Johnny Colon - 1967 - Boogaloo Blues

Johnny Colon

1967

Boogaloo Blues

01. Boogaloo Blues 6:56

02. Jumpy 5:44

03. Mira Ven Aca 4:55

04. Descarga 4:00

05. Guantanamera 6:09

06. Mi Querida Bomba 6:18

07. Judy Part II 4:56

08. Canallon 3:26

Bass – Walter Oyala

Bongos – Louie Mangual

Congas – Joe Venero

Coro – Milton Cardona, Tony Rojas 

Guiro – Freddy Rivera 

Piano – Johnny Colon

Timbales – Herman Martinez

Trombone – Angelo Rodriguez, Johnny Colon, Robert Lemus

Vocals – Johnny Colon, Rafael (Tito) Ramos

The additional Coro singers on this release are various artists of, and as a courtesy of Alegre Records, and are identified only by their respective first names as: Carlos, Pete, Ronnie and Angel. And are credited as: & Representing The Alegre Fraternity.

Recorded at Mirasound Studios.

The Nuyorican Anthem That Grooved Through the Barrio

In the gritty, pulsating heart of 1967 New York City, where the streets of East Harlem and the South Bronx thrummed with the defiant spirit of Nuyorican youth, Johnny Colón’s Boogaloo Blues (1967, Cotique Records) exploded onto the scene like a conga-fueled firecracker. This album, a raw and soulful cornerstone of the Latin boogaloo movement, is a testament to the barrio’s resilience, blending Afro-Cuban rhythms with African American soul and blues in a way that made dancefloors quake and mambo purists wince. With its raw energy and unapologetic Nuyorican pride, Boogaloo Blues captured the voice of a generation that refused to be silenced, even as the salsa juggernaut loomed on the horizon.

To grasp the significance of Boogaloo Blues, one must dive into the vibrant, volatile world of 1960s New York, where Puerto Rican and African American communities in East Harlem (El Barrio) and the South Bronx were forging a new cultural identity. The decade was a crucible of change: the Civil Rights Movement was reshaping the nation, Nuyorican pride was surging alongside Black Power, and the Cuban Revolution of 1959 had thrown New York’s Latin music scene into disarray. The U.S. trade embargo severed ties to Cuban musicians and records, leaving the mambo era—once epitomized by the Palladium Ballroom—in a state of decline. By 1966, when the Palladium closed, Latin music was gasping for relevance, desperately seeking a sound to capture the bilingual, bicultural spirit of a younger generation.

Enter boogaloo, the musical equivalent of a street party where the dress code is “bring your best moves.” Boogaloo fused Afro-Cuban rhythms—son montuno, guaguancó, mambo—with the soulful swagger of R&B, doo-wop, and blues, creating a mid-tempo, danceable sound that was as infectious as it was rebellious. Its bilingual lyrics and loose, interpretive dance style resonated with Nuyorican youth, who grooved to Motown as readily as Tito Puente. Johnny Colón, a trombonist, vocalist, and bandleader from East Harlem, was a key voice in this movement, and Boogaloo Blues was his clarion call, a record that distilled the joys, struggles, and defiance of his community.

Released in 1967 by Cotique Records, a fledgling label founded by George Goldner, Boogaloo Blues arrived at the peak of boogaloo’s popularity, when the genre was dominating New York’s dancehalls and radio stations. The album’s title track, a sprawling blues-infused boogaloo, became an anthem of Nuyorican identity, while tracks like “You Gotta Love Me” showcased Colón’s raw, soulful charisma. The album’s success was a defiant middle finger to the Latin music establishment, which dismissed boogaloo as a simplistic, commercial fad—cue the collective eye-roll from mambo purists muttering about “those trombones ruining everything.” Yet, as we shall see, Boogaloo Blues was a raw, authentic masterpiece, executed by a talented ensemble that balanced Latin grit with soulful heart.

Boogaloo Blues is an eight-track album that clocks in at just over 30 minutes, embodying boogaloo’s ethos of delivering maximum impact with minimal fuss. Its sound is defined by Colón’s trombone-driven orchestra, featuring trombone, piano, bass, percussion, and vocals, with a raw, unpolished aesthetic that contrasts with the slicker productions of peers like Ricardo Ray. The album’s production, overseen by Cotique’s George Goldner and Jerry Masucci, is deliberately gritty, capturing the energy of a live barrio performance. Colón’s vocals, raw and emotive, blend soulful crooning with Latin bravado, while the trombone adds a distinctive, bluesy edge that sets the album apart from its boogaloo contemporaries.

Boogaloo Blues is a raw, soulful masterpiece that captures the grit and glory of 1967 New York with unpolished brilliance. Its strength lies in its authenticity: Colón’s trombone, raw vocals, and bilingual lyrics embody the Nuyorican experience, while the band’s tight grooves provide a danceable pulse. The production, gritty and unrefined, enhances the album’s barrio vibe, evoking a live performance in a Harlem basement club. The trombone’s prominence sets it apart from piano-driven boogaloo records, adding a bluesy edge that’s both innovative and deeply rooted in African American influences.

The album’s cultural significance is immense. At a time when Latin music was struggling to redefine itself post-Cuban Revolution, Boogaloo Blues offered a bold new vision, embracing the bilingual, multicultural identity of Nuyorican youth. Tracks like “Boogaloo Blues” and “You Gotta Love Me” became anthems of cultural pride, resonating with a generation navigating poverty, racism, and identity. Yet, the album’s triumph is tinged with irony: boogaloo’s raw appeal made it a target for salsa purists, who dismissed it as a commercial gimmick, ushering in Fania’s salsa juggernaut by 1970. One can almost hear Tito Puente muttering, “Trombones? In my Latin music? ¡Qué horror!” as Colón’s band took the stage.

Boogaloo Blues is a cultural artifact that captures the spirit of 1967 New York, a city teetering between celebration and struggle. The album’s bilingual lyrics and fusion of Latin and soul reflected the Nuyorican experience, bridging Puerto Rican and African American communities at a time of racial tension. Tracks like “Boogaloo Blues” and “Together (Juntos)” gave voice to the barrio’s resilience, transforming hardship into anthems of pride and unity. The album’s raw energy resonated with a generation navigating poverty, racism, and identity, making it a soundtrack for Nuyorican youth.

The album’s influence extends far beyond the 1960s. Its trombone-driven sound and bluesy edge influenced later Latin soul and salsa acts, while its raw energy laid the groundwork for hip-hop’s DIY ethos. Colón’s performances at revival events, like the 2015 SummerStage concert in Central Park, underscore the album’s enduring appeal, as new generations rediscover its gritty grooves. Yet, the album’s legacy is steeped in irony: boogaloo’s raw appeal made it a target for salsa purists, who dismissed it as a commercial gimmick, ushering in Fania’s salsa juggernaut by 1970. One can imagine Colón shaking his head, muttering, “I gave you ‘Boogaloo Blues,’ and you repay me with clave purism? ¡Por favor!”

From a scholarly perspective, Boogaloo Blues is a case study in cultural hybridity, illustrating how marginalized communities can create art that resonates universally. Its musical innovations—trombone in boogaloo, bilingual lyrics, blues-infused grooves—challenged the conventions of the Latin music industry, paving the way for future experimentation. However, the album’s raw production and occasional repetitiveness (e.g., “Can You Dig It” and “The Bug” feel like variations on a theme) are minor flaws in an otherwise stellar record. Listening to Boogaloo Blues today is like stepping into a 1967 barrio block party—gritty, vibrant, and impossible to resist. It’s a reminder that the most revolutionary art often comes from the streets, not the conservatory.

Boogaloo Blues is the Nuyorican anthem that grooved through the barrio, a record that captures the grit, glory, and defiance of 1967 New York with raw, soulful brilliance. Johnny Colón, with his trombone wails and barrio-born charisma, crafted an album that’s both a historical document and a timeless dancefloor filler. His backing band—Nick Jiménez, Bobby Marín, Rafael Cortijo, an unsung bassist, and a possible trumpeter—were the unsung architects of this masterpiece, turning Colón’s vision into reality with their talent and groove. The album’s legacy—its influence on Latin soul, salsa, and modern Latin music—proves that boogaloo was no mere fad, but a cultural force that still resonates.

So, crank up “Boogaloo Blues,” ignore the salsa snobs, and let Colón’s trombone-fueled bravado wash over you. In a world that often dismisses the “blues” of the barrio, Boogaloo Blues is a glorious reminder to dance through the struggle—even if the mambo police are lurking, ready to confiscate your trombone.