Session Transcript:
Joe Bataan
Red Bull Music Academy, Melbourne 2006

The video stream for this lecture can be watched here.

The session with Joe Bataan was long, but worth every minute. The giant of the Nuyorican sound recalls his childhood growing up in East Harlem, his days in prison and how he turned from neighbourhood thug to neighbourhood hero. Not that it was easy! He had to go miles out of his way, literally, to convince the parents of his teenage band that he was a reformed character. He also tells us about his first recording session, how the boogaloo changed things for Latino people and how he was in a unique position to play to all races, before the Latin purists did their best to squeeze it off the radio.

RBMA: »We have with us today one of the giants of Latin music and music from New York City over the last four decades. In fact, this is your 40th anniversary this year, isn’t it?«

Joe Bataan: »Thanks for reminding me (laughter).«

RBMA: »Mr Joe Bataan has been making pioneering sounds since 1966. He began with the doo wop soul sound, moved into boogaloo, was a pioneer of salsa and Fania Records, became one of the first artists signed to Fania Records, moved on and pioneered the Salsoul Records label, which many of us know, and have their records in our crates to this day. And then he made one of the first rap records. Before Rapper’s Delight he made a record called Rap-O Clap-O. So please join me in welcoming the legendary Mr Joe Bataan.«

(applause)

»So Joe, you’re from Spanish Harlem. Tell us something about Spanish Harlem; some of us have been to it, a lot us have not. Tell us about the musical and street vibes about growing up in that area.«

Joe Bataan: »Before I do that, let me explain to everyone here, because a lot of times you come and meet an artist and you don’t know anything about them. I’ve learned to share with my audience, my life, what I do, and how it affects my music. You might be a fan of my music and not know anything about me. It goes hand in hand. When I thought about coming to Australia, I was talking to my wife, who’s with me, saying: “Wow, we’re going all the way to Australia, another continent. Think we can make it?” It was very difficult, and yet when I decided to come here I asked, what do I have to offer? I always ask myself that question. I’m a self-taught musician, but gee, I do have 40 years in the business and all I can show you is my world experiences and how I was involved in music and the roads it took me down. That can help you only if you’re interested in a career in music and in knowing the pain and the struggle involved in the past. Like anything else, you must know your history, what was involved then and what’s involved today. They talk about selling records out of the trunk of your car, rap artists do that, I was doing that in the '60s. I learnt about the business of sales, and getting your records played on the radio. I went through the whole payola bag and the gangsters who said they wouldn’t play my records. I went full circle like Morris Levy, the same thing Frankie Lymon went through. I want to share that with you so you know my story wasn’t a fly-by-night thing, that I wanted to do this and I went to school. No, I couldn’t afford to go to school, I did a stint in the performance art, I did five years for being a bad boy. I was the neighbourhood tough kid with aspirations for doing a thing and, of course, being from New York, you always try to find short cuts. Being a minority at that time you had only two ways you could make it in life: either as an entertainer or an athlete. I struck out as an athlete, I was too short. I couldn’t reach the basket. Then this came along and saved my life, the universal language, God blessed me and I’m happy that I’m here today to talk about it.«

(applause)

»The first thing that Jeff [, the interviewer,] said, growing up in East Harlem, there seemed to be a mystique. I hadn’t done anything for maybe the last 10-15 years, I was stagnant. You know how you lose your confidence if you don’t do something continuously? And I was no different, it happened to me. I had had all this success with different forms of music, and here it was, I was idle. The music business was changing, I had seen it change maybe four or five times, but I didn’t know anybody, my contacts were all gone. It was different, younger people creating the music, the same doors you went in before are not open anymore. So growing up in East Harlem it was a constant struggle to find what exactly you do. I came out of prison. I was always an advocate of singing in the streets and hallways, having a hand cupped over my ear so you could do harmony by ear. I could do harmony before I could even read, that ear training is so important. I don’t know how I would’ve developed my style if I’d been a student and had those opportunities and the absence of the emotional feel. Nevertheless, I was very fortunate in being able to accomplish the things I did in such a short time. After being released I went to the neighbourhood, and you have to realise back then our form of entertainment was radio. TV wasn’t really a hot issue back then. We grew up every morning listening to the Saturday hit parade. What played was Patti Page, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, The Four Lads and once in a while we’d get Nat King Cole. And that was the extent of my upbringing with music so, as you can see, my first influences were with white singers. That influenced my style, my diction and how I pronounce the words. You have to understand when you listen to records, not everybody will understand if you really have to bend your ear. If you’re from a native tongue, some people muddle their words; it comes from a lot of soul sometimes, and it comes from a way of growing up. All these influences, I found myself having to pronounce these words. That was important.«

RBMA: »This was ’64.«

Joe Bataan: »It was ’64, I was looking for a band and prior to that I’d sung in the hallways but nothing serious. I found this group of kids that were in junior high school in 106th Street. This was way after my gang days. I was a member of the Dragons; the neighbourhood gangs, we had rivalries for years with the Viceroys. That was a way of life, we didn’t come to your neighbourhood, you didn’t come into ours. So despite all these different things you had to fight with this peer pressure where people didn’t like you because of what you wore, or you were from a different racial group. So you couldn’t walk down our block because you were lighter skinned or you were darker, we didn’t like the way you dress. All those things, and surviving was very difficult.«

RBMA: »And the other thing was you have Filipino, black African/American descent, but everyone thought you were Puerto Rican.«

Joe Bataan: »Well, that was the whole argument. It didn’t make any difference to me, I grew up without a prejudiced bone in my body. I went to school with Jewish kids, African kids, that’s how I grew up, not everyone else. Being from Filipino heritage, my father was from Manila, my mother was black, she was from Newport News, but here I was in the midst of Spanish Harlem so I had to learn the language. All my friends spoke it, I spoke it and I blended right in. They would fight you and take you downstairs and chop your head off if you said I was anything else. That was the argument for years. After people heard my songs on the radio they’d say: “Yeah, that’s the Latino guy, he’s great. That’s Joe Bataan, he’s my man.” And then a brother would come up and say: “What are you talking about, homeboy? He’s a brother, his mother’s from Newport.” That argument went on for years. Back and forth, back and forth. ”What is he?“ I tell everyone I’m universal, I’m rainbow, I’ve got everything. My kids have even more. I married a Puerto Rican so they have Puerto Rican, they have the full spectrum.«

RBMA: »But the music you were listening to back then?«

Joe Bataan: »I told you, I want you to get that feel of the transition. I was listening to Patti Page and then along came Alan Freed and he introduced rock ‘n' roll and it was something we’d never heard back then. Who’s this kid singing Why Do Fools Fall In Love with this high voice like a girl’s? Boys wouldn’t sing like that, you sang with a lower register.«

RBMA: »Like the Michael Jackson of that time.«

Joe Bataan: »Exactly. We tried to imitate these groups. Then along came The Limeliters and The Heartbeats and I went back to prison. I violated parole and was sent up there and tried to polish my music while I was up there. I was under the tutelage of Mark Francis, he was a graduate of the New York Conservatory in Manhattan, which really had nothing to do with me, because he couldn’t get me to read a lick. When it came to theory I could never, never follow it. There were theory notices, he wouldn’t let you pick up your instrument if you couldn’t read or didn’t know your theory. Knowing a minor six or a major third was always Greek to me. I finally got out of there and got a band. The group of kids who were in that auditorium then were 11, 12, 13-years old. It was a bit of history, they were the youngest band in Latin music, it was unheard of for a group that young. I was 19, the oldest. When I walked into that auditorium I stuck a knife into the piano because I was the neighbourhood thug. They all knew me, knew my reputation. I said: “I’m the leader of the band.” They all said: “Yeah, you’re the leader, no problem.” (laughter) They all looked at me and I said: “If you follow, I’ll take you onto achievements you’ve never dreamed of in your life.” I had the spiel, the gift of the gab. The only problem was I had to convince their parents; because I was the neighbourhood thug no one wanted their kids with me. So I walked them home every night after rehearsal. I’d tell their parents: “Look, let them play with me, I’ll bring them home every night. I don’t do that stuff any more, I play music. I want to do something with my life.” I had made these promises to these 11, 12-year-old kids. The second-hand horns had holes in them, we patched up some drums, we had cans. Whatever we could get. We were practising three hours a day for six months. After six months we were making records. It’s like a Cinderella story. These kids didn’t know their left foot from their right, didn’t know rhythm or how to dance, they just knew their instruments. We learnt together as an entity. The singer we had was George Bagane, he had a Spanish accent and at that time the boogaloo was starting to happen. There’d been success with The Watusi, Bang! Bang! by Joe Cuba, I Like It Like That, Boogaloo Blues, and he was attempting to do this song in English. We tried to explain to him: “Look, you need to pronounce the words a certain way.” He got upset and said for me to do it my damn self. So I did and the rest is history, I haven’t stopped singing since. They all said: “Joe, you do the songs.” George Goldner, who was responsible for Roulette Records, said: “You don’t want to sing, you sound too sweet, we need someone like James Brown.” And I’m glad I didn’t listen to him, because we walked away from him and got a contract with Fania Records and recorded Gypsy Woman at Beltone Studios on 33rd Street. That day is interesting, you’ve got to imagine, here’s this 19-year-old with a bunch of kids, and we had no charts. All the music was inside our head. Every break, every beat was in our heads. The discipline that was needed, I can’t imagine. If I flinch this way, they knew what that meant. If I said: “Give me two,” they knew. That’s how intense the rehearsals were. You could only do it with that group of youngsters. You couldn’t get a bunch of thugs to do that, me telling them: “You’ve got to do this, dance this way.” It was because those kids were young I was able to do that. When we got into the studio, I don’t know if you know how to record, but you normally do the rhythm section first, then you put in the strings. Well, we sat there and the recording director was Johnny Pacheco, he said: “Are you ready?” I said: “Yes.” I sat down and sang every song of that album while playing the piano. That was unheard of, you normally overdub. And everyone else played. They were so nervous they were going to tell us to leave, and this was our great opportunity, that we finished the whole album in four hours. The guy was amazed, “Don’t you want to come back?” “No, please sir, please.” By the ninth song I started losing my voice and you could hear the raunchiness which I have now, it stayed with me and eventually became a style.«

RBMA: »What song was that?«

Joe Bataan: »That was on Ordinary Guy. I was on my last breath because I didn’t want the guy to throw me out the studio.«

RBMA: »Why don’t you play that?«

Joe Bataan: »OK, play it.«

RBMA: »This is Ordinary Guy.«

Joe Bataan: »1966.«

(music: Joe Bataan - Ordinary Guy)

»Since this song I’ve recorded it eight different times eight different ways and I’ll elaborate later on. After bringing those lyrics back from prison, that’s how I like to identify myself, you can always find me talking to my audience at a gig, as you’ll find out if you come tomorrow, that I like to share. I like this business, most people should bring something to the table, there’s no sense of doing it just for the love of money. Forget it, you could go broke. If you don’t have the proper timing for a hit record, if you don’t know the proper people, you’re going to get ripped off. If you don’t know the business of music, your craft, the business end of this whole magnificent end of the world of music, without it you won’t relish the rewards and you’ll be sorry. You’ll be crying the blues for another 30 years wondering what happened to the talent and the financial element you didn’t get.«

RBMA: »That’s some truth. Let’s talk about the style and the stylistic changes. You had Ordinary Guy. Actually, I didn’t hear the raunchiness.«

Joe Bataan: »It was there.«

RBMA: »It was beautiful. The other stuff you guys were working with included the boogaloo and the sound that became known as salsa. Tell us about all the other influences that went in.«

Joe Bataan: »Gypsy Woman, everyone knows was a Curtis Mayfield song. I turned out to have another style where I could pick songs. I knew songs that had the potential to be something, even though they were before. I knew songs that I could attempt to do differently so people might get a refreshing ear. That’s what I did with Gypsy Woman. I took the same song, put different music to the same lyrics and we had what we call a cha-cha beat. It was Gypsy Woman. This was one of the first that crossed over into the American charts.«

(music: Joe Bataan - Gypsy Woman)

»That was one of my first songs and it really put Joe Bataan on the map. I was really gearing for the Latin community, but it got a big black audience also. For a long time you had people who loved Latin music, but they couldn’t understand it. If I said (says something fast in Spanish), you wouldn’t know what I was talking about. What it did was allow the other masses that normally wouldn’t listen to Latin, because it was done in Spanish, to listen to this. Some people called it boogaloo, I preferred Latin soul, and that’s probably why I survived those other boogaloo artists because I had the mindset to change and say I was doing Latin soul and that’s what I’ve been known for 40 years.«

RBMA: »You’ve said something very interesting in interviews, which is that boogaloo as a style, whose heyday was pretty much ’66-‘68/9, was actually run off the air, suppressed. That’s really interesting. People might think kids were dancing to it, but then a new style came along. But you said the mambo folk, the mambo kings, the purists suppressed the music.«

Joe Bataan: »They chased us off the air. It’s taken 40 years for people to know what happened and if they ever do a movie about it, people will know the truth. The boogaloo saved Latin music. There were times when a lot of Jews and black people would go out dancing. When the boogaloo came out it was so tremendous it was like the twist, people would come and see people dancing, stomping their feet and clapping their hands in harmony, that allowed those purists in bands that had been playing – like Xavier Cugat, Tito Puente - couldn’t follow in the same vein. You probably know this when you play to people, but you can take a black person, who normally has a history of soul and doesn’t listen to Latin and you attempt to get him to play it, he doesn’t know it. The same thing is true for the Latino who has grown up listening to mambos or the cha-cha’s, he has no knowledge of the backbeat. So when you put those people in your group, there’s a teaching process. I’ve attempted to do it. If you find the purists they keep to their own people. That doesn’t happen any more, but it was happening like that for a long time in the business. It was very difficult to find bands who could do both authentically. That means doing on clave and then to really hit it back and do harmony and doo wop or disco. The story goes, back when it came to prom time and they’re having their graduations, the black kids would say: “We want Kool & The Gang,” and the Latinos would say: “No, we want Tito Puente.” Because they couldn’t agree they’d get Joe Bataan. I was able to do both, so because of that I’d get a lot of the work. I was fortunate.«

RBMA: »Part of what I think is really incredible about your story is that you ended up trying to fight for artists’ rights all the time. You were working with some of the most – well, you don’t want to speak ill of the dead or people you don’t know – but some of the most notorious for their deep exploitation of artists; people like Morris Levy of Roulette Records, the Tico folks. You didn’t sign with them because you figured out a way to work it.«

Joe Bataan: »Here I am in New York trying to grab a recording contract and everybody’s trying to get hold of Joe Bataan, everybody’s trying to rip me off silently. One thing you should know, Bataan is not my real name, it’s my first name; my last name is Nitollano. The Joe came about when I was about to play in a club one day and a business card I had said: ‘Call Joe, Bataan’, so a businessman thought that was my name and he started calling me Joe and advertising me all over the place. It sounds great, Joe Bataan, whooh, a new identity, it changed my life. The gangster guy, the guy who was always causing trouble, they didn’t know he was the same guy. So people came to see me play, they’d say: “I know him, he’s the guy who took my coat in high school.” I’m going to tell you a funny story, it’s embarrassing now, a guy called me up from a venue in Vegas: “Joe, we’d like you to play in Vegas.” “Great, I haven’t played down there in a while.” “I used to know you from up in Harlem.” “Yeah, what’s your name?” “Winston.” “Yeah, great.” “I remember the old days, you know? You took my coat once, but you gave me back my hat.” I was so embarrassed. Those stories come about, it’s a little difficult.«

RBMA: »You were talking about the record labels.«

Joe Bataan: »The record labels. I was going into Roulette records, which was notorious at the time. If you’ve seen the Frankie Lymon Story, the guy with the big cigar, that was Morris Levy. He was a gangster. I walked in there and I was with Jose Curbelo, who was a band leader. He said: “Come here son, I’m going to show you how to do this. You know what publishing is? (whispers) I’m going to get you your publishing.” Morris was sitting there with his big cigar: “Alright, what do you want?” This was when they first had intercoms, he’d put everything on the telephones. He said: “Mo, the kid wants to record, but he’s scared.” “What’s he scared about?” “Sid says he won’t play his records unless he signs with them.” “That faggot” – excuse my language – “get him on the phone right now, put him on the phone.” Phones him up. “Sid?” “Yeah, what do you want, Mo? I’m sleeping.” “You faggot. You told this young kid you won’t play his records because he won’t sign with you?” “What are you talking about?” “I’ve got this kid over here, named Joe Bataan.” He says: “I don’t remember.” “Well, you little fuck. You work for me, you do what I tell you, you hear me?” “Yeah, Mo, yeah.” (gestures slamming phone down / laughter) I’m sitting back here.«

RBMA: » Symphony Sid is the biggest radio guy in the city.«

Joe Bataan: »So he said: “What else do you want?” So I whisper: “Well, I’d like to get paid for the session?” “You got it. What else do you want?” “Well, what about publishing?” (shouts) “Publishing! What are you, a wise guy? Who told you about publishing?” “I write songs.” “Well, we’ll talk about that. What else do you want?” “I’d like some money up front.” “Get out of here, get out of here!” Then lo and behold George Goldner walks in, whose responsible for the Chantels and a lot of big groups and says: “I know this kid, I’ve got him signed to a contract.” “What?” Another guy walks in and says: “I know him, too, I’ve got him signed!” So he says: “Well, you little wise-ass guy.”«

RBMA: »You had three different contracts?«

Joe Bataan: »They were trying to rip me off, that was the only way I could protect myself. I signed everything Joe Bataan, that wasn’t my name. I didn’t know anything about the legal side, but I knew one thing. I knew if I didn’t sign my name, they didn’t own me. They could kill me, torture me, whatever, but if I found out you were trying to crook me, you didn’t have a contract. So that’s what I did, I signed with everybody. They tried to rip me off. “You’re a wise guy, we’re going to whoop your ass. Get out of here, you’re not going to record with no one.” So I walked out with my tail between my legs. “Gee, I really blew it.” Then someone called me up about a young guy, ex-cop, who was starting a record label with Johnny Pacheco. “I’m going to send him down to see you, and if he likes you, he’ll give you a record deal.” So he came down, he was very nervous, probably as nervous as I was. He asked what I wanted. I said publishing. He didn’t know what it was either. He paid me for the session and the rest is history. I started making records. It wasn’t the greatest deal, but at that time it was probably the only deal.«

RBMA: »What was the name of the label?«

Joe Bataan: »Fania Records. Today it’s owned by Emusica and there’s a resurgence in boogaloo around the world. Records are selling like hot cakes in the market, from the UK all the way down to Italy, you name it. Emusica is part of V2.«

RBMA: »You ended up becoming one of Fania’s biggest lights. They had Willie Colon and you and Ray Barretto, and the three of you were the top sellers consistently.«

Joe Bataan: »We were young, fresh and wild, like one of my songs says. We had no inkling about tomorrow, we were living for today. We did everything under the sun and at that time you’ve got to understand the Vietnam War was going on and there were girls left behind in the neighbourhoods, so there was an abundance of sweethearts that we had because everyone was over there fighting. It was just one of those things with the hippie movement, LSD; all those things came into play. It was a growing experience. I did go behind the Iron Curtain, I don’t know if you want to go there yet.«

RBMA: »Let’s stay with the music. You recorded a song called The Riot and I want to play that song.«

Joe Bataan: »The Riot is a song by Smokey Robinson. I started getting good when I listened to songs. I’d change the music around and keep the words. Smokey is one of the greatest lyricists the world has ever had, one of the most prolific. When you listen to his lyrics you’ll know what I’m talking about. He did that as a b-side, he never thought he was going to use it. It’s called Good Good Feeling and when I incorporated the sounds, the conga, the cowbell and everything else, I called it The Riot (It’s A Good, Good Feeling). This song was so successful in New York in 1968 that it outsold every artist four-to-one. It was my first gold record. We used to play this song and no one could follow us on stage, because of the emotion and high energy it had. I played this song for an hour on a boat ride and when we did the conga line, which we’re going to do tomorrow, the boat was rocking. They begged me, the coast guard came, because the boat was going (gestures boat rocking side to side) and we wouldn’t get off stage. The Riot song had that much energy. If you ever danced to a song you didn’t want to end, that was The Riot.«

RBMA: »Here we go.«

(music: Joe Bataan - The Riot (It’s A good Good Feeling))

»So how long were you playing this song on the boat?«

Joe Bataan: »We played for an hour straight. When the band really come together it’s like a baseball team or a soccer team, when you get everyone on the same wavelength. The routines we had for dancing were unheard of at that time in New York. It was the thing to do and I’m just happy I was blessed to do it.«

RBMA: »You can hear the emerging sound of salsa. What did that mean to Nu Yoricans in New York?«

Joe Bataan: »Well, the term hadn’t been coined yet. That was in the ‘70s. It had always been around. We called it the mambo, the cha-cha-cha, boogaloo, but salsa, the main name, hadn’t evolved yet until later on, after a Yankee Stadium concert. Salsa means a sauce, but somebody coined the word and it became a household name. Then everything that followed with Latin connotations was called salsa.«

RBMA: »But it was basically a catch-all term?«

Joe Bataan: »Yeah, just like rap had to be identified because nobody knew what it was. They would say: “Clap your hands,” at first, or: “Stomp your feet,” with the first rap songs I heard. No one even had a name for it. I think I was the first with Rap-O Clap-O, after that they started naming it. They had rappers, but nobody put the name to it.«

RBMA: »I want to play another record to show how you were developing your sound in this era. Then we’ll come back to the story about East Germany. This is Nuevo Jala Jala.«

(music: Joe Bataan - Nuevo Jala Jala)

RBMA: »If I remember right there was a dance back in the '60s called Jala Jala.«

Joe Bataan: »Right, that was Richie Ray that made it famous. I think he took it from Colombia and brought it back to New York, like a lot of those bandleaders did, like Willie Colon brought the Che Che Colé, that was instantly successful in New York. What you see is that a lot of those phases and crazes were brought from other countries and people modernised them and put that to music and something was created again. Just like the clothes keep returning, everything has a cycle of repeating itself. We’re waiting for Beethoven.«

RBMA: »You’re waiting for Beethoven to come back? You might have to bring him back next year. Salsa actually describe a wide range of sounds.«

Joe Bataan: »It wasn’t their intention but that’s how it is. If you spoke to someone in Italy and mentioned salsa they’re going to take the full spectrum, but those purists that did it in New York, they only meant their particular music, they meant salsa as their heritage. But it got bigger than everyone else. It’s over three-quarters of the world, Latin music.«

RBMA: »If you go out and get these records that have been reissued on Fania, like Riot has been reissued and St. Latin’s Day Massacre has been reissued, you hear a lot of styles, which was always your thing, of presenting all these kinds of music.«

Joe Bataan: »Exactly.«

RBMA: »At the same time salsa is becoming the sound of a new generation of Nu Yoricans, expressing brown pride and all that kind of thing. So this has led you to do some other work, like going to East Germany with Angela Davis. A representative of that heritage.«

Joe Bataan: »I’ve always been a person who didn’t follow the norm. I had played for a Young Workers Liberation Party at a dance once, and some of the youngsters approached me – I guess I was naïve at that time politically – and said would I like to go and play in East Berlin. I said: “East Berlin? No one can get in.” They said: “We’ve got a way to get in, would you come with us?” And they were going to take me on to Moscow, and this was in 1973. And when I found out I was going with Angela Davis it was a great opportunity. Of course, I was discouraged from going. They said: “Joe, if you go on this trip you’re going to he blackballed.” Like in the McCarthy era. I thought, ’Wait a minute, that’s not my political views, I just want to play music’. They said: “Yeah, but you’ve got to be careful, some people are going to follow you.” I said: “Get out of here with that cloak and dagger shit.” I travelled with these kids who became good friends of mine through the years. There’s no place I can go in the US without having somewhere to stay. These people that I travelled with, that festival was sort of a melting pot like this. This is a great idea what Red Bull is doing, bringing the minds together, it’s so important, don’t lose it. And I’m glad that I did it when I made that trip to East Berlin. Those people there are still my friends; they tried to educate me, but maybe I was too ignorant at that time because I was a musician first, not a political activist. But when I got to East Berlin, you’ve got to understand I was going across Checkpoint Charlie and I was with Angela Davis who was notorious at that time, she got locked up, the prison break. A brilliant lady, I had no idea she spoke nine languages, was so well versed in political science, I really got an education in what was going on in the world besides East Harlem. When I made that trip someone remarked about a young lady who was on the run from the FBI, called Assata Shakur. She went to someone’s home looking for refuge and they turned her away, not knowing what party she was, and it turned out to be a question. I said: “Gee, you’re talking about the Young Worker’s Party and women’s rights and these things that have been done to you, why did you turn her away?” She said: “I wasn’t involved in that, I can only go a certain distance and that doesn’t involve us harbouring someone who was wanted by the FBI.” And that was the question. Would you turn someone away for fear of being damaged yourself even though they might have ideals that are right? So I was pulled by the same kind of questions, so that’s why I made the trip. When I got off the plane, I was noticed something curious; here I was in a country that most people couldn’t get into. When I went through West Berlin it was very colourful, just like the US. But when I went through Checkpoint Charlie everything was drab. There was no red, there was no blue, only grey. I walked down the streets, I started to notice the people; everyone was young, there were no old people. Everybody greeted me, everyone was so warm, I couldn’t understand. It was the afro. I guess the East Berliners hadn’t seen so many blacks, not with afros. They’d come out and touch my hair, I was signing autographs, man, not because I sing, but because of my afro. They didn’t have a lot of things, man, they had no ice, refrigerators, modern equipment, they were closed off to. But they said to me they had signed a law to outlaw racism. I said: “Why?” “Well, after what happened in the war, we thought we’d outlaw that.” This is not at all like I thought it would be. They said: “No, they keep churning the propaganda out there. We want you to come in here. They don’t want us to go out of here.” I made a lot of friends. I brought Joe Bataan albums and spread them over communist Germany.«

RBMA: »You brought Riot out there?«

Joe Bataan: »I was stopped at customs, because the Riot album depicts a lot of violence, a gang having fights. The guy at customs said: “Why are you bringing this into our country? Are you sure you should be giving this out to our people?” The rest is history. We had standing ovations everywhere we went. They were so appreciative of my music and I found that was something that happened throughout my life. Same thing in Moscow when we went there. That was an experience that I hold onto, meeting people from around the world just to see what was going on. Now, we don’t have any great wall any more, but that’s a part of history that I have and I can tell everybody about.«

RBMA: »Now, you’re also beginning to have a lot of issues with Jerry Masucci and Fania Records. What were those issues and how did you deal with that?«

Joe Bataan: »Well, everyone likes to get paid. I found myself having to change a flat tyre in East Harlem and I didn’t have the money to pay for it. What the hell? Joe Bataan my ass, I can’t even pay for a flat tyre! I was so popular, everybody knew me, I was a household name. I said something’s wrong here and I went up and asked for my reviews, and he said: “You’re still in the red for money you owe us for the recordings.” Things I was ignorant about, which you should know about in the business. After that I read about the Brooklyn Dodgers, they had two pitchers called Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. And they told the Dodgers to kiss their ass, they weren’t going to pitch for them anymore. I took a little from them and said: “Kiss my ass, I ain’t making no more records.” He thought I was joking and he made me starve for a year, but he eventually sent someone out and we settled on something and I got me a little co-op.«

RBMA: »But before this you were talking to the other artists.«

Joe Bataan: »Yeah, I was trying to organise a lot of the groups there, a lot of them sold out. I’m sorry to say that. They were satisfied with the crumbs or their picture on the billboard. I wasn’t, that’s why you’ll never see me in the movie Our Latin Thing because I refused to be on it. Those guys didn’t get paid. To this day a lot of them don’t have benefits. They have no medical insurance, they have nothing. It’s time for people to organise, you youngsters, when you get into the business, make sure there’s something. We’re in the, what, space age? It’s unheard of. Everybody’s got a union. The musicians have nothing. Even the DJs should organise and get a union for protection. It’s a shame. It’s like that guy said, I saw him on TV, David Suzuki, he said: “We’ve got a lot of responsibilities, but we go around talking about Paris Hilton, Michael Jackson doing this, or this guy throwing this girl off the window or this guy beating this guy in the bathroom. And we got issues, we got a water problem here, we got all different things and we don’t pay no attention to it.” Same with music. I know one degree David missed – spiritual, which I believe very strongly has a big part to play in environmental things that are happening today because we’re on a collision course. Hopefully, you people will come together. There’ll be some of you with ideas about changing things to be done and bringing people forward.«

RBMA: »Thanks for that Joe, thank you.«

(applause)

»So you’d actually recorded about eight albums for Fania Records in a course of five years and they couldn’t figure out a way to give you what you were worth. You’d really helped build the label up, but you decided to break off. You held out for a year, but you decided to set up your own independent label, which was unheard of for an artist at that time. You helped start up a little label that became known as Salsoul Records. Can you tell us about that?«

Joe Bataan: »After breaking with Fania Records and Jerry Masucci, I’d finally had it. I said: “You’ve got to let me go.” It was sort of the gangster coming into me, I said: “You’ve got to let me go, you hear what I’m saying?” And I guess he knew we weren’t going to hit it off any more, because he was ripping me off and I wasn’t going to make any more records for him. His interests were going nowhere, so finally he gave me my release one day. I’m sure he regretted it, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to do anything. And as I said before, it’s a lonely feeling once you’ve left. Once you leave high school, you’ve got to go some place else, you start thinking about that next institution you’re going to. You’ve been used to your friends for four years; I was used to the label, now I’m looking and I’m searching. If you’re searching, like my teacher said some time ago, by the time you’re 30 you better know what you’re doing for the rest of your life. Music is the same thing. If you’re going to pursue it, you better damn well know what you’re doing by that age, you can’t keep waiting and waiting and waiting for something to fall off the ceiling. He let me go, and I did some research. There was a little label called Maracana Records, they did pantyhose and selling things down in Florida to the mafia, I don’t know.«

RBMA: »There was a record label that did pantyhose?«

Joe Bataan: »Yeah. Don’t ask me why (laughs). I’ll tell you, there’s so many stories. They were just involved in anything that made money and the record label was just a side thing. When the pantyhose was bad they’d try to sell some records. So I walked in and saw the guy. “Yeah, what do you want?” “Well, I’d like to make records for you, this is what I think I can do.” Similar to what happened with Fania. He said: “OK, I’ll take a chance.” And he gave me a few grand and I went in and recorded this album. Of course, they had no idea of how to promote an album, what to do, where to go. I said: “I’ll take care of that end.” And there I was again, at the forefront of this music business. I had to promote that record, and I got it played on the radio. That’s not an easy thing to do, to get a record played on the radio. First of all, you’ve got to get an appointment and if you’re an artist they don’t want to see you. There’s always the risk of payola. ”Why are you coming up here? Don’t you have a person to bring that record up?” There’s a load of things you’ve got to learn at that end of the business. Finally, I got them the record and I didn’t know if Frankie Crocker would play the whole album, which he did. He played the whole album and I think at that time I sold about 15.000 records, which was unheard of back then. They were so excited, the record company, they said: “Let’s finish the album.” That’s when I had them. I was able to ask for the money I felt I was entitled to, and I got it. I gradually grew there and I told them I wanted to start my own production, I wanted to work for the record company. Similar to what I’m going to propose to Red Bull. That was a joke (laughter)! Anyway, he finally bit and I signed to that label. He said: “What do you want to call the label?”, I said: “Salsoul Records.” He said: “Why do you want to call it that?” “'Sal' meaning salsa, 'soul' meaning soul. And the combination of the two is going to grow into something bigger than you’ve ever known.” He said: “What do you mean?” “It’s going to be the Salsoul of Motown, it’s going to be similar to Motown but its own genre. It’s going to be Salsoul.” He said: "OK." That first album did so well that I recorded with some of the great studio musicians of the world, Cornell Dupree, Jon Faddis, the Brecker Brothers, we had Richard Tee and lo and behold we had Marty Sheller who did Watermelon Man. I did all these songs for the album and I had one particular song that a friend of mine, Gil Scott-Heron recorded called The Bottle. He had sung it and he had a problem because he didn’t have the finances to release the product. I sort of knew that and I said: “I won’t touch the record or try to emulate what he did singing because he did such a terrific job, but I will attempt to do it instrumentally.” This is another phase of the business I was learning to get good at. I had Marty write the arrangements, I showed him what I wanted. As we went into the studio...«

RBMA: »Who was the arranger again?«

Joe Bataan: »Marty Sheller, who’s responsible for Watermelon Man. We went into the studio, I believe it was at CBS Studios, and as I said before, normally the rhythm comes, then the brass, then the strings. But everybody showed up at the same time and it was 3.00 on the afternoon, I had a bunch of people just like this living room here today, and I said: “God, what am I going to do, everybody’s here?” And they all looked at me, “Joe, what do you want to do? We’ve all got things to do.” These guys charge by the hour. I said: “Do you want a hit record?” “Yes!” Oh, shit, how do you attempt to place all these guys for one session. But the engineer said he could do it. So he set up everybody, they’re all looking at me. Then this little white guy, he’s supposed to be playing lead on the saxophone. I looked at him, and said: “Who’s this, Marty?” “That’s the guy I told you about. He can blow his ass off.” The kid sat over there. He warmed up his horn and we got ready to start the song. What happened that day has only happened once in my life. We did that song in one take. After it was completed there was total silence, the seats were on fire, the horns were smoking. This kid turned out to be David Sanborn. We knew we had something here in The Bottle, which we named La Botella, that first week when we played it went onto sell 80.000 records. That was top 40 nationally and the rest was history. He’s had a fabulous career since then, David Sanborn.«

(music: Joe Bataan - The Bottle / applause)

»I don’t know if you caught it but you can see there are parts of my life where I was able to change. This is important with anybody in any business, you can get outdated if you don’t stay in touch. I still go out to clubs to see who’s dancing, because if they’re not dancing to it, it doesn’t make any difference. You might like it, I’m the last judge of my music and there’s always a testing ground, like DJs testing on the crowds when they come into their clubs. I do the same.«

RBMA: »You were making music with young people again in Harlem. In the late '70s you started hearing new stuff.«

Joe Bataan: »I worked in a community centre in Harlem, right in the midst of 110th Street and it was called ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ and it was hell down there. Everyone sat down on the stoop outside that centre and you’d have to sweep the people away from there. Everybody hung out there with hangovers from the night before, or shootings. Everything you might expect in a neighbourhood like that. One day while opening up, someone wanted to rent the place, bunch of young kids. That night collecting the money, all these young kids coming in, setting up with turntables, this was 1978/’9, and I looked and the next thing you know there was ten people on the dancefloor and the next thing you know, it’s packed. I said: “What the hell’s going on here? I don’t see no band playing.” Someone said: “They don’t have no name for it.” And you could hear (makes shuffling noise) their feet shuffling on the floor and it was a sound where you knew something was really going to transpire. Then in the middle of the record everybody’s clapping, someone’s talking on the mic. I said: “What the hell’s that shit? How much did they pay to get in?” One dollar. There was a thousand kids in there. I thought, 'Let’s see if this is just a fad’. Someone said: “They do it all the time.” “All the time? Is this on records?” “No.” I had a brainstorm. “Whoah, this isn’t out on records, I see something big.” So I was not the creator of rap, but I talked to these guys, the guys were Jekyll and Hyde. One became CEO at Motown.«

RBMA: »A boy named Andre Harrell.«

Joe Bataan: »Right, right. I spoke to them and said: “How would you like to put this on records?” They said: “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I guess, they didn’t believe who I was, they didn’t care. I hadn’t done anything for a while, they thought I was full of shit, but I went out got RCA Studios, got everybody ready. At that time they weren’t thinking about using musicians for rap songs, I got these four guys. I put down the music and had everything done. There was a young lady named Jocelyn Shaw, who you might know as Jocelyn Brown, lives in the UK now, tremendous singer. Gordon Edwards said: “Do you want a singer who sings like I play the bass?” He brought her, just another David Sanborn, and she sang her ass off. She sang on Sadie, one of my records. She did the background and I had the chills. “Clap your hands everybody.” “What have we got here?” I waited and I waited three hours and nobody showed up to the studio.«

RBMA: »Jekyll & Hyde were supposed to come and record? Andre Harrell didn’t show up?«

Joe Bataan: »None of them. I guess they thought I was bullshitting them. I’d spent all this money, how was I going to pay these guys, how was I going to pay the studio? It was RCA. Luckily, I had a little line of credit. So I thought about Jocko Henderson – if you don’t know, he’s a DJ back in the '50s and he used to talk on the mic like Frankie Crocker. He would say smart things like: “Whoo whappa-do, how do you do?” And I started thinking I could do this myself. I tested myself in the back, I didn’t want nobody to see, maybe I’m too old. I was about 39, a 39-year-old rapper. I was hiding in the toilet. I tried it with all kinds of methods and then when the music played I just sort of walked through it. It was like it was made to order. When I got out there, I was really gun-shy. The girls started clapping, I tried that. Then I did the song, “There’s a new thing out.” Boom, the rest is history. I took that around to all the record companies. They all threw me out. “Get the hell out of here, Joe, you don’t sing any more?” I said: “This is something new, you’ve got to listen to this.” “Don’t give us that shit.” Then I took it to a guy named Luigi, I believe, and there was a young kid in the back and Luigi said: “What have you got here?” I told him it was something new. He said: “OK, I’ve got to get this guy here. He listens to everything we do and we listen to what he says.” “I don’t want no young kid telling me about my music.” He said: “Then it’s not going to happen because we all listen to him.” Turned out to be Larry Levan from the [‘Paradise] Garage’. Still nobody for music like Larry, to this day. Larry came out and we played the record and he started jumping up in the air like this (moves hands up and down very fast). I said: “Holy shit!” And he’s smiling at me. I thought this might be good for me. The guy said: “What do you want?” I said: “I want an advance.” “We don’t do advances.” “Goodbye.” I started walking down the stairs, Larry came after me, “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go. Bring it to my club, let me play it in my club.” “Fuck those guys, man, they don’t know about music. I’m trying to bring them something new and they don’t even have the insight to see it. Hell with them, they don’t want to pay no money.” So I kept going and met a girl named Denice, and she was working with Salsoul. I was still in touch even though I wasn’t with them anymore and she said: “You’ve got to let Kenny hear this. He’ll be raving about it, this is great.” I said: “No, me and Kenny don’t get on.” “Look, I’ve talked to him, I’ve told him that you’ve got something great.” And the word started filtering ‘round the industry, Joe Bataan has something once again. One DJ summed it up: “This guy comes around every two or three years with something new and we’ve got to listen because he’s always bringing us something.” So Kenny said: “What do you want?” “I want to release this.” “I’ll put it out tomorrow.” I didn’t know he had a distribution deal with RCA, he could do that. I didn’t have no money. I thought I better not end up losing this because everybody’s going into get wind of this new stuff, everybody’s going to be doing it soon. Sugarhill Gang already beat me out. Fatback Band beat me out.«

RBMA: »Actually, Sugarhill came out after yours.«

Joe Bataan: »No, they came out first. It looks like that because I had the big hit in Europe and we were following each other, doing back to back tours, and they had it on first but New York wouldn’t play me. Rap was taboo at that time. He said OK, and finally we agreed. The brainstorm I had is that when I signed the contract I put a small notation in the bottom which he didn’t read. I finally got back at him. It said: “This record is only released for domestic purposes.” If it’s being played internationally, they must seek my permission. The record started selling like hot cakes. Larry Levan was playing it, he sold 20.000 copies through playing it in a disco, not a radio, a disco. It was unheard of. People didn’t know that discos could sell records. This was novelty back then, but they all know it now. What kind of club could generate this amount of sales? That was Larry Levan and the ‘Garage’. He released a record, and of course RCA had no idea what they had, they sent it around the world. Glen LaRusso and Saul Whitman called me up. “Joe, they want you to go to Holland. That record is a hit.” “How the hell can the record be a hit? It’s only been there a week.” “Believe me, I know the business. If Holland says something, so goes Europe.” “A little country like that. What do they know?” “Joe, they want you to fly over.” “Get out of here. For what?” “To do TV.” I’ve got no home, I had no money, I was struggling for money, I’d lost my paycheque from Salsoul. I went down and bought myself a black t-shirt, similar to this and I put a disco model of a girl dancing on rollerskates, cost me $3. Then I got a gold star which cost 50c and a fake diamond and I pasted on a pair of red suspenders. I put those suspenders on and I went to Holland. They said: “Joe Bataan, Joe Bataan. Next.” I was ready to go onstage and I realised I forgot my shoes in my hotel room. "No, I didn’t do that, I didn’t do that!" I looked around. What do you do? All these kids are jumping up and down waiting for me because the record’s a novelty, they didn’t know about rap. I found this old pair of tracksuit bottoms, I put them on and went on stage. It became the rage of Europe, I found kids all over Europe imitating that dress code. Everywhere I went it was Rap-O Clap-O. I was signing autographs in every country, from Luxembourg to Belgium to France. In Belgium it was number one, Holland it was number two, France was number three. And the sorry part was I’ve been trying to get to the UK for 40 years and they keep keeping me out of there. The UK people said: “What are you talking about, Joe?” Let me tell you a story. Rap-O Clap-O was selling in the millions, I never got home. I stayed in Europe for six months going from country to country selling records. No pay, but never knowing the money I was generating, because you see in Europe, as opposed to America, the residuals are seven times that which you’d make in the States, especially if you owned the publishing. They would literally kiss your ass if you own the publishing to a big record. You could retire. I lived off Rap-O Clap-O for ten years, still living off it. It’s the biggest record I ever made and it’s one of the records I’m not known for.«

RBMA: »Why don’t we play Rap-O Clap-O and then take questions from the audience?«

Joe Bataan: »Sure.«

RBMA: »One thing I did want to say is, you did come back and make an album in 2005, great record called Call My Name. Actually, do you want to talk about that before?«

Joe Bataan: »Let me just skip back a little. Eight years ago Joe Bataan died; literally physically died. Let me tell you what happened. I was working my job, I’m a tour commander in prison. See how funny life is? The same place I was locked up as a kid I’m in charge of now. I give back to the kids that get into trouble and I tell them my story and it gives them some feeling that there’s a possibility they can get out of the rut that they’re in, similar to what I did. I’ve been doing that for 25 years, I’m getting ready to retire next year. I was there working the night shift and I started feeling something in my head. You know that feeling you get in your body when something changes? And I started twitching. What the hell is this? I guess it was tension. I went down to the infirmary and I told the guy: “Hey, take my pressure.” He said: “Joe, your pressure is 190 over 110. You know what to do, go upstairs, turn the lights out and start rubbing your neck.” The guys, when I told them, started laughing. “What kind of damned diagnosis is that? You’ve got to go the hospital.” I didn’t listen. You know how you are when you first start taking medicine. I was taking medicine for blood pressure and sat back, turned the lights off, and started rubbing my neck. Made it through to the morning, got up, I’d just got paid. I carry a bag all the time and my whole life is in that little bag. Right now, I’ve got it in my hotel room with my wife guarding it. But anyway, I called my wife up and said: “Let’s go and see Star Wars.” Just like a kid, I wanted to be one of the first in the neighbourhood to see the movie so I could tell everybody about it. We went to Star Wars and I started buying the popcorn, the salts, soda, lemonade, everything. The movie is on first thing in the morning. We got there about 7.00, it started at 9.00, it’s about 11.00 now. I got into the car park, approached the car, started it up, grabbed the wheel, rolled my window down. I reached into the back seat to make sure my bag was there, because it had my pay, I just got paid. Everything was intact, except I started bleeding out of my mouth. Now, you might bleed some time but this blood, this was different, it was flowing in abundance and I started getting dizzy and everything was going blurred. I spat the blood out of the window and I reached for my bag. Shows you how life is, you think of material things. I reached for the bag, here I am about to die and I’m looking back to my paycheque. I got back some sort of sense and my wife was having a conversation with my daughter and I started choking her (gestures throttling action), literally choking her. She didn’t know what the hell was going on. When I analyse it now, I was mad because she didn’t know what was going on, that I was about to die. I had no control over it, if it ever happens to you, you’ll know what I mean. I was choking her and she got out of the car to get help. I jumped out and started banging the hood. Boom! Security guard came, I punched him, took 12 people to restrain me. The rest is what I’ve been told. I woke up in a hospital 12 hours later unconscious. What are the chances of your whole family being called to your bedside? Because while I was in the bed, in a coma - I had one of those tubes they put down you - my wife, my daughter, my grandkids were all 'round the bed. And this is what I like to say happened, I do use this in my testimony when I play every time I perform. A hand reached down while I was drowning in my subconscious and said: “Joe, you keep running away from me. I gave you so much talent but you’ve done nothing with it, you haven’t helped anybody. I want you to stop running away from me and do my work.” The hand pulled me up and back into life and I opened my eyes and saw my family, but I couldn’t talk. If you ever get on that bed, you’d better pray for a pencil and paper so you can say: “Get that damn tube out of my throat so I can talk.” And my daughter said: “He’s trying to say something, he’s trying to say something.” And I wrote, “Get the tube out of my throat.” They finally got it out, whoosh (gestures pulling tube out). “What the hell’s going on here?” Everybody kept quiet but they wanted to tell me I had had the last rites, I had a brain tumour. I don’t know what went on, but I have the shirt with all the blood over it and I keep it in my car to remind me if I ever get too big for my britches what the real meaning of life is, that I’m here on borrowed time to do something. I’m secondary, I’m nobody. The Lord is my master, he’s teaching me, he’s guiding me and he allowed me to come to Australia to talk to you. If you have someone you love and you haven’t told recently, call that someone and tell them you love them, whether it’s a grandmother, a little kid, even a little dog. Nothing’s promised, we don’t have to be here tomorrow, as you know from the tragedies you’ve had here in Australia. So I’ve been dedicated to that in regards of what I do with my music. I’m trying to let people know about the goodness in life and what we can do to build a world that is pleasant and peaceful. So I thank god that I’m here (applause).«

RBMA: »Thank you, Joe. Some music and then questions? Let’s play Rap-O Clap-O.«

(music: Joe Bataan - Rap-O Clap-O)

»Joe Bataan.«

Joe Bataan: »(playing on the electric piano) First three chords I ever learnt on this were C, C minor and E minor. And I was able to find out a little secret about myself because I didn’t have all the other tools to work, so what do you do? I loved the piano but we couldn’t afford a piano when I was a kid. I couldn’t afford music lessons. I learned how to sing, but mostly by ear, and when I learnt those three chords I wrote my first song. When people started coming into the audience to listen to what I was doing I thought, ’Maybe I really have something here’. What I recommend is, anybody that writes, learn an instrument. It really helps you and I guess it took me in another direction because I was handicapped by the only three chords that I knew. I had to embellish upon it and do things that were not conventional, things that other people do. When you write a song you always have A, A, then you have the bridge and revert back to A. So I tried to start a song in B, start with the bridge, and when I learnt about modulation and I found a lot of people weren’t using it. I had to find out how to do that on the piano so I could go into another key, because I knew that would broaden life. And when I finally found out the difference between minor and major, about being sad and happy, that brought another element into my writing. I’m still learning. After a while I got so good I was able to take short cuts. There was a time in my life when I was broke and I didn’t have a piano and I still had to write. I had a contract do an album. How the hell do you write if you don’t have an instrument? And god blessed me because what I did was put on the radio, and I actually listened to the radio and all the songs that they played, and I took excerpts from them and placed them in my mind. Finally, when the piano came along, I was able to translate that into the music. The first way I knew how to sing is that I read a newspaper. This is great training, I don’t know if anybody does that. If you notice some of my songs, I have a habit of saying too many words. Instead of saying: "Baby, I love you," I say: "Whaa, whaa, whaa, whaa, baby I love you," and put too many words in there. But it takes training to do that, I didn’t know I was developing a style, so what I did was I’d read a newspaper and challenge myself. Whatever was in that paper I would sing. So there was probably a war somewhere, or an uprising, and I would sing about it and play these three chords. (plays piano and sings) "There’s an uprising and I don’t know what to do / But darling I love you." And I would do things like that and then I’d say, well, gee, I keep playing the same song, so I would change it around and I’d play it fast (plays faster and sings) "Can’t you feel it, can’t you feel it?" And then I’d start getting into the cha-cha vein and I could change the rhythm of songs. I found out whatever I did slow I could do fast and that became a style of mine. One song I wrote recently, maybe in the '90s was The Good Old Days. We wrote it in the car before I had a piano and we didn’t know how it was going to sound, but we’d open up with it some time and it would go like this: (sings) "We would walk down streets, holding hands in wonderland / You were my girl and I your man / Can you remember the good ole days / When we were young and having fun?" So without further ado, I remember when I’d ride the train and it was only 3c and I used to ride the train with my dog. Let me take you on a trip to Latin wonderland. Is everybody ready? (plays faster) "In the good old days when we were young and having fun / You were my queen and I your king / We were one / We would walk down the streets holding hands in wonderland / You were my girl and I your man/ I would give you the world and make you my girl / My special pearl / Those oldies but goodies would dance and play all night / Beneath the Latin moonlight (sings in Spanish)." So then I would take it and translate it and (sings in Spanish / sings in English ).«

(huge applause)

»I really enjoyed that.«

RBMA: »Joe Bataan.«

(standing ovation)