Jane Bunnett & Maqueque Fosters Connection Between Cuban Music, Jazz

News, From the Magazine, Jane Bunnett & Maqueque, Jane Bunnett

By J.D. Considine I Dec. 6, 2019

Reedist Jane Bunnett’s first-hand observations of the Havana jazz scene spurred the foundation of Maqueque, a collaborative six-piece ensemble.
(Photo: Rick McGinnis)

“If you want to bring people from Cuba to the U.S., it’s difficult ... . So, we have to bring them from Cuba to Toronto,” Bunnett said.

“But even before that, we’ve got to petition the State Department, line up all our dates—which is very, very complicated—send that to the State Department. When we get the approval, which can take some time, then we make the appointments at the embassy here for them to go in and get their visas. And then they get their visas; hopefully it’s before our tour starts.”

As a result, band members can spend weeks waiting in Bunnett’s house. It’s almost like the old days of bus tours, where band members lived in close contact for months. “Yeah, it is, except that we can cook,” Bunnett, quipped, generating a wave of laughter among her bandmates. “And everybody here is a pretty good cook.”

But the sense of togetherness goes well beyond room and board. Marrero, García and Paz, in particular, operate almost as a single organism within the band, reacting to the others, while at the same time prompting them, offering a pulse that is complex, melodic and uniquely compelling—especially since instead of having one master drummer, Maqueque has two.

When DownBeat mentioned the interplay between the three musicians—particularly the agility with which Marrero’s bass plays off the piano while somehow interweaving with the drums and percussion—it sparked considerable chatter. Because these Cuban artists understand a fair amount of English but speak very little, their comments were translated by Olano.

“They’re connected,” Olano said. “They were preconnected, because back in Cuba, they play together. And because of that, it’s like we look at each other, and we know what we want from each other. What happens with the energy, it’s something, um, we’ll say like magic. And we go following each other, especially the three of them, because that’s how it goes with a Cuban group. In the son, it is all about syncopation. So, that’s what they do, and that’s the polyrhythm we have.”

What’s truly astonishing is how intricate, yet natural feeling, that polyrhythm is. Paz—who studied with Irakere co-founder Oscar Valdés and even played in his group Diákara—is exceptionally gifted at articulating a phrase that will alter the rhythmic current of the band. But García, who might be one of the finest Cuban drummers of her generation, is even slyer, regularly shifting within the pocket to expand and contract the space between beats.

Bunnett joked about the complexities of García’s rhythmic patterns: “I don’t want to think about that, because then I’ll get messed up.” But the beauty of García’s playing is that you don’t have to think about it, because the feel is so natural.

“I think the connection within the culture, with Cuban music, as well as jazz, is that understanding of trust,” Majoko noted. “We can go off, but everyone’s really hypersensitive in their listening. It’s like you can be free, and know that it’s all going to come together.”

There’s also a sense of equality within the group that keeps that communal vibe ringing true. The group is billed as Jane Bunnett & Maqueque, but the Canadian reedist—who is a generation older than her bandmates—objects to the notion of a star system in jazz. “The problem with some groups is it’s too much about the ‘star’ in the group,” she opined. “It may sound bullshit-y humble saying it, but I really do believe that in all the great groups, you kind of give yourself up to something bigger than what your part is. What we’re doing is just channeling, to try and make a beautiful statement that hopefully transforms people, makes them feel better.”

For her, Maqueque’s greatest strength is that the individuality of the musicians’ voices is enhanced by the collectivity of their effort. “For the new album, everybody wrote for the record,” Bunnett explained. “But then we workshop it together. We collaborate and throw around ideas.”

“That’s the special thing about this group,” Olano added. “Because I’m not a drummer, and I respect a drummer, I will ask her, ‘Hey, do you think this will work? How do you think we can improve this, make it better?’ The same thing with Mary Paz. Same thing with Tailin, same with Joanna. I respect everyone, and everyone’s opinion, because that’s what musicianship is. To make a group as close as we are to each other, and make the music out of it, I think that’s something in general that helps. So, I just throw out the parts, and Tailin starts telling me: ‘Hey, how come I’m gonna play this?’ ‘No, there is a note that isn’t clear in there.’ ‘OK, let’s fix it.’ That’s just the way it goes.”

Olano, who composed the new album’s title track, cited it as an example. She started working on the tune during a band break, while she was staying at Bunnett’s house, working on her classical repertoire in hopes of being accepted as one of the six students admitted annually into the Glenn Gould program at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto.

It was a difficult period for the pianist because she was constantly practicing—12 hours a day—to master the repertoire. “Dánae’s at the piano, driving everybody cuckoo because she wanted to get into school,” recalled Bunnett, who, at the time, was wrestling with mixed feelings. “I didn’t say anything to her, because it seemed like she really wanted to do it,” she explained. “But in the meantime, I felt like I’m just supporting her to leave the band.”

In the end, Olano was not accepted into the program, and she suspects it was because of an interview question: “One of the questions was, ‘Will you keep playing with Jane while you are here studying?’ And I said I could. I handled that in the past, at the University of Arts in Havana, which is a high-level institution in our country. I told them I managed to do what I had to. Why can’t I do both?”

Apparently, that was not the right answer. Olano’s subsequent anger and frustration about not being admitted into the program were poured into a new song—“On Firm Ground.”

“I started writing in a moment that was difficult to understand,” Olano said. “And the title for that song, at first, was ‘Evicted.’ That was the title.”

“No, even before ‘Evicted,’ it was something else,” Bunnett remembered. “It was like, ‘I Don’t Care What You Think.’” She laughed. “And I said, you can’t call a song ‘I Don’t Care What You Think.’”

“Yeah,” Olano agreed. “At the end, that was a wakeup call. Because at the end of the day, this is what I enjoy. I enjoy being on the road. I enjoy the scenario. I enjoy that I don’t have to stay at the piano for 12 hours. I’ll keep doing well, and even though I don’t go through your beautiful conservatory, I will keep fighting for who I am, and who I want to become in the future.”

In Cuba, the relationship between classical and popular music is fraught for some players. Cuba’s classical roots run deep—the first operatic concert in Havana took place in 1776, a full 20 years before an opera would be performed in the United States—whereas jazz was once deemed culturally corrupt by Castro’s government. Although most of the Cuban members of Maqueque went through years of conservatory training, Paz did not, because the institutions didn’t teach conga or bata drumming there. From her perspective, that was an advantage. “She says what’s good about studying privately is that she got to start playing pretty early,” Olano said, translating her colleague’s statement.

“I was like the worst classical student,” García said.

“Whenever you want someone to teach you popular music, you’ve got to go out and play,” Olano said. “You’ve got to ask for a lesson, because at our school, they would kick your ass out of school for playing that.” As she mimed a teacher whacking her fingers, Bunnett asked, “What if they heard you playing a tumbao?”

“If they heard me playing a tumbao?” Olano said, then momentarily paused. “It’d be like, ‘You’re breaking the piano!’ And I’m like, ‘Hello? This is my music. This is my identity.’” DB