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Miami Nice


copyright Victoria Brooks, 1999I peered out the window and down into a bank of flat-colored clouds moving fast and soft, racing like a greyhound over Miami. Thick cloud cover obscured the city lights. Would I land in Miami vice or Miami nice?

 

Nose pressed to plastic, I imagined a handsome (and younger) Don Johnson, dressed in a Versace jacket with T-shirt -- or even better, nothing underneath. Miami Vice, what a show that was. What a showcase for Miami. Sexy cigarette boats slicing through shimmering canals, racing faster than gale-force winds, past tall jade palms that threw their shadows around as quickly as jai alia players, past pink flamingoes, past turquoise buildings. All in brilliant Technicolor against a deep, Miami purple sky.

Through the drone of the jet engine, I remembered the over-the-top cool Tubbs and Crocker maintained while chasing pimps, drug lords and criminal types. I heard the thickly accented voices of Cuba and South America. Briefly, I wondered what brand of shoes Don Johnson wore with his dress-to-kill sports jackets, chino pants and silk shirts. Tough or not, a guy going sockless needs the supplest of leather against naked feet. Miami Armani would be my guess.

Miami Nice. Copyright Victoria Brooks 1999Miami Vice showed off Miami's natural charms and fast-lane attitude like a gorgeous Penthouse magazine pullout. And behind the visual stuff was the hippest of soundtracks. Music that beat and rhythmed to the sound of a rotating, glittering disco ball and to Miami's ever-drumming surf. That gorgeous, dangerous Miami Vice cool was back-dropped to perfection by Miami's drop-dead natural and crayon-colored architectural beauty. Yes Miami had attitude.

Miami in the Seventies

My first real memory of Miami goes back to the early seventies, when young men dressed like Jesus Christ and young women like girls in hippie fairy tales Back to a time when both sexes spouted free love and flower power, while dropping mind-bending LSD, getting high on the "love drug" MDA, hallucinating on mescaline, food tripping on marijuana…and on crazy-talented musicians like Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix and Jefferson Airplane. It was the beginning of a Technicolor time, carefree and bright with free love and easy highs. It was the time before the AIDS quilt and red-ribbon memorials. My family was ensconced in rooms at the expensive and golfish Doral Country Club for the Christmas holidays. My sister Ruth, very pregnant with her first child, wisely opted to stay by the pool while my brother-in-law Brian and I charged off to a happening like we'd never seen before.

Art Deco Cool. Copyright Victoria Brooks, 1999The sun dazzled and danced off the blue waters of Miami Beach. The day was as bright with promise as the silver star that Merlin the magician flourished as he placed tiny, clear, star-shaped squares of windowpane acid on outstretched pink tongues. The rock concert was held on a long expanse of springy grass, Miami's natural floor. When the concert began, the grass was as lush and green and thick as the marijuana smoke that rose like tendrils of fog through the sun-struck air. After three days of morning-to-midnight concerts, the grass was matted and dented by dancing feet turned tan. Far-out dudes and blossom-bedecked girls sat cross-legged like modern Buddhas, or reclined as only lovers do, in their Miami brilliant, mind-induced, oceanfront garden of Eden.

Outdoor Festival, Greater Miami Convention & Visitors Bureau, 1999. Copyright Greater Miami Convention & Visitors BureauSix stages continually throbbed with drums, organs, bass guitars, rhythm guitars, electric guitars, f-hole guitars. All played riffs and lightning licks that ran together as the crowd danced and screamed with the brilliant pain and hedonistic pleasure of youth. Notes so high, so low, so brazen, so cool, so full of themselves…of that era, shook like an earthquake, pierced like an arrow, cooed like a songbird. Riffs of excitement ran like an orgasm through the pleasure center that connects the body to the brain.

In one, single, so-hot-it-was-cool Miami afternoon, Brother Bry and I actually experienced most of that era's greats: Richie Havens, Procul Harem, Ten Years After, Three Dog Night, Joni Mitchell, Jose Feliciano, Joan Baez and even the banjo-picking Flatt & Scruggs.

 

Then the unthinkable happened: a Miami State Trooper roared up on stage with his motorcycle, grabbed the mike and boomed at the crowd, "Use of marijuana is illegal in the State of Florida… in the City of Miami." Before the ripped and stoned crowd could react, 'the trooper' pulled off his helmet, shook out his long hair, smiled like an angel/devil and belted out his most famous song, "Born to Be Wild." I still shake my own head at Steppenwolf's crazy audacity, and all I can think is: "Wow!"

Doral Country Club, Doral, 1999. Copyright Doral Golf Resort & SpaBack at the Doral Country Club, that swanky and conservative old-world Miami establishment, my father putted the groomed greens with Long Island lawyers. My mother practiced her serve with Arthur Ashe (Doral's tennis pro). My sister Ruth tanned by the pool dreaming of her unborn child, while Bry and I sat cross-legged in the thick of a Miami-induced, music-induced, drug-induced, era-induced EXPERIENCE.

December 1999, Miami Modern - Yuca

A short decade or two later, back at the Doral -- this time, with my husband Guy -- I remembered vividly that Alice in Wonderland vision experienced as a still naïve teen in those never-never again hippie days, colored carefree and bright with free love and easy highs.

Nightfall at Yuca. Copyright Yuca RestaurantThis time the stage was dark. The club upstairs at Yuca pulsed with people speaking a babble of languages. Albita was late, like many who make appearances and set trends (not watches). We waited. Outside the club, Miami's hot ball of Art Deco sun had dropped down into the deep, blue Atlantic. How did I know? Floor-to-ceiling glass lined one wall. Outside, twin tall palms still as statues, and underneath a silver Porsche enjoying the night shade. Inside, the noise of martinis in cocktail shakers shook like maracas in Desi Arnez's band.

I ordered a mojito, mint-stuffed rum, and lime juice squeezed on a stainless-steel hand press. Guy ordered soda water. My head turned back to the chattering crowd. Here, upstairs at Yuca in these elegant Miami surroundings, no one spoke American, only Cuban Spanish and other Latino dialects. I sipped at the last drops of my mojito and tasted the sweetness of the cane sugar added to take off the edge. I leaned against a green-granite bar stylishly bordered in a tropical wood, and ran my fingers lightly across the stressed surface. We were still waiting… for mas mojitos and for Albita. Guy leaned both elbows on the elegantly clad bar. I looked around and squinted through a blue haze of illicit cigar smoke.

Only one other Miami nightspot served the famous and delicious Cuban mojito. But no other place served up Albita, Cuban sensation. Not long ago, Albita was Fidel Castro's favorite singer -- his favorite girl. But not any more. Now she is Miami's Cuba Libre. Before she crossed a bridge from Mexico to El Paso, Texas, in April 1993, Albita had been at Castro's beck and call to play her stylish, but still grassroots, Cuban music. She was a money machine for Castros' Communist coffers. In 1991 when Albita snagged a recording contract in Columbia, Fidel allowed her to live abroad. But Castro's gilded songstress paid for her privilege with most of the takings.

I looked around again and noticed most of the men (and women), were dressed in black. Black linen, black silk. The familiar strains of a song we had heard somewhere before emanated from the black stage. The song soon became insistent. The song demanded tapping feet. The crowds black-shod feet tapped. The song demanded shoulders-only sway. All black-wrapped shoulders sensually swayed. The song then opened like the petals of a showy red flower in the hot Cuban sun. And there she was. Albita. Backed by an eight-piece Cuban band. She was a Cuban diva in black net pants, worn tight and smooth over cucaracha hips.

Albita, Cuban Sensation. Copyrighted image - used with permissionShe was a songbird that had flown the coop; gone north to a freer place, a greener, a greenback Miami. She was a Libra Cubana, bringing memories of her cloistered island into the open. She made me remember the feel, the flavor of Havana. She made me wish I had been born Cuban… or at least South American. I envied the sensuous, tropical movements. Her hips, isolated from the rest of her body, moved and swung fast and furious as a crazy-playing child's swing. Then she reversed the movements and shook her breasts at the crowd while her hips stayed still. I looked down at my own moving hips, at my tapping feet, and noticed the tiled floor was somehow in sync within the atmosphere. It wasn't Versace's original smaller tiles (his originals now grace this entrance) but tiles as big and shiny as a Havana '50s Ford.

Watching and listening to Albita was like being in the presence of a Latin Marlene Dietrich backed by Xavier Cugat's band. Blonde, charged with high octane and involving -- like Havana. Like a crooning Cuba. Electric, delicate, yet mature…fabulous, just like Cuba. An exile, just like Cuba.

By this time, I had no shame left. I held my hands high and snapped my fingers in the breathless air. I rotated my hips like a crazy-playing child's swing. I shook my breasts… like Albita. But I didn't even try to sing. No one could do that like Albita.

Albita Live, Yuca, 1999. Copyright Yca RestaurantTo experience the music of Albita (and Cuba), reserve a table or a place at the bar at Yuca. Tel: 305-532-9822.

Albita performs Friday and Saturday nights at 10:30 p.m. $25.00 cover per person, two drink minimum.

Yuca's address is 501 Lincoln Road, Miami Beach, Florida 33139 Or check out her CD No Se Parece A Nada.

For more information about Miami, contact the Greater Miami Convention & Visitors Bureau at www.miamiandbeaches.com

In one, single, so-hot-it-was-cool Miami afternoon, Brother Bry and I actually experienced most of that era's greats: Richie Havens, Procul Harem, Ten Years After, Three Dog Night, Joni Mitchell, Jose Feliciano, Joan Baez and even the banjo-picking Flatt & Scruggs.

Then the unthinkable happened: a Miami State Trooper roared up on stage with his motorcycle, grabbed the mike and boomed at the crowd, "Use of marijuana is illegal in the State of Florida… in the City of Miami." Before the ripped and stoned crowd could react, 'the trooper' pulled off his helmet, shook out his long hair, smiled like an angel/devil and belted out his most famous song, "Born to Be Wild." I still shake my own head at Steppenwolf's crazy audacity, and all I can think is: "Wow!"

Doral Country Club, Doral, 1999. Copyright Doral Golf Resort & SpaBack at the Doral Country Club, that swanky and conservative old-world Miami establishment, my father putted the groomed greens with Long Island lawyers. My mother practiced her serve with Arthur Ashe (Doral's tennis pro). My sister Ruth tanned by the pool dreaming of her unborn child, while Bry and I sat cross-legged in the thick of a Miami-induced, music-induced, drug-induced, era-induced EXPERIENCE.

December 1999, Miami Modern - Yuca

A short decade or two later, back at the Doral -- this time, with my husband Guy -- I remembered vividly that Alice in Wonderland vision experienced as a still naïve teen in those never-never again hippie days, colored carefree and bright with free love and easy highs.

Nightfall at Yuca. Copyright Yuca RestaurantThis time the stage was dark. The club upstairs at Yuca pulsed with people speaking a babble of languages. Albita was late, like many who make appearances and set trends (not watches). We waited. Outside the club, Miami's hot ball of Art Deco sun had dropped down into the deep, blue Atlantic. How did I know? Floor-to-ceiling glass lined one wall. Outside, twin tall palms still as statues, and underneath a silver Porsche enjoying the night shade. Inside, the noise of martinis in cocktail shakers shook like maracas in Desi Arnez's band.

I ordered a mojito, mint-stuffed rum, and lime juice squeezed on a stainless-steel hand press. Guy ordered soda water. My head turned back to the chattering crowd. Here, upstairs at Yuca in these elegant Miami surroundings, no one spoke American, only Cuban Spanish and other Latino dialects. I sipped at the last drops of my mojito and tasted the sweetness of the cane sugar added to take off the edge. I leaned against a green-granite bar stylishly bordered in a tropical wood, and ran my fingers lightly across the stressed surface. We were still waiting… for mas mojitos and for Albita. Guy leaned both elbows on the elegantly clad bar. I looked around and squinted through a blue haze of illicit cigar smoke.

Only one other Miami nightspot served the famous and delicious Cuban mojito. But no other place served up Albita, Cuban sensation. Not long ago, Albita was Fidel Castro's favorite singer -- his favorite girl. But not any more. Now she is Miami's Cuba Libre. Before she crossed a bridge from Mexico to El Paso, Texas, in April 1993, Albita had been at Castro's beck and call to play her stylish, but still grassroots, Cuban music. She was a money machine for Castros' Communist coffers. In 1991 when Albita snagged a recording contract in Columbia, Fidel allowed her to live abroad. But Castro's gilded songstress paid for her privilege with most of the takings.

I looked around again and noticed most of the men (and women), were dressed in black. Black linen, black silk. The familiar strains of a song we had heard somewhere before emanated from the black stage. The song soon became insistent. The song demanded tapping feet. The crowds black-shod feet tapped. The song demanded shoulders-only sway. All black-wrapped shoulders sensually swayed. The song then opened like the petals of a showy red flower in the hot Cuban sun. And there she was. Albita. Backed by an eight-piece Cuban band. She was a Cuban diva in black net pants, worn tight and smooth over cucaracha hips.

Albita, Cuban Sensation. Copyrighted image - used with permissionShe was a songbird that had flown the coop; gone north to a freer place, a greener, a greenback Miami. She was a Libra Cubana, bringing memories of her cloistered island into the open. She made me remember the feel, the flavor of Havana. She made me wish I had been born Cuban… or at least South American. I envied the sensuous, tropical movements. Her hips, isolated from the rest of her body, moved and swung fast and furious as a crazy-playing child's swing. Then she reversed the movements and shook her breasts at the crowd while her hips stayed still. I looked down at my own moving hips, at my tapping feet, and noticed the tiled floor was somehow in sync within the atmosphere. It wasn't Versace's original smaller tiles (his originals now grace this entrance) but tiles as big and shiny as a Havana '50s Ford.

Watching and listening to Albita was like being in the presence of a Latin Marlene Dietrich backed by Xavier Cugat's band. Blonde, charged with high octane and involving -- like Havana. Like a crooning Cuba. Electric, delicate, yet mature…fabulous, just like Cuba. An exile, just like Cuba.

By this time, I had no shame left. I held my hands high and snapped my fingers in the breathless air. I rotated my hips like a crazy-playing child's swing. I shook my breasts… like Albita. But I didn't even try to sing. No one could do that like Albita.

Albita Live, Yuca, 1999. Copyright Yca RestaurantTo experience the music of Albita (and Cuba), reserve a table or a place at the bar at Yuca. Tel: 305-532-9822.

Albita performs Friday and Saturday nights at 10:30 p.m. $25.00 cover per person, two drink minimum.

Yuca's address is 501 Lincoln Road, Miami Beach, Florida 33139 Or check out her CD No Se Parece A Nada.

For more information about Miami, contact the Greater Miami Convention & Visitors Bureau at www.miamiandbeaches.com