Popular Communication

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Affecting the Embargo: Displacing Politics in the

Buena Vista Social Club

J. Scott Oberacker

To cite this article: J. Scott Oberacker (2008) Affecting the Embargo: Displacing
Politics in the Buena Vista Social Club , Popular Communication, 6:2, 53-67, DOI:
10.1080/15405700801977442

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Popular Communication, 6: 5367, 2008
Copyright Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
ISSN 1540-5702 print / 1540-5710 online
DOI: 10.1080/15405700801977442

ARTICLES

Affecting the Embargo: Displacing Politics

in the Buena Vista Social Club
J. Scott Oberacker
University of Massachusetts, Amherst

In an increasingly globalized world, the idea that open markets cultivate cross-cultural dialogue
and exchange is a persistent one. More often than not, the genre of world music is claimed to be
at the forefront of such progressive goals. This essay takes Ry Cooders award winning album the
Buena Vista Social Club and Wim Wenders documentary of the same name as a case study to
examine the possibilities for popular music to play such a role. Utilizing theoretical perspectives
from the fields of cultural studies, music studies, and postcolonial analysis, this essay describes how
the discursive logic of world music rearticulates the meaning and significance of the Buena Vista
phenomenon.

INTRODUCTION

In 1999, German filmmaker Wim Wenders and American recording artist Ry Cooder scored
a commercial and critical hit with the music documentary The Buena Vista Social Club. The
film follows Cooder as he traveled to Havana to cut a record with a group of Cuban musicians.
The initial album sold more than a million copies in its first year, won a Grammy award, and
spurned numerous follow-up projects. Later, the film was unusually popular for a documentary,
receiving numerous awards, including an Oscar nomination.
Initially, however, critics saw more than just a story of popular success. Many hailed the
Buena Vista project as a political miracle of sorts, representing a virtual break in the U.S.
embargo of Cuba. Critics credited Cooder for putting Cuban music back on the world stage
for the first time in decades. For instance, the Toronto Star depicted Cooder as a political
maverick who ignored U.S. policy to showcase a group of musicians regrettably    overlooked
by the rest of the world (Powell, 1997, p. B3). The Financial Times of London described
the albums Grammy award as a political victory: There may have been red faces at the

Correspondence should be addressed to J. Scott Oberacker, Ph.D. Candidate, Department of Communication,

University of Massachusetts, Amherst, 4 Elton Street, Providence, RI 02906. E-mail: oberacker@comm.umass.edu
54 OBERACKER

U.S. trade department following the Grammy awards last week    [when] a group of veteran
musicians    brushed aside the Helms-Burton trade embargo to pick up a coveted music
industry award (Booth, 1998, p. 16). Indeed, this kind of reception was encouraged by the
albums producers. David Bither, senior vice president of Nonesuch Records, described the
project in idealistic terms: Were realizing a social and political opening, a way of changing
the realities of two countries that have been enemies for so long (Watrous, 1998, p. E1).
The PBS Web site commemorating the film described the project as an act of political
fence-mending:

  after the Cold War embargo of the island took effect, a generation of music and musicians suffered
a premature death  [A] link with the past has been lost. The Buena Vista Social Club is about
re-establishing that link, not as a nostalgic nod, but as a necessary reconciliation. (Martinez, n.d.)

Through Cooders efforts, the argument went, a new line of communication had been opened
between Cuba and the Western world.
A closer look at the film and the celebratory discourse surrounding it, however, compli-
cated the meaning and importance of the Buena Vista phenomenon. As Vincenzo Perna
(2002) has argued, the films deployment of a narrative of discovery was actually unfair to
Cuban audiences, who were well-acquainted with most of the musicians on the album, and
ignored Latin American audiences, who were quite familiar with the son musical style that the
documentary depicts (p. 222). In fact, Perna describes the album itself as a kind of tourist art,
geared specifically toward the foreign market. This essay analyzes the ways in which Wenders
film, specifically, as well as its reception in the U.S. popular press, encouraged such a reading,
and considers some of the implications.
Together, the film and its celebratory reception worked to reproduce what many scholars
have defined as the discourse of world music (Frith, 2000; Taylor, 1997), a commercial logic
that is informed by a Euro-American, postcolonial vision, and dependent upon stereotypical
depictions of third world musicians as exotic  sensual  mystical  and attractive (Guilbault,
2001, p. 178). This discursive structure is more about differentiating a niche market than
communicating the values of multiculturalism, and its main hook lies in promising an experience
of cultural authenticity (Frith, 2000, p. 306). Through a close textual analysis of the film
along with a broader discourse analysis of its critical reception, this essay will focus on the
ways in which contemporary understandings of world music worked to shift the affective
register within which the political aspects of the Buena Vista project were understood.1 Far
from encouraging political dialogue, the film instead used politics as an affective hook to
spin a tale of artistic legitimacy and folk authenticity, an interpretive strategy that was then
picked up and reinforced through the enthusiastic public reception of the film. As such, the
Buena Vista project stands as a perfect example and illustrative warning of the ways in
which political good intentions can be rearticulated within an overly commercialized, and
increasingly globalized, Western-dominated world.

1
I draw my notion of discourse analysis from the work of John Fiske who (following Foucault) defines discourse
as a language or system of representation that has developed socially in order to make and circulate a coherent set
of meanings about a given topic area (1987, 14). According to this definition, we can only access reality through
discursive systems. Understanding the way in which a phenomenon like the Buena Vista project was put into discourse
is crucial to evaluating its social meaning and importance.
 AFFECTING THE EMBARGO 55

THEORIZING THE BUENA VISTA SOCIAL CLUB: THE AFFECTIVE

APPARATUS OF MUSIC DISCOURSE

At the outset of his book Performing Rites: On the Value of Popular Music, Simon Frith (1996)
asks an important question regarding the possibilities for popular music to engage in efforts for
social change:

How should we distinguish between the ways in which people use culture to escape, to engage in
pleasures that allow them a temporary respite from the oppressive relations of daily life  and those
uses of culture which are empowering, which bring people together to change things? (p. 20)

This question gets to the heart of the problem surrounding the Buena Vista Social Club. How
can a film that was made primarily for commercial distribution and consumption also be
political?
The claim that the Buena Vista Social Club has progressive implications was based upon two
arguments: one that praised its multicultural aspirations and a second that praised Cooders
ethic of fairness and respect. In the multicultural argument, enthusiasts argued that the Buena
Vista project served as an impetus for cross-cultural dialogue and exchange. This notion has
been at the heart of the world music genre since its inception. Guilbault (2001) summarizes
this view:    world music in a general sense is seen as having made possible new sorts of
alliances. The production, marketing, distribution and consumption of world music may all be
interpreted as evidence of openness to the Other, as part of processes by which racism and
intolerance will be discredited and musical sectarianism attenuated (p. 180).
Critics also praised Cooders ecumenical production practices, arguing he had managed to
turn the tables upon a music industry that, more often than not, works to oppress the very
musicians whose talent it seeks to market.2 As Ruben Martinez argued:

Often times with such First-Third World co-productions, the stars wind up being the First World
discoverers of the Third World talent. But Ry Cooders dealings in this arena are of an entirely
different nature. His name does not appear on the covers of the albums. Indeed, he seems no
more than a session player  There are probably more people in the United States and Europe
whove heard of The Buena Vista Social Club family of albums than of Ry Cooder, the American
slide-guitarist. Credit has gone where credit was due.

Indeed, Cooder does seem to have acted with the best of intentions. As Jan Fairley (2001)
argued, Cooders method for producing albums has always been one based upon ecumenical
exchange between cultures:

In this encounter the musicians come together and engage in music making with a publicly released
outcome to the satisfaction of all those taking part. It is a narrative of co-operation and respect.
Through the mediation of the global musician all the participants are brought to the attention of a
global audience. (p. 283)

2
The exploitative practices of the world music industry take many forms, including the unauthorized use of recorded
performances (Feld, 1996), claims to ownership (via copyright) of music produced in collaborative productions (Feld,
1994), under-payment and the withholding of royalties (Guilbault, 2001, p. 179).
56 OBERACKER

As described by Fairley, Cooders collaborative ethic might be read as an example of the ways
in which music can work to bring cultures together and open up lines of communication that
had previously been shut down.
Certainly, this is the conceit that lies at the heart of Wenders documentary. For instance, the
film ends with a montage of shots depicting sunny Havana. Images of smiling residents relaxing
in the streets are inter-cut with shots of buildings and signs baring various revolutionary slogans
(This Revolution is Eternal; We Believe in Dreams). The montage then segues to a shot
of the Cuban flag, flying gloriously high above the Havana waters, which then dissolves into
a shot of the Buena Vista musicians unfurling a Cuban flag on stage to the wild applause of
a Carnegie Hall audience. This juxtaposition, of harmonious Havana street scenes adorned by
revolutionary language with Carnegie Hall and an exuberant American audience, implies that
the political divide between these two nations has been healed.
Despite its positive aspects, the connection between the Buena Vista project and progressive
politics is not immediately clear. To begin with, Martinezs claim that the Cuban musicians went
on to surpass Cooders own fame and stature is diminished by the fact that Cooder became the
central figure in the narrative constructed by enthusiasts in the popular press, while Wenders
film casts Cooder in what can only be described as an heroic mold. Furthermore, the notion
that the album and the film helped to break down political boundaries assumes that cultural
visibility is, in and of itself, a political end. However, as John Hutnyk (2000) argues, more
than visibility is required if cooption is not to be the beginning and end of cultural politics
(p. 7). In other words, the issue is not only whether world music focuses attention on Other
cultures, but how that attention is procured and in what fashion those cultures are made visible.
It is clear that world music asks us to make investments in specific cultures, but how are those
investments articulated? What purpose do they serve?
Lawrence Grossbergs work on American rock music sheds a good deal of light onto this
question. For, as Grossberg (1997) pointed out, rock music could often be characterized as an
explicitly political phenomenon that produced no political effects whatsoever. The problem, he
argues, is that while rock clearly incorporates ideological meanings in its articulation, music
operates most specifically on what he calls the plane of affectivity (p. 95). Affect, as he
puts it,

refers to the quality and quantity of energy invested in particular places, things, people, meanings,
and so forth. It is the plane on which we anchor and orient ourselves into the world  producing
configurations not only of pleasure and desire  but also of volition (or will), of moods and passions.
These latter describe the organization of what matters   (p. 111)

In short, music operates not only on the level of what things mean, but why they matter.
Problems arise, then, when a certain slippage occurs between planes, when music means
in one way but matters in another.
Grossberg (1997) argues that rock music has several functions through which it offers
listeners possibilities for identification. To begin with, rock is a differentiating machine,
concerned with creating structures of difference us versus them, authentic versus inauthentic,
young versus old, and so forth. In this sense it acts as a territorializing machine; music founds
place and calls forth our investments by constructing spaces of stability and inclusion within
which meanings can be attached (Grossberg, 1997, p. 96). More than this, however, rock also
acts as a deterritorializing machine. Through a particular notion of escape, rock music
 AFFECTING THE EMBARGO 57

deterritorializes by constructing lines of flight, allowing its listeners to get beyond the
boredom of their everyday existences (Grossberg, 1997, p. 114). Thus Grossberg describes the
way in which rock music, through a variety of complex processes, provides listeners the ability
to imagine themselves escaping the realities of everyday life by inhabiting new worlds.
The problem comes when one adds a notion of affect to the equation. The lines of flight
offered up by rock music are often constructed within explicitly political registers. However,
the way in which the affective energy created by this imagery is put to use defuses its political
potency. While rock appears to take up political causes, it does so not as a way to fight
oppression but to have fun. So, while suburban teenagers may rock out to the revolutionary
lyrics of Kanye West, for instance, the affective energy created by their transgressive stance is
rearticulated within a discursive logic that interprets the music as a form of youthful rebellion
rather than political critique. In the end, Grossberg (1997) argues, rocks great contribution to
political activism was to imagine a world in which every moment could be lived as a Saturday
night (p. 115).
Grossbergs complex conceptualization comes down to one, rather direct imperative: In
order to make sense of the current state of popular music, we have to make sense not only of what
differences make a difference but of how they make a difference (Grossberg, 1997, p. 115).
Clearly, Wenders documentary is dependent upon this notion of difference. Highlighted by
its central structuring device cutting back and forth from Cuba to concerts in both Amsterdam
and New York City the film attempts to found a sense of place, as Grossberg puts it,
through a differentiating scheme that (de)territorializes the viewer within an other world. But
the trick here is to focus not so much on the differences, per se, but the way in which those
differentiations come to matter.
Or, to use the language of Simon Frith (1996), its all a question of value. Frith argues that
musical meanings are dependent upon broader discursive contexts which shape the value that is
placed upon those meanings. Thus, in Grossbergs words, the type of slippage that might occur,
between what music means and how it matters, depends upon the discursive context within
which it is understood. In the following section I argue that by anchoring viewer investment
in Cuban music through the tropes of cultural authenticity and artistic legitimacy, Wenders
film transforms what seems to be a progressive political project into a traditional narrative of
cultural appropriation.

MAPPING THE BUENA VISTA SOCIAL CLUB: CHARTING

THE FILMS AFFECTIVE TERRITORY

In his book Global Pop, Timothy Taylor (1997) tracks the rise of world music discourse. As
non-Western musical styles and traditions suddenly became saleable within Western markets,
a variety of discursive logics arose to endow those entities with specific understandings and
values. Notions such as authenticity and originality became markers of legitimacy, as
music from a host of foreign climes became packaged for sale to Western audiences. These
discourses, however, did not just spring up out of nothing; rather, the representations and
commodifications of this new music    show how contemporary constructions of nonwestern
musics betray underlying, old sensibilities about Others and their cultures (Taylor, 1997, p. 19).
Thus, to understand how the discursive logic of world music underpins the narrative structure
58 OBERACKER

of The Buena Vista Social Club, it is pertinent to consider the ways in which music, in general,
has been understood in the West. Specifically, I would like to consider what Simon Frith calls
the discourses of folk and art. Both of these notions inform the logic of world music and,
accordingly, they both work to shape understandings of Cuban music as it is documented by
the film.
In the folk world discourse, as described by Frith, the value of music is understood in
terms of its cultural authenticity (p. 40). To return to Grossberg (1997), this logic of authen-
ticity simultaneously performs the functions of differentiation and territorialization; differenti-
ating the music from that usually listened to by its intended audience, while constructing an
affective space that is separate from their everyday existence. In world music, this notion of
cultural authenticity is used to differentiate itself from normal (Western) culture: What is of
concern to listeners is that the world music  they consume has some discernible connection
to the timeless, the ancient, the primal, the pure, the chthonic  since their own world is often
conceived as ephemeral, new, artificial, and corrupt (Taylor, 1997, p. 26). The point is not to
facilitate communication between cultures but simply to invoke a sense of primal authenticity
that works to construct a unique experience for the listener (Frith, 2000, p. 306; Taylor,
1997, p. 21).
A close look at the Buena Vista Social Club reveals the folk world discourse at work.
The opening sequence operates as a travel film. Interspersed with images of the band getting
prepared to play are shots of musician Compay Segundo taking us on a tour of his neighborhood.
A moving camera pans across a variety of stereotypically Cuban images, such as waves
crashing onto Havanas oceanside boulevard and the rusted-out bodies of pre-revolution
American cars. The camera pays special attention to Havanas romantic architecture, as a series
of close-ups reveal gilded archways and marble balconies, a sequence that would be right at
home on the Travel Channel. Thus, while the film is, ostensibly, about the revival of a musical
style, Wenders emphasis in these early scenes is on the establishment of a sense of place. The
most important characteristic of the Buena Vista musicians is their status as authentically Cuban.
Nowhere is this idea of Cuban authenticity more apparent than during the films biographical
segments, in which the musicians describe their musical backgrounds. In each of these segments
we learn very little about son as a musical style, or even about each musicians individual
training and experience with the form. Instead, it is their very status as Cuban that stands as
testament to their worth as musicians. A segment featuring guitarist Eliades Bustamante serves
as an example:

I am Eliades Ochoa Bustamante. I was born in Santiago, Cuba, on June 22 in the year 1946. My
mother, Jacoba Bustamante, played the tres, and my father played the tres. A musical family. I was
born a country boy, of course. From the time I awoke in the morning, I began listening to music.
Besides having music in my blood, I heard music night and day. In 1958, I was the same size as a
guitar. (Cooder & Wenders, 1999)

Here, Bustamante codes his musical ability as innate, pointing out that music is in his
blood and even equating his infant self to a guitar. In this sequence Bustamante is filmed
standing in a peaceful train yard, strumming his guitar while he sits on a railroad tie, and
later as he strolls casually about the grounds. Coupled with his wistful voice-over about being
a country boy, this imagery creates a pastoral depiction of Bustamantes musical abilities;
they seem to stem from the very earth upon which he stands. Here, musical talent is not just
 AFFECTING THE EMBARGO 59

something natural; it is something natural to being Cuban. As Wenders himself put it: So here
was the main reason for making this film: To find out what kind of people could make that kind
of music (Wenders & Wenders, 2000, p. 11, my emphasis). Thus, in many ways, the Buena
Vista musicians are denied their very status as artists. Instead, they are defined predominantly
in terms of the exotic milieu they are said to represent (Taylor, 1997, p. 21).
More importantly, this milieu is made all the more exotic by its socialist characteristics.
As Bustamantes monologue continues, Wenders cuts to a montage of idyllic images depicting
contemporary Havana. The images are shot with a hand-held camera that glides through the
streets, lending a whimsical feel to shots of children playing happily and cheerful residents
giving a friendly wave toward the lens. This montage is preceded by Bustamantes comment
that the hardship of his younger days are over: All that passing the hat and the like, its
over. You never forget that, but its in the past (Cooder & Wenders, 1999). Paired with
the romantic depiction of peaceful Havana streets, the guitarists comments implicitly invoke
an idealized image of socialism. Thus, Cuban society is celebrated, but in a fashion that is
strictly de-politicized. Romantic images of Cuban society become just one more marker of his
musical/cultural authenticity.
This emphasis on milieu is not to say that the film ignores the music itself. Indeed, the
Buena Vista Social Club is, first and foremost, a music documentary, describing the process by
which the album was conceived, recorded, and performed. However, whereas the folk aspects
of the film play up the Cuban authenticity of the musicians, its aesthetic aspects are enshrouded
within a different logic, what Frith (1996) calls the art world discourse.
This discourse has its origins in the 19th century when the rise of the middle class made it
necessary for bourgeois elites to distinguish between high and low art forms (Frith, 1996
p. 35). The central organizing principle of this discourse was a notion of educated taste, and its
central organizing institution was the academy:

The role of the academy is not simply to produce performers and to nurture talent, but also to
institutionalize a familiar way of thinking about music: as the creation of composing geniuses,
embodied in sacred scores  faithfully but feelingly articulated by gifted performers to reverential
audiences. (Frith, 1996, p. 38)

As Frith describes it, the art world discourse is not simply a form of aesthetic appreciation
but a system of cultural authority. For, the very notion that the talented must be taught is
contradictory. Talent, by its very nature, implies something inherent a natural ability. So,
the paradox of music education is its underlying assumption that only the talented few can
be taught what is in the end unteachable (Frith, 1996, p. 37). Thus, the central mission of the
music school is not education, per se, but recognition. Music skill, in this formulation, is
nothing more than the ability the talent to do what? To be recognized as talented! (Frith,
1996, p. 38). It is this process of recognition which serves as the key structuring device for the
Buena Vista Social Club. According to this logic, authentic Cuban music can attain legitimacy
only through the process of aesthetic recognition.
According to Frith (1996), this process is often mediated through an authority figure or
mentor. In the film this role is played by Ry Cooder. Throughout the film, Cooder is coded both
textually and visually as the recognizer of talent and arbiter of musical taste. For instance, in
the two concert sequences, each of which functions as a major set-piece for the film, the visual
narrative is carefully constructed around close-ups of Cooder. Various shots of the performers
60 OBERACKER

are juxtaposed with shots of Cooder, thus cementing his image as the focal point of each
sequence. Here, Wenders makes a pointed visual choice; in the actual concerts, Cooder made
a concerted effort to stay out of the spotlight (Pareles, 1998, p. E22). But through this editing
strategy, Cooder is visually defined as the leader of the band.
This depiction of Cooder as leader is further solidified by a second visual strategy: a
pattern of dissolves and cuts which move from concert footage back to shots of Cooder in the
recording studio. For example, during a sequence in which Ferrer and a female vocalist, Omara
Portuondo, perform a duet, Wenders dissolves from their embrace on stage and a warm round
of applause, to a shot of Cooder in the recording studio, looking up from his guitar, smiling,
and raising his eyebrows playfully. More importantly, Wenders allows the sound of applause to
carry over through the dissolve, a nice visual trick that creates the illusion of Cooder, himself,
responding to the applause and thus taking credit for this sentimental moment. In a similar
sequence, Wenders cuts from Ferrer singing on stage to a shot of Cooder controlling the levers
of a sound mixer in the studio, thoughtfully mixing the singers voice. Both these sequences
work to remind the viewer that the success we see the musicians having on stage is all a result
of Cooders ability to recognize this talent and mold it in specific ways.
Indeed, Wenders film is actually less about the Cuban musicians and more about Cooder
himself and his own artistic re-awakening in this socialist heart of darkness. Thus, while the
musicians are given ample screen-time, the film is narrated by Cooder, whose voice-over is
almost always self-directed. His soft, whispered asides give the viewer the impression that
Cooder is letting us in on his own artistic process. More often than not, this process is
conceptualized as a personal quest. When he says of the album I can tell you you never
know what the publics gonna go for. This turned out to be the one they liked the best I like
it the best he transforms the music from cultural practice to a kind of artistic raw material
used for personal creation (Cooder & Wenders, 1999). The real story of the Buena Vista Social
Club is about how Ry Cooder sculpted an award-winning album for Western audiences from
the native clay he discovered in Havana.
It is here that the overall structure of the film becomes so important. The entire narrative is
sutured through two sold-out performances, the first in Amsterdam and the second in New York
City at Carnegie Hall. Once again, Wenders editing strategy is crucial. He continuously employs
a pattern in which a shot of a musician playing during a rehearsal session dissolves into a shot
of that musician playing on the stage. This image then dissolves back to the same musician
playing in the studio. This visual pattern creates a sense of movement with a specific direction,
the trajectory of which is aesthetic fulfillment. All of this has a purpose: to remind the viewer
that playing in front of a Western audience to a group of knowledgeable and appreciative fans
is the pinnacle of success; hence, the symbolic importance of using the concert at Carnegie
Hall as the films conclusion.
This sequence provides the film with a satisfying climax, transforming the Buena Vista
project from intercultural experience into a heroic tale of Western artistic achievement. Rather
than inviting the viewer into the world of Cuba, Wenders film instead becomes a narrative
about bringing Cuba back to us through the figure of a celebrated, Western artist. In this
way, the film becomes less a progressive, cultural experience, and more like an old-fashioned,
colonialist text.
By colonialist I refer not to the historic period of colonialism itself but to what Born and
Hesmondhalgh (2000) call the discourses of colonialism  the legacies and repercussions of
 AFFECTING THE EMBARGO 61

colonialist culture in the contemporary world (p. 6). Thus, I situate my argument within the
tradition of postcolonial analysis which, as Mongia (1996) defines it, is primarily concerned
with colonialisms continuing effects, particularly as they are manifested discursively (12).
I draw my understanding of colonialist discourse specifically from the work of Ella Shohat
and Robert Stam (1994b), who coined the phrase Eurocentrism to describe the ways in
which Western systems of thought envision the world from a single, privileged point of
view (p. 2).
From this standpoint, we can see the way in which Cooders role as artistic mentor is
morphed into (and out of) the familiar colonialist trope of western voyager. Shohat (1991)
describes the way in which this trope has often worked in Western cinema:

  usually  heroic status is attributed to the voyager (often a male scientist) come to master a new
land and its treasures, the value of which the primitive residents had been unaware. It is this
construction of consciousness of value as a pretext for (capitalist) ownership which legitimizes
the colonizers act of appropriation. (p. 52)

This trope of the voyager is evoked over and over again throughout the Buena Vista Social
Club. For instance, toward the end of the film, Cooder clues the viewer into how this all got
started:

My wife and I had been in Havana in the 70s, kind of poking around and searching around for
this son music  .So, we kind of got on a boat and went down there and kind of snuck around and
searched around and actually got to hear some good old timers.   It was a fantastic experience. It
was the kind of thing that I feel, and it might be fair to say, Ive trained for my whole life. (Cooder
& Wenders, 1999)

Here, Cooders retelling of the making of the album is steeped in the tropes of archeological
discovery. Cuban music and the musicians themselves are portrayed as something pure and
natural, literally part of the landscape; so much buried treasure to be dug up and re-appreciated
by someone with a knowing eye (or, in this case, ear).3
More importantly, however, is the way in which Wenders represents Cooder as expert.
For instance, Wenders features an interview with Ibrahim Ferrer, in which the singer extols
Cooders ability to recognize his talent for what it is. Toward the beginning of the film, Ferrer
describes a moment of improvisation in which Cooder saw something deeper: Ry Cooder
heard that, too. When I went back to see him in the booth I had just sung that number to

3
Tanya Kater Hernndez (2002) has made a similar case, arguing that, The narratives focus on Cooder serves
to create a colonial myth of Cooder as discoverer/conquerer of native resources that have gone unappreciated and
are more effectively channeled by a North American figure (65). However, Hernndez interprets this move as an act
of political aggression, arguing that this narrative works to perpetuate the image of Castros Cuba as an oppressive
regime by constructing an ahistorical nostalgia for a pre-revolutionary Cuba that was presumably more appreciative
of its Black talent than socialist Cuba (61). However, it is debatable whether or not the Buena Vista project acts
as an explicit critique of the Socialist regime. I argue that the film itself actually creates a romantic/idyllic depiction
of present- day Havana as an exotic, socialist paradise. Far from critiquing socialism as repressive, Cooders film
implicitly celebrates it as an important aspect of the musicians essential Cubaness. Indeed, as Perna (2002) has
explained, the Buena Vista project was celebrated by cultural traditionalists in Cuba as a representative symbol of
true revolutionary values, which they then utilized as a tool to de-legitimize contemporary dance music produced
and consumed by Afro-Cubans (p. 214).
62 OBERACKER

loosen up. I mean, nothing special, I was just singing. The man had recorded it (Cooder &
Wenders, 1999). The conceit being laid out here is that it took the expert knowledge of a
Western artist to recognize the value of Cubas musical traditions. In this way, world music is
only legitimated once recognized by a Western artist, and subsequently appreciated by Western
audiences.
This colonialist perspective is reinforced once again through Wenders visual strategies, in
which the images we see are always glimpsed through Cooders (and Wenders) Western
gaze. Here, Shohat and Stams (1994b) description of Eurocentric film practices is useful:

The cinemas ability to fly spectators around the globe gave them a subject position as films
audiovisual masters. The spatially-mobilized visuality of the I/Eye of Empire spiraled outward
around the globe, creating a visceral, kinetic sense of imperial travel and conquest, transforming
European spectators into armchair conquistadors, affirming their sense of power while making the
inhabitants of the colonies objects of spectacle for the metropoles voyeuristic gaze. (p. 104)

Hardly a better description could be found to describe the first moments of Wenders film. As
Cooder and son zoom up and down the streets of Havana on motorcycle, close-ups of Cooder are
juxtaposed with moving-camera shots of residents looking up quizzically, positioning us within
Cooders point-of-view. The entire beginning of the film is constructed by and through Cooders
authoritative presence. In this way, the figure of Cooder serves as a point of identification for
an audience that is assumed to be Western.
It is here that we can see a kind of affective slippage at work. Wenders film clearly places
Cooders project within the context of the U.S. trade embargo, portraying Cuba in a sympathetic
light. For instance, the very first shot of the film is a black and white photograph of Fidel
Castro placing a wreath at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. We were expecting the U.S.
invasion, the photographer explains. The photo is called David and Goliath; the little guy
and the giant (Cooder & Wenders, 1999). As such, the film inscribes the Buena Vista project
within a heroic frame, with the Cuban musicians playing the part of Davids to the U.S.
Goliath that has forced them into exile.4 There is inherent here the radical possibility that
such a contextualization could encourage western audiences to reconsider their own position
within the system of global relations. However, despite the films inherent critique of the
embargo, the hero of this tale, the person with whom the audience is invited to identify, is
an American artist, while the musicians are relegated to passive recipients of his beneficence.
Thus, by identifying with Cooder, Western audiences are invited to become the surrogate heroes
of this tale, righting a wrong through their purchase and appreciation of Cuban music. This
narrative structure creates a paradoxical situation whereby audiences are implicitly invited to
condemn the purported effects of U.S. foreign policy, while at the same time becoming the
heroes in a tale of political reconciliation. In many ways, this strategy follows the logic of
world music discourse which often utilizes a Brought to you by    strategy to temper its
political implications (Taylor, 1997, p. 28). The presence of Cooder as Western artist allows
Buena Vista to have it both ways: to offer listeners a little taste of the other in a form that is
familiar and nonthreatening.

4
Perna (2002) argues that this was precisely the way in which the albums worldwide audience interpreted the
project, turning the musicians into cultural icons symbolizing the resilience of the Cuban David in the face of the
arrogance of a U.S. Goliath (213).
 AFFECTING THE EMBARGO 63

The result of this discursive strategy is the affective displacement of any political import
the film might have had. To return to Grossbergs terminology, there is evident a shift, not
in what the political implications of the Buena Vista project mean, but how they matter. By
redirecting the potential affective investment of the audience away from global politics and
toward notions of artistic value and cultural authenticity the film utilizes the energy offered
up by the exoticness of Cuban society as a way to create a saleable product for the world
market.

READING THE BUENA VISTA SOCIAL CLUB: THE HEART

OF THE MATTER

We can see the political contradictions inherent in the Buena Vista project by looking at the way
in which the film was interpreted by the popular press. While reviewers often paid lip-service to
the political possibilities opened up by the films courageous stand against the U.S. embargo,
their interpretation of the film, more often than not, worked to shut those possibilities down.
As such, the critical reception of the film worked to construct an interpretive context within
which the Eurocentric pleasures of the film were reinforced.5
Perhaps the best example of world music discourse at work is the way in which the
mainstream press latched onto singer Ibrahim Ferrer as the films emotional center. Ferrer is the
one figure in the film who verbalizes an explicitly political outlook. For instance, Ferrer pays
homage to contemporary Cuban life by comparing it to his childhood before the revolution:
I had to plunge into life. Just like my friends, I was in school but I had to abandon my studies
at that time. Because life, naturally, wasnt as it is now. It was harder. Later in the film, he
reiterates this conviction:

We Cubans can be thankful, rather we can give thanks to  who knows  maybe to that Man up
there   that we are like this, because if wed followed the way of possessions we would have
disappeared long ago. We Cubans are very fortunate. (Cooder & Wenders, 1999)

Here, we see a little crack in the colonialist lens, as Ferrer extols the virtues of socialist ideology.
However, following the discursive logic of world music, the popular press rearticulated
Ferrers political outlook in patronizing fashion, as a simple marker of cultural authenticity. For
instance, in a nearly ubiquitous trope we are told that Ferrer was shining shoes (Harrington,
1999a, p. C7; Holden, 1999, p. E24; Mathews, 1999, p. 66; Millar, 1999, p. 14; Robbins,
1999, p. C1; Watrous, 1999, p. 22) before being literally plucked off the streets of Havana

5
Here it seems important to point out that I am not making an argument about the reception of the Buena Vista
project by actual audiences. Rather, I am interested in describing the ways in which reviewers and journalists worked
to emphasize particular interpretations of the project that reinforce the perspective of world music discourse. Thus,
I follow the work of scholars such as E. Deidre Pribram (2002), who has argued that film reviewers represent a
second tier of interpretation that mediate between the intentions of industry personnel and a particular films targeted
audience (p. 142). As such, while reviewers obviously can never determine how any particular viewer will react to
a film, their role may help forge culturally negotiated interpretations of any given text; they may participate in the
consolidation process of what come to be widely accepted readings (p. 142). For more examples of the role film
reviewers and journalists play in the production and circulation of cultural discourses, see Projansky, 2007; Projansky
and Ono, 2003; Staiger, 1993.
64 OBERACKER

(Robbins, 1999, p. C1). Thus, Ferrers appreciation for his simple lifestyle sets him up as
a kind of native neophyte, charmingly unaware of his own talent and marketability. Lost are
the political convictions of his statements, referenced above. Indeed, as the Chicago Sun-Times
put it, far from sparking political dialogue, the authentic charm of Ferrers rags-to-riches story
transcends politics altogether:

Its a remarkable story that culminates in an ecstatically received performance in New Yorks
Carnegie Hall. In transcending matters of history, politics and style, its also fiercely uplifting.
(Sachs, 1999, p. 28)

Thus, far from cross-cultural dialogue, the films rather simplistic representation of Cuban
culture and society becomes the exotic setting for an all-too Western tale of personal triumph,
more reminiscent of Horatio Alger than Che Guevara.
Of course, reviewers can hardly be blamed for reading the film in this way: Wenders
narrative structuring encourages it. The final act of the film perfectly encapsulates the journey
that is undertaken by Ferrer et al. The sequence begins with shots of the musicians arriving
at JFK International Airport. As Cooders voice-over ratchets up the drama (A lot of people
worked hard and tried really hard and on July 1 we were there!), we cut to a montage of
scenes in which the musicians wander up and down the streets of Manhattan. It was a great
night, crows Cooder. They loved it, I loved it. Everybody went crazy (Cooder & Wenders,
1999). Accompanying this celebratory language are images designed to depict the musicians
in a hail of star imagery: Omara Portuondo riding around Central Park in a horse-drawn
carriage; Compay Segundo doing press interviews; musicians entering and exiting limousines.
This sequence lets us know that the musicians have made it. It is America itself, through the
symbolic power of Carnegie Hall, that stands as the ultimate sign for this achievement.
This is a powerful narrative, and one that the Western press couldnt turn down. Indeed,
as reviewers gushed over the triumph that was the Buena Vista Social Club, the focus
moved away from the music itself, and toward this story of natives-turned-celebrities. Thus,
USA Today described the film as a story about rejuvenation, in which long-forgotten Cuban
musicians rekindled their careers (Clark, 1999, p. 8E). The Washington Post declared, its
discovery, renewal, and recent introduction to international audiences is clearly a minor miracle
(Harrington, 1999b, p. C1), while the New York Times argued that the film had a fairy tale
ending (Holden, 1999, p. E24). Thus, the political possibilities attributed to the film by its
producers were displaced by an affective attachment to a narrative of fame and fortune. For
many reviewers, the real story of the Buena Vista Social Club was no different than that
currently played out each week on American Idol:

It wasnt supposed to result in a million-selling, Grammy-winning album. It wasnt supposed to

ignite the Cuban recording industry, spawn international tours by aging but vibrant Cuban artists
and revive appreciation for traditional music in Cuba itself. Nor was it supposed to lead director
Wim Wenders to make a soul-stirring documentary film    . But it did. (Katz, 1999, p. 59)

In this way, the line of flight, to use Grossbergs (1997) words the path of escape or
identification offered up to viewers by the film is not one directed into Cuban culture at all,
but outwards toward artistic success on the world stage.
 AFFECTING THE EMBARGO 65

Of course, Cooders role in this narrative remains paramount. While Ferrer and the other
musicians act as the films heart and soul, Cooder stands as its main protagonist, taking on
a variety of guises: cultural explorer, artistic genius, and even musicologist (Clark, 1999,
p. 8E; Harrington, 1999b, p. C1; Millar, 1999, p. 14). As Hernandez (2002) argued, in this
framing Cooder is the only character ascribed any real agency, while the role of the Cubans
is downplayed.6 Just as important, however, is the way in which this discursive framing
works against the very political goals to which the project purportedly aspires cross-cultural
dialogue and exchange. In this frame, what was in fact a respectful collaboration between a
group of musicians becomes, once again, a story of artistic recognition. Thus, the political
possibilities inherent to ecumenical collaboration are transformed into a heroic tale of artistic
rescue and reclamation. As the Boston Herald put it:

Three stars. Theyd fallen, but they could get up. Thats the gist of Wim Wenders documentary,
Buena Vista Social Club, chronicling the rejuvenated lives and careers of a group of mostly elderly,
forgotten Cuban musicians who were tracked down and put into a studio by American guitarist-
producer Ry Cooder. In the words of Cooders drummer son, Joachim, theyre like a bizarre band
that never existed (from) the 1960s. (Sherman, 1999, p. S20)

Taking objectification to a new level, here the musicians are practically described as inanimate
objects, cultural findings that owe their very existence to their discovery by Cooder. Indeed,
this notion was invoked again and again by reviewers who consistently emphasized the age of
the musicians, often describing them as nearly dead, or aged beautifully like fine wines (Howe,
1999, p. N45; Martinez, n.d.). While reviewers were eager to revel in the political implications
invoked by such a cross-cultural collaboration, the relationship remained all one-way. In this
story, Ferrer and company are not collaborators at all, but rather raw materials from which
Cooder fashioned a remarkable piece of world music.

CONCLUSION

While it is beyond the scope of this essay to ascertain how actual audiences made sense
of the Buena Vista Social Club, it is nonetheless important to pay attention to the ways
in which its discursive framing worked to position the project for potential audiences. Far
from encouraging cross-cultural dialogue, understanding, or respect, Cooders collaborative
experiment was transformed into an authentic piece of folk art to be appreciated by western
audiences with a penchant for multicultural experiences. In fact, as Fairley (2001) argued,
this is precisely how the Buena Vista project was understood in Cuba, where the relaxing of
state control over the music industry during the 1990s resulted in the emergence of two kinds
of music: one for people on the island itself; and one for tourists and a foreign market abroad
who know little about everyday Cuba (83). Buena Vista, she argues, epitomized the latter.7

6
As Hernndez (2002) points out, the emphasis on Cooders role was not only emphasized but exaggerated. It was
actually Afro-Cuban bandleader Juan de Marcos Gonzlez who had the original idea for the album and assembled the
musicians (p. 62).
7
Indeed, the album was received more critically in Cuba, where it was criticized by some for ignoring the vast
array of contemporary musical talent (Watrous, 1998, p. E1).
66 OBERACKER

As Perna (2002) pointed out, according to industry sources, the consumer-profile for the album
itself was, indeed, 35-55-year-old Caucasians who had discovered the album through Wenders
film or its reception in the popular press (p. 222).
Thus, the Buena Vista phenomenon represents, in many ways, a tremendous missed-
opportunity. For as Fairley (2001) argued, Cooders history of cross-cultural collaborations
constitutes a virtual paradigm for honest, respectful and fruitful engagements between first
and third world musicians. As such, the music that he and his collaborators have produced does
seem to open a metaphorical space within which political dialogue and social change might
begin to flower. However, the ubiquity of world music discourse and its economic imperatives
work to close down such openings. At best, the political implications invoked by the film are
used as an affective hook, a way to provide the project with a little touch of radical chic
more than anything else. First world audiences are invited to think of themselves as crossing
boundaries and communing with Cuba, but all within the safe confines of a story geared
towards flattering their own willingness to recognize and appreciate other places, other peoples
and, most importantly, good music. As such, the Buena Vista phenomenon stands as a telling
example of the ways in which the discursive logic of a still-Eurocentric world can work to
undermine the political potentialities of cross-cultural collaborations within the realm of world
music.

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