Joe Bataan - 1975 - Afrofilipino

Joe Bataan

1975

Afrofilipino

01. Chico And The Man (Main Theme)

02. The Bottle (La Botella)

03. X-Rated Symphony

04. Laughing And Crying

05. Hey, Girl

06. When You're Down (Funky Mambo)

07. Women Don't Want To Love Me

08. Ordinary Guy (Afrofilipino)

09. What Good Is A Castle (Part 1)

10. What Good Is A Castle (Part 2)

Bass – Bill Terry (tracks: B1 to B3)

Bass – Gordon Edwards (tracks: A1 to A6)

Congas, Bongos – Louis Palomo (tracks: B1 to B3)

Drums – James Madison (tracks: A1 to A6)

Drums, Timbales – Munyungo (Darryl Jackson) (tracks: B1 to B3)

Guitar – Cornell Dupree (tracks: A1 to A6)

Guitar – Randy Russell Pigeé (tracks: B1 to B3)

Percussion – Peter (Choki) Quintero (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano – Frank Owens (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano – Richard Tee (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano, Organ – Sammy Garcia (tracks: B1 to B3)

Saxophone [Alto, Baritone] – Dave Sanborn (tracks: A1 to A6)

Strings – Swinging Salsoul Strings (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trombone – Barry Rogers (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – John Faddis (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – Lou Soloff (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – Randy Brecker (tracks: A1 to A6)

Joe Bataan’s Afrofilipino (1975): The Salsoul Disco Bomb That Proved a Filipino Kid from Spanish Harlem Could Out-Latin the Latinos—and Then Some

Let’s get this out of the way upfront: in 1975, the idea of a Filipino-American former juvenile delinquent turned street-corner doo-wop singer deciding to record a full-on salsa dura album with Spanish lyrics he barely spoke fluently was so absurd that it should’ve come with a laugh track. Instead, Joe Bataan dropped Afrofilipino on Salsoul Records and accidentally created one of the hardest, funkiest, most defiant New York Latin albums of the decade. This is the sound of a man who looked at Tito Puente, Willie Colón, and Eddie Palmieri and said, “Hold my adobo, watch this.”

The result? A record so good that Puerto Ricans in El Barrio played it thinking Joe was one of theirs, only to do a double-take when they saw the album cover: a grinning Filipino guy in a dashiki, looking like he just won a bet with God.

From Gang Leader to Latin Soul King to… Wait, He’s Filipino?

Born Bataan Nitollano in 1942 (yes, named after the Bataan Death March—his mother had a dark sense of humor or an even darker sense of patriotism) to a Filipino father and African-American mother, Joe grew up in East Harlem’s 112th Street, a place where the main currencies were fists, pride, and the ability to sing harmony on a tenement stoop.

By 15 he was leader of the Dragons gang, did a stretch in Coxsackie state prison, and came out reformed—sort of. He formed a doo-wop group, sold enough “Latin soul” 45s on Fania to buy nice shirts, and coined the term “Latin boogaloo” with his 1967 monster “Gypsy Woman.” Joe was the original crossover hustler: too Black for the Latin scene, too Latin for the Black scene, too street for the clubs, and—crucially—100% Filipino in a genre that didn’t have a box for that yet.

By the early ’70s, boogaloo was declared dead by the Fania mafia (too American, not “authentic” enough), so Joe pivoted like a man who’d already survived prison and multiple musical funerals. He cut some sweet soul albums, discovered disco early, and then—in the ultimate act of “watch me” energy—decided to go full salsa dura… in Spanish. The man spoke kitchen Spanish at best. The result was Afrofilipino, the album equivalent of showing up to a gunfight with a spork and still winning.

The Musicians: A Murderers’ Row of Nuyorican Heavyweights (Who Probably Thought Joe Was Crazy Until They Heard the Playback)

Recorded at Good Vibrations Studio in NYC and released on Salsoul (the label that would soon birth disco’s golden age), Afrofilipino is stacked with the kind of players who made the ’70s New York Latin sound dangerous.

These cats had played on classic Fania albums. They walked in expecting another Latin-soul crossover cash-in and left having cut some of the nastiest, funkiest salsa of 1975. Rumor has it half the band learned the arrangements on the spot because Joe kept changing his mind like a man ordering at a Filipino buffet.

The Album: Eight Tracks of Pure “How Dare You” Energy

Side A alone should be illegal in 49 states.

“The Bottle (La Botella)” – A salsa remake of Gil Scott-Heron’s anti-addiction anthem that somehow turns into the most danceable song about alcoholism ever. Joe screams “¡No hay parque!” like he’s personally offended by every empty lot in Harlem.

“Chico And The Man (Theme)” – Yes, he salsa-fied the theme from a sitcom starring Freddie Prinze (another half-Filipino pretending to be Puerto Rican). This is meta before meta was a thing.

“The Message” – Not Grandmaster Flash, this one came first. Pure barrio philosophy set to a groove so tough it could beat up your father.

“Ordinary Guy (Afrofilipino)” – Joe literally raps/sings his résumé: ex-con, junkie turned singer, Filipino in Spanish Harlem. The hook—“Just an ordinary guy!”—is delivered with the swagger of a man who knows he’s anything but.

Side B keeps the heat: “X-Rated Sally,” “Sadie (She Smokes),” and the monster closer “When Sunny Gets Blue” turned into a 9-minute descarga that makes grown percussionists weep.

The sound? Hard salsa with disco’s low-end theory already creeping in—fat bass lines, punchy horns, breaks that would later be sampled to death (the drum intro to “Ordinary Guy” is a crate-digger’s wet dream). Joe’s Spanish pronunciation is… let’s call it “creative.” He rolls R’s like he’s trying to start a lawnmower and occasionally throws in random Tagalog syllables, but somehow it all works. The band is so ferocious they carry him like a triumphant emperor on a throne made of congas.

Importance and Legacy: The Ultimate Middle Finger to Purity Police

In 1975 the Latin establishment was obsessed with “keeping it real.” You had to be Puerto Rican (or at least pretend very hard). Joe Bataan showed up Filipino, singing half-baked Spanish, with a Jewish trombone player and a sitcom theme in his setlist—and made one of the decade’s best salsa albums. That’s not just crossover; that’s conquest.

Afrofilipino predicted everything:

The coming Salsoul disco explosion

The Nuyorican identity crisis/celebration

The idea that “Latin” music could belong to whoever had the cojones to claim it

The future sampling frenzy (everyone from Cypress Hill to Lou Vega to every underground house producer in the ’90s jacked breaks from this record)

Today it’s a holy grail: original Salsoul pressings go for stupid money, and the 2019 Mr. Bongo reissue sold out instantly. DJs spin “Ordinary Guy” and watch dance floors lose their minds. It’s the ultimate proof that authenticity is overrated—what matters is soul, hustle, and not giving a damn what neighborhood you’re from.

Joe Bataan didn’t just make a great album in 1975. He walked into the salsa kitchen, cooked with ingredients nobody thought belonged together, and served a dish so delicious that fifty years later we’re all still licking the plate.

Respect the king. The Filipino king of salsa. Who’d have thunk it? Joe Bataan did—and then he made the rest of us believe it too. ¡Dale!