[7] LATIN NEW YORK’S DIZZY IZZY – SO YOU WANT TO BE A STAR The first time I hear Latin N.Y. magazine publisher Dizzy Izzy Sanabria bump his gums is at El Porton. The Gate is an experimental theater next door to the magazine's 54th street offices. Izzy hosts a Latin NY talent show there in January 1977. He levels a stream of bad borscht belt jokes as the night's M.C., "You want to hit the daily number, I'll tell you what to do. Early in the morning you take the number you want to hit and write it on a little piece of paper. Then fold it up, put it in your mouth and swallow it. If that number doesn't come out by the next day it ain't never going to come out. He caps his bit with a rather pointed observation, "People make fun of Desi Arnaz -- eh, eh Ricky Ricardo. Felipe Luciano does it. The revolutionaries do it. Everybody with a gripe. But no one really takes a look at what he's portraying on I Love Lucy." "And what does he do? He works hard at that club, what's it called, ah dammit -- como carajo que se llama? "Club Babalu!" "Yeah! The Club Babalu. He moves his wife and their friends to Hollywood then out to the suburbs. He never screws around. In the meantime he's got this crazy white American wife who gets into all kinds of schemes and shit and he has to save the day. What was wrong with him? His accent? He talks like that in real life! Jeesh. These anti-establishment guys should cut him a break.” The Latin New York Office in upper midtown Manhattan (and later 27th and Park Avenue South) is a constant parade of aspiring photo models, artists, writers, salesmen, hustlers, salsa celebrities, parolees, heated arguments, messengers delivering God knows what, constant deadline, laughing, screaming, sex, sex, and sex. A revolving door of 15 minute fame. Conversations bounce off the walls at Latin NY ricocheting between Izzy's shouts that we’ re all behind deadline during frantic staff meetings, "Let me tell you something Tony, you cannot separate the fact that Latin New York is Izzy Sanabria and Izzy Sanabria is Latin New York -- not to advertisers. There's still a lot of people who know me and don't know about the magazine. Anyway, the people who complain are people who don't like me anyway. But when your talking to an advertiser your selling them on the fact that Latin New York has a very strong readership base and that I have accomplished X amount of things; you can say this magazine is connected with a Big personaliity. ME. Are you people listening, huh, allright … hey … hey … carajo! Hey! COME TO ORDER!” ZIP! BOOM! BANG! “I don’t believe he just did that.” “I know, I thought nobody else caught it …. Izzy, you just didn’t pull out your dick and hit the table with it? I mean that thing is longer than a pool cue!” “That’s right and now I have your attention right behind my eight balls.” “Oh, Izzy man, shut the fuck up.” "Now Ralphie that’s interesting, we should do an article on that, you know. There are many different ways to use the word fuck." "Here we go. You’re not going to appear naked in the magazine again? You know the flack we caught for that! What do you mean?" "Like the difference between when a guy tells another guy to shut the fuck up as opposed to when a guy tells a woman to shut the fuck up." "Oh, yeah?" Tony Pabon butts in, “I got a bigger dick!” "Yeah, right, check it out. Shut the fuck up about your dick. No. Listen to me Tony – SHUT THE FUCK UP! Shut the fuck UP! SHUT the FUCK up! You can tell a guy shut the fuck up and he'll know what time it is by just listening to the inflection." "And what about a woman?" "Oh, that's a little different. You can get away with a quick shut the fuck up but you'll really screw it if you add the fatal three words." "What three words?" “Adela, tell him the fatal three words.” "Shut the Fuck up YOU STUPID BITCH!” “Now that's when you cross the line and better start sleeping with one eye open because later that night Daisy Rican is going to slam you in your sleep screaming, I got your shut the fuck up you stupid bitch right here, maricon and she’ll cut your balls off. What is it Mercedes?" "Oh, Izzy, shut the fuck up and get Victor Gallo on the phone. Fania hasn’t paid for the back inside cover yet!" “I still got a bigger dick!” “OK, OK, OK … enough with the dick already, Jeesh … Now what Soledad?” "Izzy, are you crazy, do you want to offend every Puerto Rican mother in New York? You can’t run a story headlined Hijo de Puta (Son of a whore).” Evelyn Collazo chirps in "What are you talking about, his mother calls him that all the time!" "And do you know why? Because you are one but you know what? It doesn't do you justice. Tu eres el hijo de la gran puta! (Son of the greatest whore)" “Yeah, right. The headline runs. Jimmy?” “Bro, here’s those pictures from the concert and I got that freak showing us her tits on the last contact sheet.” “Let me see, where’s that eyepiece … shit, people are always taking stuff from my desk … ah, here …. Ummm” “I also got some of those Barrio shots that young dude took.” “Who?” “That college kid David.” “Who Gonzalez?” “Yeah. What should we pay him? “I don’t know. Give him a couple of albums from that stack there.” “Sheila Escovedo is here to see you Izzy, Eddie Olmos is on line 1 and Betty Boop is on line 2. She says she’s getting cold waiting next door. Is that another of your special model shoots, cono Izzy!” “Oh yeah, ummm, esa mami esta sabrosa. Tell Sheila to wait in the other office I’ll be right out. Jimmy, go next door to the apartment and take care of this chick for me. She’ll do anyone. Even Luis if she thinks he’ll get her a break. Take a couple of pictures and get her the hell out of there before my son Mark shows up.” “Izzy?” “Yes, Aurora.” "I don't know if you'll run this headline on the story about the mayor." "Well, let me see it ... Aha ... DON'T BE A KOCH SUCKER ... run it Aurora, it's funny. Besides, everyone thinks he's light in the loafers anyway." “I think the magazine has done a tremendous job. I give no excuses for what I've done or for what the people who have been with me have done. I depends on how you judge Latin New York. I started Latin New York not as a business but as an artist with beautiful intentions because I always felt that the Latin community has a lot of talent but never had the opportunity to be exposed. I myself was into writing, drawing and photography. The magazine has given me the opportunity to explore all of my talents. The magazine allowed all these young Latinos to gain experience that they could not have gotten anywhere else. My original intention was if I could start a nucleus eventually those people are going to go out, spread my word and create would in turn talk about what the Latins are doing to relate to their own community and bring it out.” I learn a few tricks from Izzy and company to get into the Salsa clubs while at Latin NY. When press passes don't work there's always the band. I put into action a crazy scheme suggested by congero Wilson “Chembo” Corniel of the Bobby Rodriguez orchestra. "Carry an instrument case and tell them you're with the band." I start to carry a trumpet case. One night at the Casablanca Club I arrive and make my announcement. The bouncer looks at me and says, "Great, we've been waiting for you. Just step to the coat room." Another bouncer takes my trumpet case and tells me, "There is no band tonight" and starts to open the trumpet case in which I carry a couple of sodas and a hero sandwich. "Damn, I can't believe these guys. They tell me to show up and look, look ... they're even switched my trumpet!" Case, sandwich and body go out the door. I headed for Victor’s Café. Victors Café on 54th is the favorite hangout for Cuban, Columbian and other South American wiseguys during this period. Several Salsa celebrities like Eddie Palmieri and Jose Fajardo also hold court there. One day as I get ready to sit down I hear the most god awful singing coming from around the corner accompanied by a thick finger snapping clave sound. Trust, the singing sounds like a wounded bear grunting for help. My girl Rosie Hurricanes is so impetuous that she orders me to get up and find out who the hell is stinking up the joint like that and to try and stop it before we start to eat. As I stand up, the source of the singing swings around and it turns out to be middleweight boxing champ Roberto Duran. Somewhere in his punch drunk mind concludes that not only is he a great fighter but that he can sing too. A couple of Panamanian and Columbian wiseguys bankroll a band to back him up at the Casablanca Club and he performs a gig there though as you might understand he does not knock out the audience with his riffs. But who was going to tell him he can’t sing? Rose Hurricanes that is. In this high Brooklyn voice she tells him, "Hey, knock it off. I'm eating here!" It completely catches Duran off guard. I think it’s the first time someone tells him to shut up while he’s singing. He looks over hard and I'm shitting my pants. This is Las Manos de Piedra - Hands of Stone -- before the infamous No Mas fight with Sugar Ray Leonard. Suddenly Roberto smiles and tells the waiter he’ll pick up our check because Rosie, “Tiene cojones. Argue all you want with her but never let her go." Eddie Palmieri is sitting at a corner table and can’t stop laughing. Tito Puente is billed the King of Latin Music at this time but Eddie Palmieri is god. At the height of his popularity, Palmieri can transfix an audience with his orchestra. The musicians in the Palmieri orchestra create Eddie's style - Barry Rogers and Andy Gonzalez fuel the Palmieri motor. But Eddie possesses his own magic as a personality. Roseland 1977. Offset by the Deep wine colored curtain That rings the tight stage Palmieri hunches over his Piano squeezed onto the stage A musical raging bull Who Punches The Steinway's middle keys And begins this groan That deep guttural growl he makes While playing Forcing it out of his chest Through his arms Into the piano keys and out Into the audience Glistening with sweat Turns that pit bull neck Towards his people And each can swear that He's looking and groaning at Me His beard messiah like che like lincoln like Some dance But most are in ecstasy Drawn in by Eddie That left hand of Eddie That Crazy Eddie Puente is King But Eddie is god When Eddie opens his mouth its a whole other thing. Just imagine a bull of a man with a Mike Tyson lisp uttering a wiggy stream of consciousness take on life. At Carnegie Hall in 1978 he lets go this barrage of enthusiasm, "I just have to tell you ladies and gentlemen that we must take a moment hear to stop the music because this bass player here (referring to Sal Cuevas), he's just driving me crazy! Really just nuts! He's so good and it reminds me that our music, whatever you want to call it -- salsa -- mambo -- whatever, is really African music that was brought to the Caribbean and we have to respect it all because it brings us together as a people in one. A rainbow culture that ... Boy! That bass player just drives me crazy! Do you feel a certain loopiness about Palmieri's thought process outside of his music? Now you understand how I feel. And I don't even get high in those days. Drugs are not part of my personal life at this time. Not yet. I don't launch into that that world until the spring of 1979 at Amherst College. For now I’m straight as an arrow. Medio pendejito, you know. I do get a rush out of kissing Rosie Hurricanes when she has something to drink but for now I am more observer, messenger and errand boy. New York is not as tight legally as it is these days of quality of life facism. I routinely pick up alcohol for the New Rican and survive more than one cloud of marijuana smoke outside and in the club. I do remember inhaling. Hey that's it. I become a pothead because I inhaled in the 70's. Case closed. Move on to the next thing. I’m doing an interview with Felix Romero and the rest of his theater group Teatro Otra Cosa for Latin NY at the Teatro Puerto Rico in the South Bronx the night of the 1977 NY blackout. Not more than 3 minutes after the lights go out there's a cry outside on 138th Street: "Hit the jewelry store!" People are waiting since the blackout in ’65 for their chance to clean up. By the time we get to the corner, the crowd is already lifting the steel gate in front of the store and piling in. One guy drives a car into a storefront and frees up an appliance center. Months later, you can trace all the looters by their electric bills. You see, there's a significant increase in the use of electrical power due to those new stereos, washers, greenhouse generators, and atomic reactors people now have hooked up to that heavy duty electric chord in the hallway. I know because Joe and Angie -- two Otra Cosa performers -- see their light bill go from 12 dollars a month to 150 dollars a month. I have to get from 138th Street and St. Ann's in the South Bronx to the apartment I share with my girlfriend Rosie Hurricanes on Nagle Avenue in upper Manhattan. Isa Diaz gives me a lift as far as 168th Street in Manhattan. That's when I notice how confused and frightened people are. The buses are running free and are crowded. Emergency flood lamps near the George Washington Bridge on 180th Street create eerie shadows. Then there's the policemen in riot gear and shotguns. (Where were they in the South Bronx. Well, they're not stupid.) I finally arrive at Nagle Avenue and in front of our building stands the genius of a super. Gasoline can in his left hand and a huge torch in the right. In the dark he looks like one of the Flying Monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. He's there to protect the property. You know, that son of a bitch robs my apartment a few months later. Rosie is barricaded in the second floor apartment. She's a tough Dominican grrrrrl but tonight's she's scared and I'm shaking too. I nickname her "hurricanes" because she can come on like one in a heartbeat. |
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