In one of his books, musicologist Cristóbal Díaz Ayala paraphrased Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar by playfully stating that singer La Lupe was more than a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. La Lupe, he joked, was a nervous breakdown dressed up as a woman. The archetype of the reckless, possessed artiste has followed La Lupe since her death in 1992 at age 55. Afro-Caribbean music fans old enough to have witnessed the one-of-a-kind Guadalupe Victoria Yoli Raymond in concert, remember a singer who would literally lose complete control of herself while performing. La Lupe would tear off her clothes, throw away her shoes and even beat up the unfortunate piano player who happened to be gigging with her.

It was all in the name of art, of course. La Lupe had the vocal chops to justify such excessive behavior. Once you've listened to the sheer intensity and earth shattering sensuality of Puro Teatro or the orgasmic moaning that accompanies her lover's lament on Qué Te Pedí, you will never experience Afro-Cuban music the same way.

No wonder famed conguero Mongo Santamaría enlisted her services as soon as she arrived to New York from Cuba in 1962. During the '60s, master timbalero Tito Puente-- always on the prowl for expressive female singers-- recorded a string of albums with her for the Tico label. We can imagine that working with such a temperamental artist cannot have been easy for him.

The mythical aspects of La Lupe's rebellious personality have taken our attention away from a fundamental fact about her life and work: the breathless beauty of her voice.

La Lupe and boleros were made for each other. She was an eclectic performer, eager to embrace a myriad musical formats- from straight-ahead rock and Venezuelan folklore to Dominican merengue and Cuban rumbas seeped in santería. But her forte was undeniably the big band ballad-- her stormy, occasionally piercing voice navigating fearlessly the lush dynamics of an opulent orchestration.

Released in 1966, "They Call Me La Lupe" shows the vocalist developing a distinct personality as a solo artist. The record preceded the success of 1968's Queen Of Latin Soul and 1969's La Lupe Es La Reina. But it boasted one of the finest talents that the singer ever worked with: Chico O'Farrill, the most subtle and sophisticated orchestrator that Cuban music has ever known, was in charge of the album's arrangements. The session itself was produced by Al Santiago.

Thanks to O'Farrill's versatility, La Lupe is able to showcase her inimitable style in a variety of settings. There's a jovial merengue “Dominique”, an electrifying version of the Cuban classic “ Soy Hijo Del Siboney”, a prison-themed "slow-rock" titled “El Preso Número Nueve”, and a joropo styled take of “Que Nadie Sepa Mi Sufrir”-- a song that would later become a million selling cumbia in the hands of Colombia's La Sonora Dinamita. The repertoire's most surprising choice is a samba version of Aaron Copland's anthemic “America”. La Lupe hams it up and makes us all smile in the process.

Still, the collection's most poignant moments find the singer in familiar torch-song territory. On “Dueña De Mi Corazon”, “Pensando En Ti” and the plaintive “Alivio”, O'Farrill's jazzy soundscapes and La Lupe's warmth are a marriage made in heaven. Now, thanks to the wonders of digital remastering, we can enjoy a pristine sounding sample of the artistic legacy left behind by a woman who once said proudly: A Mí Me Llaman La Lupe. “They Call Me La Lupe”.


Credits:

Producer – Al Santiago
Arrangement and Conduction – Chico O’Farrill



Written By Ernesto Lechner
LESS >