Fuego Al Barrio

It was the winter of 1966 when my songwriting partner, Louie Ramirez, and I dropped by the Casalegre record shop in the Bronx to chat with the store’s owner, Al Santiago. Al had recently sold his successful Alegre record label to mobster Morris Levy, owner of Roulette Records. Levy had gained ownership of the Tico Records label years earlier from George Goldner, a great producer but an inveterate gambler who owed Levy a considerable amount of money. With the addition of Alegre, Levy effectively took control of the tropical music market.

We learned that Al was in the process of creating a new label, Futura Records. He told us that a number of young musicians from the Bronx were forming their own bands and creating a compelling new sound that young Latinos were eagerly embracing. Al had already signed two of these new bandleaders to Futura—Joe Bataan and a sixteen-year-old trombonist named Willie Colón. Al was in the process of promoting a recently released single by Willie Colon y su Conjunto Dinamico titled “Fuego Al Barrio,” and suggested we check out the bands that evening at the Colgate Gardens in the Bronx, where they would be performing.

That night, I picked Louie up in front of his building on Evergreen Avenue and we headed to the Colgate Gardens, where we were immediately struck by the sound of young bandleader Willie Colón and his band. Willie’s performance hit the crowd like a cannon blast from the stage—an uplifting swing that featured a lovable, skinny kid named Héctor Lavoe on vocals. The crowd responded to a sound that reminded them of the music their parents played, but with a fresh, exuberant energy. Young Latinos hungered for music they could relate to and call their own—and Willie Colón and Joe Bataan delivered it. A little later, we were treated to Joe Bataan and his band, who blended Latin rhythms with a splash of R&B, delivered in a doo-wop vocal style. Louie and I looked at each other and realized we were witnessing new genres of Latin music: Latin Boogaloo and Salsa.

A couple of days later, Al invited me to join him that evening at the studio where he would be recording a session for Willie’s first album, El Malo. At the recording, I was immediately impressed by Willie’s demeanor and preparation, feeling this kid was on his way to stardom. His singer, Héctor, remained humble and mostly quiet—except when he stepped up to the microphone. After the session, Al offered me a job at Futura as his assistant and I spent many nights sitting beside him in the control booth as he worked on the production of these albums. I was learning from one of the very best.

Al, a perfectionist in the studio, spent excessive time recording with Willie and Joe, running up steep costs. It eventually caught up with him, and he found himself in urgent need of money. At one point, the studio even threatened to destroy the master tapes if the bill wasn’t paid. As if that weren’t enough, serious health issues slowed his ability to finish the work. He asked me to approach other labels and try to sell the unfinished masters, but no one was interested in taking a chance on two unknown teenagers. One owner told me that if it were Johnny Colón, they’d consider it—but who the hell was Willie Colón?
In the end, a new label called Fania stepped in, paid off the studio, and released what became classic albums—El Malo by Willie Colón and Gypsy Woman by Joe Bataan.