Carlos Manuel Pruneda was a big name in Cuba, but he couldn't quench his thirst for artistic freedom there.
By DAVID ADAMS
Published August 15, 2003
MIAMI - Young Cuban singer Carlos Manuel Pruneda has the full pedigree of his island's long musical tradition. But no intention of following it.
After being raised on Cuba's famous sounds of son and guaracha, he says he's leaving his roots behind.
Pruneda, 30, who defected to Miami in June, is the latest in a long string of talented Cuban artists to flee the island in recent years. He was at the height of his career in Cuba after a series of major hits. But unlike those who have gone before, he says his goal is not to be local hero.
"I want to be with other people who are not Cuban. I have brought enough of the Cuban with me," he said.
With his spiky gelled hair and casual clothes, he already looks different. Pruneda hasn't exactly worked out what style of music he'll play. For sure there will be a Cuban influence, "but I'm going to disguise it in blue jeans, a leather jacket and Texan boots," he said.
In a sign of the times perhaps, Pruneda arrived in Miami barely a month before the death of two of the islands' oldest musical legends, Compay Segundo and Celia Cruz. Both artists enjoyed a massive following and continued to perform until old age, a testament to the longevity of Cuba's traditional rhythms.
Much as he admires their music, Pruneda says being Cuban isn't enough for him. Part of the reason he left the island was because of the closed world of Cuba's communist system. While he traveled widely on concert tours and enjoyed privileges in Cuba as an officially recognized music star, he lacked the freedom to fully express himself.
"I was born in the same world as everyone else," he said. "I am part of this earth. Cuba isn't. It's been omitted. It's somewhere else altogether."
Pruneda's defection was less overtly political than others before him. He has no interest in making the rounds of local Cuban radio stations in Miami to denounce Fidel Castro. Anyway, where were the Miami radio stations when his hit album, Malo Cantidad, (A Lot Bad) came out in Cuba two years ago, he asks?
No one in Miami would give it airtime. Coming from Cuba, the album was regarded as politically incorrect. Despite Miami's changing demographics and the emergence of a new, young Cuban-American generation with far less cultural prejudice against music from Cuba, local radio stations continue to follow the political line of Miami's die-hard exiles.
Never mind, too, that the album came out on an American record label, Palm Pictures, owned by Chris Blackwell, the Miami-based music producer who "discovered" Jamaican reggae legend Bob Marley and the Irish rock band U2.
Whether it's in Havana or Miami, Pruneda says he won't allow politics to dictate his career, or his life. It's enough that politics destroyed his family in Cuba.
He grew up a child of the revolution, born a decade after Castro took power. His parents lived not far from Castro's offices in Havana.
But his parents didn't see eye to eye about communism. His father, a bus driver, was never a fan of Castro, but his mother, a hairdresser, was an enthusiastic supporter of the revolution.
"My dad always said America was lo maximo, (the best)," he said. When Cuba opened the doors in 1980 during the Mariel boatlift, Pruneda's father was all set to leave. He made the bus trip out to the port of Mariel several times, ferrying would-be migrants.
But his wife refused to go. Then they drifted apart, and Pruneda's father remarried.
Ironically, 23 years later when Pruneda broke the news of his secret plan to quit the island, it was his mother who agreed to join him. His father stayed behind to look after his own father, who was sick, and a second young family he had started.
"My mother agreed instantly to come with me," he said. "She had grown disillusioned with Fidel, like so many Cubans."
A talented guitarist and piano player at school, Pruneda began singing boleros at 18. He was invited to join the group Irakere, led by one of Cuba's best known jazz musicians, Chuchu Valdes. He performed all over the United States and Europe, including at Ronnie Scott's jazz club in London.
That paved his way in the Cuban music establishment. After forming his own group in 1997, Carlos Manuel and his Clan, he enjoyed instant success, with two hits, Agua Fria and Tremenda Parejita. The album, Por la Vena el Gusto, aroused international curiousity for its "timba" sound, a modern salsa variation which combines Afro-Cuban rhythms with a more energetic salsa dance beat.
"When I saw him playing live in Cuba it was amazing," said Alex Masucci, a top executive in the New York Latin music industry. He was instantly impressed by the group's instrumental talent and vitality. Pruneda's strong voice was backed by a charismatic presence on stage. "They just leapt from song to song. It was incredible to watch."
The 2001 album, Malo Cantidad, cemented Pruneda's reputation as the bad boy of Cuban music, adding new Caribbean influences and a touch of rap, to create an original sound.
But, while the fans loved it, Malo Cantidad was not the success Pruneda or Palm Pictures had hoped for. Masucci says the project suffered from a mixture of Cuban bureaucracy and clashing egos. "It was like living in hell," says Masucci. "I put a lot of years into it and it burned me out."
Manuel says he could never get Cuba's permission to promote the album with a U.S. concert tour. "The Cubans said they were worried about the manipulation of his image in the U.S.," said Hugo Cancio, who has signed Pruneda to his Miami record label, Ciocan Music.
That's when Pruneda began thinking of leaving. He discussed his frustration with friends. They warned him not to stir up trouble for himself. Instead, he began to secretly plan his departure.
To make matters worse, in March his uncle, Pedro Pablo Alvarez, was arrested and jailed for 25 years as a political dissident. "That's a crime, jailing a man who only said what he thought," said Pruneda. "Those were the last drops in the glass for me."
Pruneda also faced a personal dilemma. Members of Cuba's writers and artists union were being asked to sign a letter supporting the crackdown on political opponents. Pruneda wasn't going to sign it, and he feared repercussions.
While he came under no direct pressure, he knew his days as a privileged artist could be in jeopardy. Like many artists in Cuba with decent dollar incomes, Pruneda could afford to take a few liberties with Cuba's strict communist system.
For example, in his house he had illegal access to DirecTV and the Internet. Ordinary Cubans are not permitted to have access to the outside world, via cable or satellite TV, the Internet, or even cell phones. But all can be acquired on the dollar black market. Pruneda's Internet access was set up for him by a foreigner. He also drove a Mercedes, and three other cars, all registered in the names of foreigners.
"I was tired of all the hypocrisy," he said. "To get anything in Cuba you are compelled to break the law." Authorities know about the illegal black market, but turn a blind eye as long as individuals toe the party line, he said. "It's a form of blackmail."
Pruneda arranged to hop over the U.S. border during a tour of Mexico scheduled for May. When he told the band, they agreed to join him. His wife, on the other hand, a state dentist, refused to go with him. The couple haven't spoken since. He left her the house, and a new VW Golf.
Before leaving, he arranged a series of concerts in Cuba as an unannounced adios to his fans. In the plaza of Cienfuegos on the south coast, Carlos Manuel and his Clan gave a free concert for 20,000 fans. That was followed by a performance at Havana's Karl Marx theater, the islands' top venue for officially sanctioned music. The night they were due to fly to Mexico they gave a smaller concert at a Havana night club, Macumba.
From there the band went straight to the airport, accompanied by their state-appointed manager.
When word got out in Mexico that Pruneda planned to defect, the manager warned band members that there would be repercussions. For one thing, they could forget about ever returning to Cuba to see their families. Most of the band members caved in, including Pruneda's close friend and musical arranger, Pedro Camacho. Halfway through the Mexico tour, they were bundled onto a bus and flown back to Havana.
Fearing that Cuban authorities might try to stop him too, Pruneda checked out of his Mexico City hotel through the back door. He headed for the Texas border in a van packed with the band's instruments, all bought with his own money.
Upon the rest of the band's return to Cuba, they were given a new name, Pedro Camacho and his Clan. There was no official mention of Pruneda. As far as Cuba was concerned, he might as well be dead.
That suits him just fine, says Pruneda. He's enjoying starting life over. "I much prefer having to work my way up from zero in this country than being famous in Cuba," he said.
He's already landed a leading part in a movie, Dream City, alongside Maria Conchita Alonso, which is due to start filming in New Jersey this fall. He is to play the role of a Cuban salsero who comes to the United States in search of the American dream, only to return to Cuba disillusioned.
Pruneda has no such plans for himself.
He is currently planning his first post-defection concert. Instead of Miami's small Cuban clubs, Pruneda is playing a Saturday show at Miami Beach's Jackie Gleason theater, with seating for 2,700. He is also heading out on tour, with a still-unscheduled concert date in Tampa.
It promises to be a major production, with dancers, a symphony and Mexican mariachi band, to show off his newest album, Enamora'o.
He plans to interject video clips of his defection from Cuba during the concert. "We are going to give people a surprise," said Cancio. "Some people may be expecting to see another Cuban salsero. But Carlos Manuel is going to change the perception of Cuban musicians."
