Miami Music Blog

In the spirit of the season, I will lay down for you some hurricane tips and tricks and do's and don't's. Do you dread putting up your shutters like I do? Keep them up all year! It's easier, you only have to do it once and you are always prepared. This method of preparedness adds a level of cave-like darkness to your home, which is really good you return home from a night of doing the Cabbage Patch for 8 hours straight.

If you have no shutters, do what my neighbors did minutes before Hurricane Andrew: get some cardboard and tape them to on your windows. When you run out of cardboard, make an X with 2 large pieces of tape on your window. These methods are symbolic and spiritual only, the cardboard fies away the moment winds hit speeds in excess of 20 mph and the tape just looks really cool. But, it lets the hurricane know that you were thinking about it, and all hurricanes really want is attention. And destruction.

A summer night in 1999, my friends David, Cali and I rode out to Mezzanote in Coral Gables. He said it was a party, but it looked like a restaurant and sounded like cool music. The DJ was in some corner by the door to the busboys chamber, his name was Alex "Cookie Heads" Caso. Cookie Heads was funny and had an amazing collection of records.

I was very confused by the whole evening. A restaurant in the Gables, people dressed like rockers and most importantly: new music I'd never heard and everyone else was singing along. I sat down at a table to soak it all in. After a few more songs we headed home, smiling. Cali told me to watch the speed limit, Cali has excellent five-oh spotting skills. Still reeling with giddiness, I stared at Cali blankly and told him, "I can speeeeeeeed!"

Editor's Note: In this week's column, José El Rey asked readers to submit questions and he'd "lead them to a better living."

My old lady doesn't love me what should I do?
Charles

I hate answering questions with more questions. Do you mean old lady like your mom? No, no, no... Old girl is your mom! That's right. I was stranded in Opa Locka one night and my mom came to pick me up and the neighborhood fellows asked me, "Carlos! That your old girl?" By this point I had accepted that Carlos was slang for Jose, I answered them, "No! That's my mom!" Oh, how they laughed. At any rate, Joseph, if your elderly girlfriend doesn't love you, it is your responsibility to act like you don't love her. More importantly, act like you love many other, older ladies. To look better than her. 

Bro, everyone is trying to be cool. And act all tough. And act like they don't know me. How did this happen? When did people stop smiling? People have told me that the transition between childhood and adulthood is rough, harsh and loaded with disillusionment. Not the case for me, I have stayed firmly grounded in 1989. Firmly grounded in politeness and hand shaking and cheek kissing and hugging and opening doors for ladies and not getting mad when they slap me for going to far.

Seven years ago, I was at bounce house party at Arturo Sandoval III's house in Miami Springs. We were all way too old to be slip and sliding and bouncing off the walls of the dragon themed castle. We are all far to mature to be giggling and starting pilitas. Hours later, we were resting in Tury and his wife Mel's living room. Tury and (Friendswithyou partner in joy) Sam Borkson were sitting Native-American style and admiring a black penguin like toy named Malfi. Sam admitted to me that, he and Tury designed this little guy and that there were many more to come. 

I've been driving around town listening to one song. Non-stop. And, if you know me, that's pretty normal; usually the one song is one of my songs. This time the song is "Booty Shorts" by Basside. I swear, if anyone ever asks me what my favorite band is, the answer is "me." I am tempted (not in the usual physiological/sensual way) to say that I have a new favorite band. Pero, no, I cannot say that. I must say this: I have a new favorite band that is not me. And it is Basside.

Basside, just like Miami's most famous tourist shopping mall Bayside, is beautiful, dangerous and in a class of it's own. The two young ladies in this group are so badass that they will invite themselves and all their friends over to your house. They will trash the place. They will steal your beer and Galleticas Hilda, and you will love it. Metaphysically. 

Miami! My Miami! I missed you so much. I missed you like the deserts miss the rain. No, I miss you more than that; the desert has no idea that it's missing the rain. On my trip to America, I started getting worried. Especially, when I left you alone for your biggest weekend ever, WMC. I heard you did some things when I wasn't looking that weren't very safe or ladylike. But, that's okay. It's none of my business what you do when I'm not looking at you. What I do when you're not looking at me is your business. I am a self-ordained ambassador of Miami-Dade County.

This New York City is very wonderful. It has the skyscrapers and the subways and the bright lights. The people are not as mean as my parents said they would be and the muggings do not happen on every corner. They have bars with taco trucks inside of them, clubs with full size arcade games, pubs that give you a free pizza with every drink you order (even if it's Diet Coke!) and lounges with Bocci ball courts.

New York definitely has a lot more fun things to do than Miami. And please, do not be one of those people that gets mad at just one sentence in an article, allow the next sentence to make me make myself clear: Miami has more fun than New York. ¡Punto!

Catholicos, it's Lent time! Cuaresma, baby! Time for to behave really good. Time to make up for all the sinning and loving ladies and inappropriate gyrating. Time for me to undo the damage of having become a Cuban-American Idol.

In Catholic school I was told to give up something during the 40 days of Lent. Kids were giving up candy, chewing gum, and playing with He-Man toys. I'd usually give up things that were easy to let go. No G.I. Joes. No Watchamacalits. No frituras de bacalao. Easy stuff. Child's play.

Seeing Miami in a movie or a TV show or music video turns on my internal geek switch. I'm super excited to see the 305 represented on the screen, but I approach America's assessment of Miami like one of those guys that knows the names of the different kinds of robots in the movies about Star Wars.

Take the song, "I'm in Miami Bitch" by LMFAO, which is very vague about the city. The dudes party all day and night, which is very true about Miami. But where are the shout outs to Opa-Locka, Hialeah, Henry Flagler, Julia Tuttle, and Metrozoo?

When the Fresh Prince grew up, he did not become the Fresh King, and just like parents, he don't understand. Every time I hear Will Smith sing about taking his jet ski to the "west Keys," I wonder if he means "Key West" or a series of land bound mini-islands west of Miami. Either way, Key West is not in Miami. Are there are secret keys west of Miami that only famous rappers know about?

Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of love. Many ladies have loved me, and I love myself as strongly as they did. I know how to show las señoritas a lovely time. I know how to love their bodies, but I can only say "I love you" to myself, and that makes Valentine's Day very challenging for me.

I need outside help. So, I sat down with Debbie D., of the now-defunct group Avenue D. We had a long talk with her about life, love, and most importantly, what to do to make a woman feel loved on Valentine's. 

Not too long ago, as impossible as it looks, sounds and seems, I held a day job. It was a mundane era of wearing socks, shaving, and having far fewer groupies. Sometimes, I needed to call this day job of mine and tell them I was not feeling so good. Every time I called in sick, I felt a sense of doubt from the other end of the line that made me want to act more ill than I really was.

It is an awkward position to be in. It was not unlike when you're on your way to meet a girl's family, and right when you get off the Palmetto in Hialeah, she sends you a text message that says, "If my parents ask, u r 20."

Whenever I woke up sick, I felt a panic, a need to emphasize the feeble sickness in my voice. I would hope that my boss wouldn't ask me to explain why I couldn't come in to work. I'd think about it for 10 minutes.

You sold me out, bro!  What the hell? What happened? I'll tell you what happened: I got an e-mail from some dude from the New York Times. He said he was in Miami to cover some sort of terrible crime spree, complete with beheadings. He wanted to write about something fun, so the worldwide press corps pointed him to me, José el Rey.

I was honored to be considered his personal Miami tour guide, and I had an evening of hot night-time fun all lined up for him and his team of foreigners. We were gonna go shopping at a botanica, and if he was up for it we'd get our souls cleansed, my treat! We were gonna eat some pan con bistec and I'd show him how to speak to ladies. Teach him how to use eye contact and smiling. I'd show him dance moves: Roger Rabbit, Kid-N-Play, and the Running Man.

The events that happen in childhood shape us, haunt us and turn us into the men and women that will lead the world. It's sociological science fact. When I borrowed a taped copy of Appetite for Destruction from Enrique Fernandez at age nine, I had no idea that 2 Live Crew and NWA were on side 2. I listened to both sides religiously. Sacrilegiously, really. I felt so guilty. So wrong.

These rockers on side one were worshiping the devil and those rappers and the other side were talking about killing cops and all-night sex motels. I loved it and hid it from my parents.

I was at my "cousin" Marco Serna's house later that summer. (He's not really my cousin, but the topic of Cuban cousins, and pretending that people who are not related to you are part of your family, will be elaborated on in a future column.) He walked up to me, giggling, and asked, "José, are you a surfer or a bro?"

I like an afterparty as much I like playing Ms. Pacman. But, just like Ms. Pacman, afterparties have no ending. I love Ms. Pacman, but level after level, ghost after ghost -- they just keep on, until I die. Afterparties are cool but hour after hour, smoke after smoke -- they just keep on, until I leave. So, I started skipping out on afterparties and visiting the late-night eateries.

After playing a show, nothing sounds better to me than snacks. So I gather my sweaty silken blouse off the stage. Then I grab my eight to 10 closest friends, bodyguards, and lovers/ex-lovers, as well as my accountant, my manager, and my historian. I hop into my car and get some pan con everything.

To get an introduction to Jose El Rey (if you actually need one!) and to read previous installments of his weekly Crossfade column, Que Pasa, M.I.A?, click here.

Against my better judgment and sense of comfort and convenience, I went camping. Into the woods. Into the night. With fire. And "beware of bears" signs. Bears that want to open my sleeping bag and eat me like a pastelito de carne.

A group of friends of mine invited me up to Wekiwa Springs State Park. They promised I'd have a relaxing time. I really needed a weekend away from photographers and night clubs full of ladies who try to steal my clothes and men who want to be in my clothes. I wondered if I could handle a weekend away from Miami and Cuban coffee, but my friends also promised to bring a cafetera.

The first step in camping, I realized, is to pack for warmth and safety. I brought some special shoes called "moccasins" made by the American Indians. Instead of my glitter-coated normal clothes, I brought "jeans." Jeans are pants that don't shine and don't have sequins or jewels. To keep insects away from me I brought a mosquitero and a fly swatter. I also brought night-vision goggles to see scary creatures in the night.

To read past installments of ¿Que Pasa, M.I.A?, click here.

Trying to make a New Year's resolution stick is like trying to get all your friends to call you by a self-appointed nickname. (Dudes, bro, from now on call me  Shatterstar. ) This year, I'm gonna buckle down and really stick to my resolution. Of course, I say that every time. I've kept a few resolutions, but not until years later.

In 1999 I swore on my collection of San Lazaro candles that I'd quit Coke (the soda); that resolution came true in 2003, when I discovered diet Jupiña. In 2002 I promised Papa Dios that I'd quit coke (not the soda); I didn't stick to that one until 2005. In 2006 I resolved to only date ladies born later than 1970 and before 1987; mission accomplished in 2008. 

Ultrachic
Ultrachic (Self-released)
www.myspace.com/ultrachic

Ultrachic stand on a weird crossroad bridge where they sonically span the golden years of Venezuelan rock (Sentimiento Muerto, Dermis Tatu, Desorden Público) with the newer bloods who continue to make the racket (Zapato 3, Los Amigos Invisibles, Caramelos de Cianuro). The funny thing is, Ultrachic bass player Luis Golding actually played with Caramelos de Cianuro. He brings that band's international know-how to Ultrachic's power-pop tropical rock, with roots in punk, British invasion, and electro. Drummer Christian Mijares rounds out the rhythm, while the guitar and vocals of Manuel Diquez soar over everything, making the songs fun and danceable as fuck. "Cuando Cae El Sol" (When the Sun Falls) and "Cerca del Oído" (Close to the Ear) are repeat faves. Oh, and the packaging is extremely sexy!

-- Abel Folgar

¡Feliz Navidad, Miami! As I sit by my Christmas tree and look upon the disco ball ornaments as they glitter and shine, I stroll through my holiday memory lane.

This is the time of year that I eat tons of lechon, yuca, and arroz con frijoles. I have no idea what that gelatinous cylinder (that only exists in the movies and on TV) called "cranberry sauce" tastes like. And that's okay; I don't feel like I'm missing anything.

I feel that the rest of the country is missing plenty. I'd rather listen to DJ Laz's remix of "El Burrito de Belen" than "Frosty the Snowman." I'd rather eat flan than marzipan. And I'm very happy to not have to use mittens. I need my fingers free to do touching.

Santa, the Reyes Magos, and my family and friends have been very thoughtful and giving to me. A guy like me can never have enough white shoes, gold chains, or subscriptions to Nintendo Power magazine.

To get an introduction to Jose El Rey (if you actually need one!) and to read last week's installment of his weekly Crossfade column, Que Pasa, M.I.A?, click here.

Maybe it's my moustache. Maybe it's the gel in my hair. Perhaps, and most likely, it's the manner in which I dress that makes all the dudes ask me so many questions on how to get (and get with) the ladies. I get asked for "how to pick up chicks" advice at least twice a day. When I was younger I needed the tips and tricks to pick up the chicks. Up until recently, I questioned my qualifications in this department. No longer do I question -- now, I answer.

In fourth grade, when all the boys and girls started going steady, I wanted in. I wanted to go with someone. I wanted to hold some hands. Kiss some French. So, I chose a girl that I recognized and asked her to be my girlfriend. I walked up to Lily Danger and, in a Cookie Monster voice, asked her, "Do you want to go steady?" She said no. So the first rule is: Do not ask ladies to be your girlfriend in a Cookie Monster voice.

José el Rey is a singer, dancer and jumper. What he feels and what he thinks is completely the truth to him. And his mom. His truths were developed while basking in the Miami sun while listening to "Diamond Girl" and Gucci Crew tapes.

¡Ta mala la cosa! All day, every day, that's what my ears hear. The most useful small talk starter and ice breaker in my Miami is: ¡Ta mala la cosa! In essence it means: Shit's bad. It's a quick and easy way of saying, "Bro, I'm broke and so are you!"

I can't afford to be broke. I'm Jose el Rey. You don't know? I'm the king. I got crowds to please, guests to entertain, and ladies to impress. But I've got no problem saying this: The economy is taking its toll on my superstar life. I can't pay top dollar for my clothes, scarves, and jewels anymore.

This means war and I just joined the army. Well, the Salvation Army. (Please, between my flat feet and that don't asking policy, I can never be all I can be. I love asking and telling!)

I went to Salvation Army with a mission: to buy a sharp suit for my video premiere. Simple enough, but as I walked down the aisles I was overwhelmed by negative thoughts. "Look at those jeans, not only are they jeans, but they have no rhinestones on them.... I don't see anything pink ... or aqua ... or any kind of neon!"