Existential Questions on the United States, Cuba, and Eddy Grant
In my own circle of friends, I’m the one who’s always a little too focused on pulling aside the smallest kernel and examining the existential questions of everything.
Add in travel, my self-awareness, and everyday obsessive quest for meaning and it becomes even more blurry. But when I made my second visit to Cuba in October of 2016 (as a member of the Aspen Institute’s Fringe Diplomacy), my neuroses felt as appropriate as they could ever feel.
After all, it’s a neurotic time on the island. The sharp increase of American visitors and their impact on Cuban infrastructure and policies have all brought back the age-old tourist dilemmas, amplified by the complex relationship between the U.S. and Cuba. But prior to going back, I promised myself to try and ground the experience in reality, separate from the abstractions of politics and economics.
In what has been a path forward in the past, I gave twenty-year-old-me the wheel and focused on a specific topic I care about a lot: the history of recorded music in Cuba. I wanted to know more about how Cuban labels worked. Where did they record and press vinyl? How did they distribute and sell them? I followed my inner record nerd, the same one who ran a small label out of my college dorm room, to plan parts of the upcoming trip. In my search, I stumbled on a used record shop in central Havana. Of all the places in Cuba, this became a required destination.
One member of our group, Nick Parish, has, among many other wonderful qualities, an annoyingly encyclopedic memory. One afternoon, as we navigated a crowded complex of market stalls near the newly-built, tourist-friendly cruise ship terminal, he was singing Eddy Grant’s 1982 breakout hit “Electric Avenue.” In addition to knowing all the lyrics — not just the chorus — and accompanying them with a tidy shuffle, he mentioned that he thought Eddy Grant was kind of a big thing in Cuba, having performed there in ’80s. With this, we agreed it was a worthwhile challenge to go to this record store to find a Cuban pressing of an Eddy Grant album. On our final afternoon, some colleagues and I set out to find what we had learned was called Seriosha’s.
As we walked to the shop, the neighborhood changed. The tourist areas and hotels have been prioritized in the general renovation efforts happening throughout Cuba. As we left our newly redone hotel for the store, the divide between tourists and locals was palpable. My giant camera hung around my neck, an obvious identifier for visitors like me.
We passed the store at first, not noticing the few album covers on display in the front window. Recognizing our mistake, we looked in the dilapidated, greenish space. And there, tucked in the far back corner of this typically non-descript Havana storefront, were stacks of records in a shared corner stall with a party supply store complete with bootlegged, hand-stenciled Mickey Mouse decor.
I wanted to make sure we were the most gracious, polite tourists — especially 30 minutes before he was supposed to close.
We quietly found our way to a welcome sight, not completely dissimilar to stores in the U.S., rows and rows of vinyl. The owner was clearly aware of us, though didn’t offer any greeting beyond a quiet “Buenas noches” under his breath. This all changed when Nick asked the shop owner (in his annoyingly fantastic Spanish): “Tienes algunos discos de Eddy Grant?”
The shop owner’s eyes lit up. He went to the back of the shelves, took a quick hop onto a small step stool, shuffled through the front half of the record stacks, smiled, and emerged with an Yugoslavian (Jugodisk) copy of Grant’s 1982 album, Killer On The Rampage.
This moment and that smile became one of the most unexpected and memorable points of the trip. The intersection of our ersatz version of diplomacy and obsessive music collecting was something tangible and real. We had a new, knowing friend in owner Rafaele Jiménez Cardines. His disinterest faded away as he recognized that we were different, or at least vinyl-obsessed, tourists. He realized we were interested in his guidance, to look deeper into the archives. We stayed well past closing time, Rafaele bringing us on a tour of classic Cuban artists, Afro-Cuban psychedelia, Santeria recordings, and Soviet pressings of everything from Duke Ellington to Bon Jovi.
It may be over inflating a simple moment between music people, but this stop was just as important to the efforts of the trip as anything else we had done. Our group, Fringe Diplomacy, works to expand what is possible between communities and nations in spaces that governments cannot go. For all that’s behind those lofty goals, there’s a notable beauty that comes when something as commonplace as records can, for a moment, erase any perceived differences or assumptions between two parties: us and them. Our countries have stayed locked in that strange orbit, both sides assuming the other is ‘them’, and these connections felt like they may help us see each other under less adversarial terms.
As shifts in U.S. policy led by Obama gave way to the unexpected announcement of Castro’s death and now to the unknown of the Trump administration, the complex relationships stand to change even more. These shifts place record store moments in a new context. They are the simplest, and perhaps most important, form of global connectedness. The pace of policy is comparatively slow, as are the seismic shifts required for any meaningful change in state relationships. But our pace of shared cultural understanding is instantaneous.
Inside each and every record store is the potential for a dialogue of small change chipping away at perceptions that are otherwise dictated by headlines and politicians. They’re context that was previously impossible, or seen only through a screen. They’re growth. And they’re where I believe the world has an opportunity to create shifts from the ground-up versus top-down.
Through little gestures — curiosity, questions, a handshake — we can focus on our similarities rather than our differences. I’ve seen this work time and time again in our own work with Cuban entrepreneurs. And in the work of Designmatters, who partnered with Havana’s Instituto de Diseño (ISDi), to create Fresh Eyes Cuba — an immersive art collaboration between U.S and Cuban students. And of course, I’ve seen it even in purchasing a Soviet pressing of Physical Graffiti.
But I couldn’t let go of the simplest question — the moment that shifted our time with Rafaele and helped open tiny new fronts of global diplomacy: “Tienes algunos discos de Eddy Grant?”
Despite my efforts and best thoughts on all of the above, I’ve not been able to complete this circle by connecting direct with Eddy. Were I able, I’d share all of this — That moment in time, what it meant, and what it means in the micro and macro. I’d want to hear his thoughts on all of it — How music can erase political complexity in the moment, how important it is to talk with one another, and how we all fit into a connected world.
Similarly, a return to Rafaele’s store is the first on my list for an upcoming visit. Given the recent shifts in diplomatic priorities, this sort of anecdotal bridge building is more relevant than ever. While this was all fairly simple, I can’t imagine a greater gift than to discover a rare answer to all my existential questions: There’s a gravity and purpose much larger than the relationship between our two countries. Especially now, especially in these two countries — Every little thing matters, even something as small as your mutual love of Eddy Grant.
About
David Ewald is Chief Creative Officer at Uncorked Studios. A founding partner, David leads the design team across all Uncorked products. His love of design and focus on people has helped Uncorked create products for Adidas, Google, Samsung, and LEGO. He is an adjunct professor at the University of Oregon School of Journalism.
Uncorked envisions a world where innovation applies to entrepreneurs, non-profits, and the world’s largest brands in equal measure. They help teams build products with purpose through their shared expertise, space, and financial resources. They are not bound by history, politics, platforms, or place.
David earned his Bachelor of Science in Communications from the University of Minnesota. He is originally from Wisconsin and lives in Forest Grove, Oregon, with his wife and son.
