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Sport 32: Summer 2004
Master Percussionist
Master Percussionist
[Miguel's] got that Master stature about him… he's a beautiful cat.
Miguel's father was from Cuba; he met Miguel's mother in Puerto Rico; he left that small family when Miguel was two, and Miguel has page 123 no memories of him, no photographs; they never met again. Miguel went to New York as a young man. For months all he could order, travelling with his band, was a hamburger, fries, and orange juice, because that's all he knew how to say. When he first auditioned he did recognise his own name; he came up to the stage, played, smiled nice, and left to catch the train back from Philadelphia to New York, where he was met by his cousin at the station, frantic. ‘What you doing, man—why you here, man—you got the gig, man—they want you to start playing tonight—’
He met his ex-wife in New York. She was a New Zealander. When they split up and she came home, Miguel followed, leaving behind him the very successful career he had carved out over twenty years. No son of Miguel's was going to have only intermittent memories of his father, let alone none.
Miguel's early training was in classical music. He played with all the big Motown names. He played with all the big jazz names. Miguel can play anything. ‘I watch,’ he tells his students, fiercely, at a Master class. ‘First I listen, but mostly, with the greats, I watch. I watch to see how they do it.’ He demonstrates on the instrument, his big hands hard as teak. It's like the top half-inch of skin is all callus.
Miguel's suitcase reminds you of Mary Plain's, in Mary Plain Goes to the USA. It's covered, plastered, with stickers, cities visited, cities lived in, venues played at: they overlap, they peel and fade, the colours are often in stark contrast but do not shout at each other. You want to sit down with the suitcase in your lap and study it, like a mosaic. Miguel receives your pleasure in it with mild pleasure of his own. It's a portable version of the corkboard people have in their kitchens: tattered photographs, curling at the corners, of babies, lovers, holiday-makers with their arms around each other, beaming out at the viewer, exotic locations in the background. What you never know, of course, is who, exactly, is in the foreground: taking the picture.
‘Miguel's full on, man,’ Jonathan says to the others, after one of the Monday meetings in Havana. He stands behind the wooden bar, making coffee, and does an impersonation of Miguel panicking about reaching his plane in time; Miguel meeting Fima at the airport; Miguel refusing to understand that there is a difference between the drummer Rik, page 124 and the drummer Nick.
And it's true, Miguel is intense. He speaks hoarsely, insistently. His profile is sharp, his eyes hooded. Words, stories, anecdotes, opinions come from him in a flood; until the camera starts rolling, where most disconcertingly he transforms into Yum-Yum, batting his eyes and looking up shyly from under his lashes. You must be careful what questions you ask; none that could possibly lead to a one-word answer. ‘Yes’, or ‘No’, for example.
Sometimes, playing, when things are going well, Miguel will break out into a huge, generous smile, ear to ear. In pure joy.