Sweeping the World Off Its Feet
Friday night at the Sportsmen’s Lodge in Studio City. The ballroom is packed. Puerto Rican band leader Tito Nieves is playing and salsa lovers throughout Southern California have made a pilgrimage to see him.
A skinny kid in black leather walks in. The crowd parts. It is Johnny Vazquez, one of three famous salsa-dancing brothers, and a reigning salsa champion.
He starts an impromptu line dance on the floor, and people jump up to join him. Smiling, he calls out the steps for those behind him, moving faster and faster, dancing as though his body has no bones.
Behind and around him dancers follow his every move--a demonstration of the Vazquez effect on salsa. Where Johnny and his brothers have led, Los Angeles and the world have followed.
Salsa, a variation of mambo, has its roots in Afro-Cuban and Puerto Rican music and dancing. Mambo had its heyday in New York in the ‘40s and ‘50s, when Cuban immigrants to New York fused their music with elements of jazz. Salsa had a resurgence in the ‘70s and has been kept alive by professional dancers and teachers, particularly Eddie Torres of New York, the “Mambo King.” Although salsa did not have many rules to start with, what conventions did exist have been smashed by the Vazquezes.
Traditionally, a man leads a woman through a series of turn patterns, hips and torso swaying in an S-shape to the rhythm. At several points during the music the man lets go of the woman and both do fancy footwork.
What distinguishes the Vazquez brothers, Francisco, 30, Luis, 28, and Johnny, 21, is the sheer drama they bring to the floor. They have filled salsa with tricks--splits, spins, neck drops and multiple dips. Their style is Hollywood--flashy, sexy and dangerous; the barest hint of violence hovers around their feet as they enact bitter love scenes and street fights on the dance floor.
Not everyone likes it. Detractors carp that the brothers have added drama but not soul. But for better or worse, Vazquez-style salsa has become synonymous with L.A. style, and L.A. style is revolutionizing the salsa world.
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The Vazquez brothers, raised in a family of 12 children, grew up in a Guadalajara neighborhood whose crowded streets were a canvas for their early athletic and artistic attempts.
They rallied the neighborhood kids into soccer teams and organized family singing groups, often while surviving on scanty meals of tortillas and milk.
Seeking a way out of poverty, Francisco crossed the border illegally seven years ago in the back seat of a friend’s lowered Monte Carlo. “My friend told me that if I wanted to get across I had to dress like a gangbanger because that’s how Americans look,” he said. He donned baggy pants, a huge T-shirt, a bandanna and slept as the car crossed the border without incident.
He showed up unannounced on an older brother’s doorstep in Long Beach, only to find the same desperate struggle he had left. “My brother was like, ‘Oh no!’ when he saw me, because he was barely making it,” Francisco said. “The next day he woke me up at 5 a.m. to go find a job.”
Francisco found work at a carwash, where he earned only tips. After the owner agreed to pay him $25 a week, he rushed home to tell his brother. “He said, ‘Are you crazy? Do you know what just a hamburger costs in this country?’ ” Francisco says, laughing at his naivete. “Together we earned $300 a month.”
One night shortly after he arrived, a girlfriend took him to a salsa club in Orange County--and he soon learned that he is not a natural.
“What takes people now one lesson to learn? It took me months,” Francisco said. “Women would leave me on the floor because I didn’t know any other steps.”
It is difficult to picture, because today when Francisco dances, he may start out to the rhythm of the conga, switch over to follow the piano, then playfully match his footwork to the flute--all while leading, dipping and spinning his partner.
Every man who learns to salsa endures a period of purgatory. Performance anxiety for novices can be intense: Typically, a woman comes into a man’s arms, then waits for something to happen. He desperately tries to remember the moves he just learned. Meanwhile, it dawns on her that she is doomed to a lackluster partner for the remainder of the dance.
That could be a tragedy for a man like Francisco. “Let’s face it,” he said, “men dance to get women, and women dance for men.”
Though unmarried, he has slowed down a little.
“I’m not the player I used to be,” he sighs. “But it’s the price of what I do--you meet so many wonderful people and the dance is so intense that your feelings can take over.”
After Francisco had settled into a routine of dirty cars, English lessons and meager meals, Luis showed up.
“I was like, ‘Oh no! We don’t have any money!’ ” Francisco says. But they began going out dancing each night, hitting three or four clubs an evening. Soon, a cycle began: Francisco and Luis would copy other dancers, put their stamp on the steps, and other dancers would copy them.
Seduced by Salsa’s Allure
Salseros, people who love to dance salsa, often speak of their hobby in terms of addiction, charting the growth of their dance needs from a lesson here, a night out there, to a never-ending hunt for the next “fix.” People have lost their jobs to salsa, their marriages to salsa.
It happens of a sudden: swaying and spinning in the arms of a stranger to the pounding of a conga drum and wail of a horn, a rush of sensuality and drama surges, only to wane at the dance’s end, leaving the dancer spent but wanting more.
Edie Lewis of Los Angeles divorced her husband and left her job as a computer software trainer several years ago after taking salsa lessons from Luis and his wife, Joby.
Now editor in chief of Salsaweb magazine, she also operates two Web sites, Salsaweb.com and Salsafreak.com. Thanks to the Internet, Lewis, a talented dancer who is known as “the Salsa Freak,” is possibly the best known salsera in the world.
Because of the Vazquezes, she says, “we do a lot of tricks and dips here, and guys really know how to display the woman. When I dance with a hard-core L.A. dancer, it’s like an E-ticket ride--I get a euphoric feeling that’s just indescribable.”
‘We Take Elements of Everything’
Luis learned in days what had taken Francisco months.
“I’ve never seen anyone memorize steps and be able to understand choreography like him,” says Francisco.
The brothers began studying tapes of famous dancers--Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, the Nicholas Brothers--performing routines at nightclubs and salsa events as their style began to take shape.
“I call it a soup,” said Luis. “We take elements of everything and put it together.”
They have evolved from street kids dancing in nightclubs, into performers and instructors; for Francisco and Luis, at least, the line between work and play has often been blurred.
“When we started dancing, it wasn’t with any plan,” Luis said. “We weren’t thinking of companies or performing or making a name, we were out there basically looking for girls and we were, well, just absolutely, totally wild.”
Recently, the salsa world was shaken by an Internet message stating that male instructors had behaved inappropriately with students and inviting women who had experienced sexual advances to contact the L.A. Salsa Dancers Coalition. (The coalition consists of several dancers, both women and men, who have declined to identify themselves publicly.) No names were mentioned in the posting, but Luis and Joby, 31, married six years and the parents of a 5-year-old girl, know he is one of its targets.
Joby was a doctor’s assistant when she fell in love with Luis while dancing. “I’m so grateful to all that salsa has given me, and I love the music and I love the dance,” Joby said, “But it has come at a cost.”
Sitting in a coffee shop near their Long Beach home 2 1/2 weeks ago, Luis and Joby have a frank conversation about what they both admit is a problem.
Luis admits that he has misbehaved with women, some of whom were students, and that his actions have left a swath of bad feeling in the salsa community.
“I am sorry for what I did,” Luis says, adding that he no longer gives women private lessons unless Joby is present. “I’ve been taking counseling, and I’m really trying to change--but everyone knows I never did anything with bad intentions or trying to hurt people.”
“No, Luis, they don’t know that,” his wife corrects softly, holding his hand. “That’s why this is happening, because you haven’t told people you’re sorry.”
Head bowed, he takes a breath. “I know I’ve been hurting people, and now it’s come back to hurt me too, because I have caused my wife so much pain,” he says. He puts his head on her shoulder for a moment and both wipe their eyes.
They ask themselves whether salsa, which has given them so much, including each other, has exacted too high a price.
Talent and a Shot of Serendipity
The Vazquez rise to dancing prominence did not happen in a vacuum. Along with performances at the annual World Salsa Congress in San Juan and on television, two other things happened to make them a phenomenon: timing and Albert Torres.
The Vazquezes’ mastery of the dance coincided with a local and worldwide craze for Latin music and dancing.
As for Torres, an L.A.-based dance and concert promoter, the local salsa scene exists in its present form largely due to his events. On any Friday night, Torres throws what may be the largest multiethnic and multigenerational party in town. His concerts are often showcases for the Vazquezes and their dance companies. (Francisco and Johnny have a company called Los Rumberos; Luis and Joby have a company called Salsa Brava, which they founded with a third partner, Janette Valenzuela. The companies don’t consider themselves competitors since there is more than enough demand for both.)
“They have elevated the way of dancing for everyone,” said Nelson Flores, who heads the Descarga Latina Dance Co. in New York. “New York has been influenced by their style. . . . Not everybody wants to do 150 spins in a row, but they have perfected that style.”
Last summer at the World Salsa Congress, Swedish dancers saw Salsa Brava perform and say they have not been the same since.
“I’m speaking for all of us when I say that Luis and Joby have been a real inspiration,” said Ibirocay Regueira of Swedish Club Latino in Stockholm. “Their influence is so great that we are now planning to bring them to Stockholm for workshops and shows.”
Japanese salsa producer George Watabe describes his first encounter with Vazquez-style salsa as a shock. Quickly he arranged for Salsa Brava to teach and dance in Japan. “With the energy and the inspiration of their dancing, I can tell you the passion for salsa in Japan increased.”
Toronto dance teachers Nicole Da Silva and Mark Del Duca visit L.A. once or twice a year to “experience the Vazquez style and flair,” says Da Silva. Their first demonstrations of L.A. style at home, however, brought both compliments and criticisms.
“We would hear things such as, ‘You guys look really good, but that’s not salsa,’ ” said Da Silva.
“As our studio grew, so did the number of Toronto salseros dancing the L.A. style,” Da Silva said. “As a result of our success many other teachers in Toronto either took lessons from us, obtained videos from L.A. instructors and/or visited L.A. themselves in order to witness firsthand what Joby and Luis Vazquez had to offer.”
Practice All Day, Dance All Night
In 1996, Johnny, 21, arrived from Guadalajara and began an apprenticeship with Francisco. He trembles at the memory.
“He was so hard on me when I was first learning that if I made a mistake he would literally have me in tears,” Johnny said. “But it paid off--Francisco is my idol.”
Johnny Vazquez, whippet fast and as flexible as a yogi, is now one of the hottest young salsa dancers in the world.
While Francisco has been founding new Rumberos groups and Joby and Luis have poured their energies into Salsa Brava, Johnny has put his energy into competing.
“Johnny has become a monster--he is the hardest-working and has some of the most natural ability I’ve ever seen in a dancer,” said Torres.
Johnny, who is single and lives in Long Beach, dances all day. He spends seven hours practicing, gives lessons, then goes out dancing at night.
“I look older than I am, and some of that is because of the schedule that I keep,” he said. “People ask me why I’m so skinny, but I can’t keep any weight on dancing as much as I do.”
And he has to dance. “I couldn’t do without it right now,” he said. “Salsa is my life.”
Since he began winning salsa championships with his partner Olivia Dasso two years ago, Johnny has become an international star, traveling with the Bacardi World Salsa Tour to Europe and South America.
“I remember when I used to cry because my brothers had left for the United States and all I wanted was to be here too--my biggest dream in life was to come to America--and my mother would comfort me and say, ‘You wait, you’re going to travel the whole world, not just go to America.’
“In Madrid, I was performing in a theater, and at the end they stood up and chanted “To-re-ro! To-re-ro!’ ” Johnny said. “It’s what they yell when a bullfighter has fought bravely,” he says with wonder. “Standing there on that stage while people threw roses at me--I never felt anything like that before in my whole life.”
No Resting on Their Laurels
With their hectic travel and teaching schedules, the brothers, now legal U.S. residents, mainly stay in touch by cell phone, occasionally crossing paths at the Dance Factory, the Long Beach studio where they give lessons and rehearse.
Johnny, whose travel schedule has slowed for a time, is now working with a new partner.
For Joby and Luis, who are working hard to repair their marriage, the grind of running Salsa Brava is taking a toll. They anticipate managing the company only three or four more years before opening a dance studio of their own.
Francisco, who lives in Fullerton, is launching Los Rumberos companies in five other cities, including London, San Francisco and New York. He spends his days auditioning, training and dancing with members of the new companies.
They’re grateful for what they have and try to savor their success in the wildly competitive world of salsa.
“Are we the best?” asks Francisco. “Of course not. My brother Johnny might be one of the best, but eventually somebody else will come along and be better than him. That’s how it is with dancing.
“You have your moment, and then it’s somebody else’s turn.”