaican accent. The interview was conducted in Spanish, English and Spanglish.

“Victor, Bush has just finished a book about the history of music in Panama,” I said.

“Dig it man!” Victor said. Then he turned quickly to Bush. “You better put me in it!”

“Of course, Maestro,” replied Bush. “There’s a whole section on you.”

As we sat down in his living room and I began to ask questions, it became apparent that El Maestro, who had suffered a number of serious strokes in recent years, was having difficulty remembering the names I brought up. He did remember Zaggy (Harold Berry), though, a great jazz drummer and charismatic character in the 50-60s music scene I have been trying to learn more about.

“Zaggy?” said Victor. “He was something else. Nice guy, a trickster. I didn’t have to worry about drums when he played.”

We decided to let Victor talk about his musical education, and later I would play him songs I from my mp3 player to get his reaction. Author, DJ and Hip Hop Journalist Bobbito García used to do this with great musicians in Vibe Magazine in the early 90s, and it was consistently the best part of the magazine.

“I was born in Chorrillo in 1924, I am 79 yrs old. My mother was a teacher. At 15 I began learn to play piano, with my mother. The piano was my first love. I saw the keys, and even though I didn’t know how to play, I was awestruck. My mother taught me the notes, this is ’so’, ‘mi’, ‘fa’ — I spent the whole next day playing. But no one had time to teach me.”

“What was your first group?” I asked.

“I made a group, a couple of guys. I had heard a ‘Sonora’ playing in Chorrillo, with a trumpet player. I was the mandamus, the jefe of the group. I played my own arrangements — they were bad! But I didn’t have a teacher. I bought a book, by Magai. It showed me this note is worth 4, this note is worth 7….”

“So Maestro,” said Marcela, “you learned ‘de huevo a huevo’? (A funny Panamanian expression which literally means “from egg to egg” — or more slightly more colloquially “from nut to nut” — and means by your own moxie.)

El Maestro laughed. “Do it, or doeet,” he said. “I learned from that book, learned how to write music. I started making pieces — simple ones… this key doesn’t sound good… yeah that’s it. After a time, I could play with any orchestra that played, symphonic, any kind. I can write for them. Just tell me how many songs and step aside.”

“Maestro,” said Bush, “You wrote an album for me, if you remember.”

“Yes, yes.” (Victor composed all the songs on Bush y Sus Magnificos (above) 1970s LP “Ahora traigo el Melao.”)

“You played so many different musical genres,” I said. “That’s the history of Panamanian music, you have the soldiers coming in wanting to hear waltzes or fox trots or rancheras, you have the afro-cuban styles of guarachas, guajiras, the calypso from the islands, the Vallenato from Colombia, musica tipica, jazz… how did you decide what to play?”

“When I get a job,” said El Maestro, “I don’t know what I’m gonna play. They say play whatever you want, fast, slow, do my thing.” He looked at me with a glint in eye. “Sometimes they’re mischeevious.”

All this talk about music made Victor want to play, so we slowly got up and made our way into the next room, where his piano sat in a corner.

On the way, Marcela asked if any of Victor’s kids played piano.

“None of them play,” he said. “I leave the keyboard open to see if they will come up, but they never do.”

“Maestro, what do you need to do a concert by yourself?” asked Bush.

“Where?”

“La Cresta.”

Victor turned to me. “Hey that’s good bread,” he said. He turned back to Bush. “Bass, piano and drums, that’s all.”

So 80-year-old Victor Boa sat down at his piano, and stretched his long fingers out over the white and black keys. And we were all spellbound. He played beautifully. We watched his fingers flow and touch notes, and for a few minutes I totally forgot that this was an eighty-year-old man who had suffered at least two serious strokes.

“Man,” I said when he was done, “You play good!”

“Hey, that’s my business,” said Victor. (Women yelled in the background, calling out numbers in bingo.)

I took out my little mp3 player. “Dig it!” said Victor. I planned to play him ten songs, but we could tell he was getting tired. I hooked up my mini speakers, and pressed play on song 1.

Song 1 — Felix Chappottin y sus Estrellas, canta Miguelito Cuni — Micaela Me Boto.

Victor: “I know that tune. That’s my boy! He sang with my band, man….”

Roberto: “Miguelito Cuni lived in Colon for a while, right? He sang with your band?”

Victor: “That’s right.”

Song 2 — Ritmo y Candela with Carlos “Patato” Valdez — Sangre de Africa.

Victor: (listens to piano intro) “He knows what he’s doing…. Yeah…. Yeah… I know him well, he came to Panama a couple of times… he did a good job too.”

Roberto: “The coro says ‘Sangre de Africa, corre en las venas del caribe.” (translation — African blood runs in the veins of the Caribbean.)

Victor: “No es mentira.” (translation — That’s no lie.)

Song 3 — Bob Marley — Craven Choke Puppy — (It’s a mellow song, Victor nods his head).

Roberto: “You’ve heard of Bob Marley?”

Victor: “Oh yes, he had a lot of success.”

Roberto: “He was a young man then. Did you hear much reggae here, being descended from Jamaicans?”

Victor: “I didn’t listen to much. I’m a combustible man when it comes to music.”

Song 4 — Clyde McPhatter and the Drifters — Ruby Baby (Victor’s head bobs).

Victor: “I never heard this. I like it.” (Women playing bingo in front start swaying their heads and moving their arms, signifying.)

Song 5 — Victor Boa — Soy Solo Para Ti.

Victor: “Is that me? That’s a good solo, man. I like the little flourishes. This was recorded in 1971.” (Victor is playing the air piano perfectly to the beat, accenting the flourishes.)

Victor: “When I play, I play tight, I’m thinking what to play next.”

Roberto: “You composed this?”

Victor: “I composed it.”

Roberto: “That’s hot.”

Victor: “This song is good.” (He continues to play air piano until the end of the song, then smiles.)

Victor: “That’s all right.”

Song 6 — Lord Cobra and Pana Afro sounds — Rookombay.

Victor: “I hear dis song! Like natural sound. I did this with Lord Jablonsky. It’s bailable.” (Translation — danceable.)

Roberto: “What does ‘rookombay’ mean?”

Victor: “Don’t axe me, I cyant tell you. He was pregonando, (translation — calling out) so I sat at the piano and found the vamp first, and the song came from that.”

Song 7 — Dead Prez — I’m an African.

Victor: “I like the beat. I think I’m going to put this beat in my next song.”

Roberto: “He’s saying “I’m an African, I’m an African, and I know what’s happenin.’”

Victor: “There you go! He puts it right on the line, doesn’t he?”

Thus ended a magical few hours with Victor Boa, whose career spanned most of the great genres of 20th century music. My sincere thanks to Bush and Marcela, and to all the “pelaos” at the Minimax Café: my good friends and brothers Maestro Anel Sanders, Monitin and Monito Pérez, Chino, the great German Vergara, the Greek, el Profe, and Johnny. And of course, to El Maestro, Victor Everton McRae, may his memory be a blessing.