A Midnight Serenade

Music from the Dominican Republic

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The musicians played for some time, joking about getting through "two sets" as if they were in a nightclub. As at any gathering of true aficionados, they played the older, more difficult repertoire dating from the time of Tatico Henríquez, the legendary accordionist who died in 1976. Sometimes they were joined by "guest vocalists" from among the partygoers. After a while, they made me play a couple of tunes—something I had been fearing, since I was completely unprepared. I hadn't played accordion in months, and so while I remembered how to start forty or so merengues, I could only manage to finish about two of them, and my technique was rusty at best. It was pretty embarrassing, but our host cheered me up. "Hey, I'm impressed you can play any merengues at all. I have an accordion in there," he said, pointing inside. "It's been there for ten years, and I still can't play a note."

Eventually, it was time for food: enormous legs of turkey from the grill and slabs of casabe flat bread made from the cassava root, one of the few bits of indigenous Taino culture still around, four hundred years after their near-extinction. Next was a round of the birthday song, in both Spanish and English, accompanied by the trio. Dominicans end the tune with neither "shave and a haircut" nor "and many more..." but with a different tag ending that signifies "se está poniendo viejo"—he's getting old—to which the celebrant replies that he isn't looking viejo but rather bueno, good. Finally the cake came out, slathered in Dominican-style dulce de leche, a total sugar overdose.

Around midnight, the party was wrapping up, but there was still one more task we had to accomplish. An old musician, Manolo, who used to play with Tatico, was said to be ailing here in town. He was scheduled for heart surgery this very week, and everyone was concerned about his health. To cheer him up, we would bring him a serenata, a gift of three merengues played in front of his house.

When we arrived the street was dark, no one was in sight, and it was starting to rain. But as soon as the musicians started playing, a few neighbors came out to hear, and I held my umbrella up to keep the tambora dry. It is difficult for a modern-day tamborero to play a serenata, since tamboras no longer have straps attached for playing while standing. Instead, ours had to balance his drum first on the trunk of the car and then against a tree. I felt surprisingly touched to see how bonds were reinforced between musicians by way of a couple of midnight melodies, showing the indebtedness these young musicians feel to those who came before.

Soon, Manolo himself appeared, umbrella in hand, a stout, elderly, dark-skinned man in a baseball cap and colorful shirt. He was pleased with the display of affection and shook all our hands. We wished him well and disappeared into the night as quickly as we had appeared.

The events described here occurred in 2007. Since then, Chiqui has moved to New York, Manolo has passed away, and only the memory of that serenade has remained—a picture of what merengue típico was, and still is.

About the author

Sydney Hutchinson is the author of a book and numerous articles on Latin American dance and music, as well as co-producer of the Folkways CD La India Canela: Merengue Típico from the Dominican Republic. Currently a Humboldt Fellow at the Berlin Phonogram Archive, in 2010 she will join the faculty of Syracuse University's Department of Art and Music Histories. In her spare time, she plays merengue típico accordion and yodels (though usually not simultaneously).

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