At an open-mike session in the yard of a run-down stone house in Havana's Vedado neighborhood, several hundred fans waited in the blazing sun for an hour as a crew struggled to get the sound equipment working. The walls of the house were scrawled with vivid slogans--VIVA CUBA, FREE MUMIA and NO MORE PRISONS, next to a painting of the Cuban flag. It was easy to spot the trappings of American hip-hop in the animated crowd--baggy pants, and T shirts splashed with the names of American artists (Mos Def, the Notorious B.I.G.) or record labels (Bad Boy, Rawkus). Nearby, fatigue-clad soldiers--an ever watchful presence on Havana's streets--eyed the proceedings.
When the sound system finally lit up, the crowd erupted in glee as the rap duo Grandes Ligas (Big Leagues) sprinted onstage hurling raps as sharp and rousing as any of those by American rap star Method Man. "!Manos arribas!" (Throw your hands in the air!) shouted Grandes Ligas. The audience let out a roar and answered in English, "And wave them like you just don't care!" Unlike American hip-hop audiences, who usually keep their feet planted on the floor, Cuban hip-hop fans frequently break into wild dancing. "Salsa is everywhere in Cuba, but it is a vision of life that is not ours," says Jorge, 21. "Hip-hop expresses the details of our lives so well. Everything about it is real."
Cuban hip-hop is brimming with a we-can-change-the-world idealism, the sort of idealism American rappers cashed in long ago when rap became about Big Business and acquiring homes in the Hamptons. At outdoor block parties in Havana, in the basement of darkened theaters or in nightclubs that throw open their doors and go bust a few weeks later, raperos touch on themes ranging from racism to ecology. The city's hip-hop scene is alive with the kind of resourcefulness needed in a place where nightly electrical interruptions and the unrelenting tropical swelter can turn music making into a sweaty test of will.
One of the first popular Cuban rap groups was Orishas. In a nation that has long moved to the pulse of son and salsa, the upstart group delivered the kind of musical shock that young Cubans may one day remember with the same fondness that American baby boomers feel when they recall first hearing Chuck Berry's Johnny B. Goode. Two years ago, Orishas introduced a new song, 537 Cuba, that transformed the stately Cuban classic Chan Chan (a universally recognized tune among Cubans, like Guantanamera) into a rollicking American-style hip-hop anthem. The song struck a chord; young fans began eagerly trading bootleg tapes of the group and flocking to their concerts. Orishas' fame rose so rapidly that last year the group was invited to the presidential palace to meet Fidel Castro. "So you are the ones who have been making so much noise," said El Presidente admiringly. This from a leader who had once banned American rock music.