Latest news with #salsa
CBC
a day ago
- Entertainment
- CBC
More than just a dance, salsa helps Latino community feel at home on P.E.I.
For years, Victoria Lange was focused on competitive figure skating. But deep down, she always wanted to do something that connected her to her Latin American roots. Her father is originally from Peru, and growing up she listened to a lot of salsa music. She often watched her parents dance salsa around the house. "I had a strong connection to it from a really young age," she told Mainstreet P.E.I. host Steve Bruce. Still, Lange said she never truly learned how to dance salsa until after her family moved from Germany to Prince Edward Island in 2018. That was when, at DownStreet Dance in Charlottetown, she took her first salsa lessons. Fast forward to today, and Lange now teaches salsa workshops. Through the dance, she and many other members of the Latino community on the Island have found a deeper sense of belonging and connection to their heritage. "Being outside of your home country and then coming to a new place, you sort of feel like you have to reclaim part of that identity again," she said. 'I feel liberated' What Lange now teaches is a specific dance — Cuban-style salsa. She learned it from her boyfriend, Angel Rodriguez, who moved from Cuba to P.E.I. in 2017. She said it was more difficult than the version she first learned, but it brought her a completely new sense of freedom. "I feel liberated in a sense. It's just really freeing to be able to just enjoy the music," she said. "It's just liberating to be able to, like, shake my shoulders a little bit, or my hips when I dance, and especially with my boyfriend since it's always nice when you're in a couple to be able to dance together and enjoy the music together." She dedicated a lot of time to practising with Rodriguez and watching YouTube tutorials, steadily improving along the way. Then, they began dancing together more often at local Latino parties. On several occasions, people approached them to ask if they offered Cuban salsa classes. That inspired Lange to start her own workshops, something she saw was missing on the Island. Building community Rodriguez said he's happy to see Lange offering the workshops. He said it's something fun that both Islanders and members of the Latino community can enjoy. Though salsa dancing is a big part of his culture, Rodriguez said he didn't dance much after moving to P.E.I., at least not until last year. "It was a long time before I danced salsa," he said. "I start dancing again and feel more happy." Through salsa and local dance socials, Rodriguez said he got to meet people from Latin American countries beyond his own, including Peru, Chile and Mexico. "I get to know that community. And it's getting bigger, very much bigger," he said. "Because we are very far from our family, from our country, from our roots, it's good to have… that community. It becomes kind of like a family." Lange said the beautiful part about salsa dancing is that it's not just for Latin Americans, but for anyone who wants to learn. "For non-Latino people, it's just nice to get to know a different part of culture, especially as P.E.I. is becoming more diverse," she said. "We have lots of people from different countries come here, and I think that's really beautiful to have that now finally, and I think we can all learn something from the different cultures here." 'Don't be afraid' Lange also pointed out a common misconception: not all Latin Americans know how to salsa. One of Lange's students, Johann Lidioma, is from Ecuador. He came to P.E.I. in 2024 to study at UPEI and recently started learning salsa from Lange. He said the experience has helped him reconnect with a part of his culture. "I like that when I dance, I have the confidence and freedom to show out some moves, get to dance with other people, connect with other people, because when you dance, you actually get to know the other person," Lidioma said. More than that, he said salsa has helped him feel part of a bigger community on the Island. "I have met a lot of people, people from other countries, getting to unite as a community here in P.E.I.," he said. "If I had to summarize it with one word, it will be 'happiness.' It really makes me happy when I share this culture with other people, with the community, locals, everyone. I just like that feeling." For those who might be hesitant to start learning salsa, Lidioma has some advice. "Don't be afraid," he said. "When I started dancing, I didn't know anything. I felt unconfident about it, but when I took that first lesson, that first step, that really changed everything for me."
CBS News
4 days ago
- Health
- CBS News
Corn Succotash and Corn & Black Bean Salsa recipes
Summertime means corn on the cob! If you find yourself up to your ears in ears of corn, Chef Janet Loughran has some great recipes to clear some space in your fridge. (Photo Credit: KDKA) Corn Succotash 3 ears corn, grilled and cooled 12 oz lima beans (or edamame) 3 Tbsp olive oil 1 lemon, juiced 1 garlic clove, minced 1 tsp kosher salt 1/2 tsp black pepper 1 pint grape or cherry tomatoes, halved 2 scallions, thinly sliced 4 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled (optional) Using a large bowl and a small cup set upside down, carve down the cob to remove the kernels. *Freeze the cobs to use in a vegetable stock. Combine the rest of the ingredients in the bowl. Can be served hot, cold or at room temperature. Lasts in the fridge for up to a week. Corn & Black Bean Salsa 4 ears fresh corn, grilled or steamed 15 oz can black beans, drained/rinsed 1/2 of a red bell pepper, diced 1/2 tsp garlic powder 1 lime, zested and juiced 1 Tbsp cilantro (or parsley), minced 2 Tbsp olive oil 1/2 tsp salt 1/4 tsp pepper 1 jalapeno (or banana pepper), minced (optional) Using a large bowl and a small cup set upside down, carve down the cob to remove the kernels. *Freeze the cobs to use in a vegetable stock. Combine the rest of the ingredients in the bowl. Can be served hot, cold or at room temperature. Lasts in the fridge for up to a week.
New York Times
24-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Two Decades After Her Death, Celia Cruz Lives On for Her Fans
Celia Cruz reigned for decades as the 'Queen of Salsa,' with her signature shout of '¡Azúúúcar!' expressing in Spanish her music's brand of joy and optimism. Twenty-two years after her death, the Cuban powerhouse singer still captivates her fans. The petite woman with a raspy voice wore tight, glittering dresses and colorful wigs and danced in high heels while singing her hit Spanish-language songs such as 'La negra tiene tumbao' and 'Ríe y llora.' Born Oct. 21, 1925, Ms. Cruz began her career in Cuba in 1940 and continued it in exile, producing more than 70 international albums and winning multiple Grammy Awards and Latin Grammys. She moved to New York in 1961, and brought her musical Cuban roots and mixed them with Puerto Rican and later Dominican rhythms, helping to usher the birth of salsa as a popular Latino genre in the United States. 'When people hear me sing,' she said in an interview with The New York Times in 1985, 'I want them to be happy, happy, happy. I don't want them thinking about when there's not any money, or when there's fighting at home. My message is always 'felicidad' — happiness.' Ms. Cruz died in 2003 at her longtime home in Fort Lee, N.J., from complications after a surgery for a brain tumor. She was 77. Following a tour of her coffin in Miami, masses of fans honored her at a public viewing in New York City. More than two decades later, her message still resonates, and she remains relevant in what would have been her birth's centennial this year. She has remained specially visible in Miami, where many Cuban exiles and their children revere her, and the sound of bongo drums are heard in private and public celebrations. 'I see Celia Cruz not only as a legendary performer but as an enduring symbol of cultural memory, resilience and diasporic pride,' Karen S. Veloz, a Cuban American music professor at Florida International University in Miami, said in an interview. 'She stands as a cultural icon whose music traverses generations, political borders and languages.' And beyond Miami, Ms. Cruz has maintained a digital audience too, with more than 6 million monthly listeners on Spotify and her official YouTube channel garnering about 493,000 subscribers. Here are some of the different ways that the grande dame of salsa, also referred to simply as Celia by her fans, has been honored recently. The Celia Bobblehead For a home baseball game on May 14, the Miami Marlins gave away 8,000 bobbleheads of Celia Cruz as part of the organization's annual Cuban Heritage Day. The doll featured a smiling Ms. Cruz holding a microphone and wearing a blue ruffled dress. As part of the ticket package, the team sold commemorative baseball jerseys with her image that were designed by a Miami artist known as Disem305. The team also hosted Lucrecia, a Celia Cruz tribute singer, who threw the ceremonial first pitch and performed her songs. A New Mural in Miami Artwork in the Little Havana neighborhood of Miami captures Ms. Cruz's incandescent smile and her joie de vivre, with two portraits set to a backdrop in teal and pink. 'As an artist and a huge salsa and Celia Cruz fan, this is a huge honor for me,' its creator, Disem305, said of the mural, which measures 11-feet high and 45-feet wide. 'On the right side of the wall, there's a younger Celia with the Freedom Tower standing tall behind her to represent the Cuban community here in Miami,' he said, referring to the Miami landmark where many Cuban refugees arrived in the 1960s and '70s. 'On the left side, there's a portrait of an older, more mature Celia — the one that comes to mind when most of us hear her name — with her huge, contagious smile.' He said he was commissioned by the Marlins to design the mural and the commemorative jersey. A Commemorative Coin Ms. Cruz became the first Afro-Latina to appear on American quarters as part of the 2024 U.S. Mint's American Woman Quarters collection, which honored a diverse group of notable American women in a variety of fields. The U.S. Mint described Ms. Cruz as a 'cultural icon, and one of the most popular Latin artists of the 20th century.' The quarter's tail shows her dazzling smile as she performs in a rumba-style dress. '¡Azúcar!' — which means 'Sugar!' — is inscribed on the right. A Posthumous Award In April, Ms. Cruz was posthumously honored with a 'Legend Award' at the Billboard Latin Women in Music gala in Miami. A montage highlighted her early days in Cuba as she broke gender barriers in a male-dominated industry, eventually elevating Afro-Cuban sounds on global stages. 'Celia Cruz made her life a carnival with a voice that seemed out of this world,' the singer Joya said on the show. The Puerto Rican performers Ivy Queen, La India and Olga Tañón paid tribute to Ms. Cruz by singing a medley of her songs. '¡Qué viva la reina!' La India shouted to the audience and viewers. Celia on Exhibit From January to February, the Museum of Art and Design at Miami Dade College celebrated the singer with the exhibit 'Celia Cruz: Work.' The exhibit, which included videos, posters and Ms. Cruz's wigs and gowns, drew more than 400 people to the Hialeah campus, museum officials said. Pinecrest Gardens, a lush botanical oasis south of Miami, also remembered Ms. Cruz in January with a celebration that included a concert series featuring musicians. As part of the reopening after restoration of the Freedom Tower, which is operated by Miami Dade College, officials will host a Freedom Tower Family Day on Oct. 11 for visitors 'to experience Celia's story' through readings, art activities and performances. 'She is not only a global icon,' María Carla Chicuén, a college spokeswoman, said in a statement, 'but a cherished figure in Miami, whose life and legacy are deeply intertwined with the history of the Freedom Tower.'
Daily Mail
23-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Daily Mail
Hilaria Baldwin's fans are all saying the same thing as she shares cringey salsa dancing video
put her salsa dance skills on display in a new clip shared to her Instagram on Thursday. The yoga guru, 41, was pictured demonstrating her rhythm in her living room, with a softbox set up in front of her to illuminate the scene. Alec Baldwin 's wife unleashed her choreography in a pair of acid wash jeans, a colorful semi-sheer turtleneck top, and heels. In the caption she wrote, 'Blue shirt guy is my biggest inspo' in reference to a Russian professional Latin dance instructor, Ruslan Aidaev, whose dance technique recently went viral on TikTok. Fans in her comments believe the video is proof that the mother-of-seven is vying for a spot on the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars. From A-list scandals and red carpet mishaps to exclusive pictures and viral moments, subscribe to the DailyMail's new Showbiz newsletter to stay in the loop. 'I think all these videos lately are leading up to her being on DWTS,' one wrote. 'DWTS!!!!!?????' someone else asked. 'Yeah I could see her on Dwts' Are you going to be on Dancing with the Stars? 'Ohhhh are you going to do DWTS?!' Her husband, 67, appeared to appreciate the clip as he left a fire emoji. Hilaria also commented on her own clip, writing, 'Been having so much fun recently.' Viewers could possibly see Hilaria competing for the mirrorball trophy, as DWTS has only revealed two members from the upcoming Season 34, which is slated to debut in the fall of 2025. The two confirmed celebrity contestants are Robert Irwin, son of the late Steve Irwin, and social media influencer Alix Earle. Meanwhile Hilaria and Alec's reality TV show, The Baldwins, has not yet been renewed for a second season amid disastrous ratings and after it was blasted by critics as being a 'snoozy infomercial.' The Baldwins' eight-episode reality series featuring their seven children concluded April 13. Fans in her comments believe the video is proof that the mother-of-seven is vying for a spot on the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars Her husband, 67, appeared to appreciate the clip as he left a fire emoji Hilaria also commented on her own clip, writing, 'Been having so much fun recently' It was blasted by critics as 'a self-pitying attempt at image rehabilitation' following Alec's accidental 2022 shooting of his Rust cinematographer Halyna Hutchins. Christopher Stevens gave it one star out of five, writing: 'If this series is meant to make us feel sympathy, it has done the reverse. Last week, Alec Baldwin was just a has-been actor to me. Now I know exactly who he and his wife are. What hideous people.' The Guardian's Lucy Mangan also gave the series one out of five stars, writing: 'The Baldwins is dreadful, and makes the couple look likewise.' Alec's involuntary manslaughter trial was dismissed July 12 after he denied ever pulling the trigger on the revolver that fired a single bullet into Rust director Joel Souza's arm and punctured the Ukrainian DP's chest killing her, at age 42, in 2021. On January 9, Alec filed a civil lawsuit against the Rust case prosecutors, investigators, and commissioners for defamation and malicious prosecution and civil rights violations due to 'intentionally mishandling evidence.' Rust armorer Hannah Gutierrez-Reed has only six months remaining of her 18-month sentence in New Mexico Women's Correctional Facility due to the involuntary manslaughter conviction for her role in the shooting. Baldwin produced and stars as aging outlaw character Harland Rust in the controversial western Rust, which premieres on digital and select US theaters this Friday. All of the proceeds of the action-packed flick, set in 1880s Kansas, will go to Halyna's widower Matthew Hutchins (who received an executive producer credit) and their 12-year-old son Andros. In February, Alec and Hilaria talked about why they wanted to do their reality show The Baldwins. 'It was an opportunity for us to actually speak. It was a really safe space,' Hilaria told People. 'And I think it was also very cathartic, almost like a diary, during a very unsure time of our life. That felt both terrifying and like it could get us through day by day,' she added. 'Telling your story is one thing, and showing your story is something else. It felt authentic, it felt human. It felt very empowering,' she said. Last month, ABC announced they were replacing Alec with Martin Short as executive producer and host of their Match Game revival, which begins filming in Montreal this June and airs this summer. Baldwin hosted the $25K fill-in-the-blank panel game show, which originally debuted in 1962 on NBC, for five seasons spanning 2016-2021. Meanwhile Hilaria has been keeping busy with writing. In her newly-published motherhood guide Manual Not Included, Baldwin claimed that ADHD and dyslexia were the reasons she duped the world into thinking she was 'born and raised in Majorca, Spain' as far back as 2011. 'I have a brain that is one part English, one part Spanish, seven dollops of mom brain, and a heavy pour of distraction,' the Boston-born culture vulture wrote. 'If only you knew how loud it is in my brain at any given moment. I just existed in a land where sometimes I spoke one language and sometimes I spoke another, sometimes I mixed them and got mixed up, and I never talked about my processing differences.' Hilaria and Alec married in 2012. The longtime actor and his much younger yogi wife are parents to seven kids: Carmen, 11, Rafael, nine, Leonardo, eight, Romeo, six, Eduardo and Marilu, four, and Ilaria, two.
New York Times
20-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
The Rebellious Instrument That Gave Latin Music Its Swing
Ran-kan-kan: Long before I could name the source of my excitement, my body responded to the strident signature of Latin dance music. The cowbell strikes like a drum but rings like a horn, the high pitch piercing through salsa's dense thicket of overlapping patterns. Just when I feel myself drifting from the dance-floor herd, the cowbell summons me back to the rhythm's raw nerve. Musicians call this function el amarre, from the Spanish amarrar — to fasten, to moor, to seal the deal. A paradox, maybe, that the instrument that brings all the others in line should incite the most euphoric feelings of freedom. I'm already sweating through my silk, so why resist the cowbell's erotic revelation? When the fever reaches a certain pitch, complexity must give way to relentless repetition — one just-right note, catechized precisely like a prayer. Eso es. Just like that. Prayer, I learned recently, might be the right metaphor: The cowbell we know today is a direct descendant of instruments that spread through West Africa with the early iron-making technology of the Bantu migrations, and that continue to structure the diaspora's ritual music, from the double-mouthed agogô of Yoruba bembé ceremonies to the triangular ekón of the secret brotherhood known as Abakuá. Like a god, the bell lays down our shared timeline. The sharp attack puts you in your place — enter here, act now — amid the din of drums and dancers. The job of the bell, I've been told, is to stay steady. Maybe that's how these timelines survived the apocalyptic chaos of the Middle Passage. When diverse captives converged on the Caribbean, they sought out substitutes for the instruments they no longer had the freedom to craft. In Puerto Rico, they fashioned bomba drums from rum barrels; in Cuba, they turned the humble wooden crate, used to pack salt cod, into the cajón, whose special resonance later found a place in Spanish flamenco. Soon enough, free people of color gained access to forges for smithing bells from scratch, so I sometimes wonder if it was not only necessity but sheer virtuosity that compelled musicians to play most anything: hoe blades, machetes, paint cans and, yes, ranchland cowbells, struck with the handles of decapitated hammers. In New York City, the improvisations continued: Fania's Johnny Pacheco stalked the carts in Central Park to steal the copper cowbells hanging from the horses' necks. Eddie Palmieri, salsa's founding father, told me how the drummer Manny Oquendo would take his cracked cowbell to a body shop for repair: 'What is it with the cowbell?' the welder, used to mending fenders, finally asked. 'Well,' Oquendo grunted, 'that's what gives the swing to the band.' By the 1950s, Latin music had become big business, so it's no surprise the cowbell was perfected and mass-produced right here in the Bronx, by a Puerto Rican auto mechanic named Calixto Rivera: first in his apartment, then, after noise complaints, in a workshop behind Yankee Stadium. If you don't make the cowbell by hand, Rivera once told The Times, 'it doesn't go coo-coo — it goes blegh-blegh.' When I tell people I've been thinking about the cowbell, they usually laugh. I'm tempted to blame 'Saturday Night Live.' In a popular sketch from 2000, Christopher Walken plays a record producer talking Blue Öyster Cult through several takes of '(Don't Fear) the Reaper.' Walken's feedback is always the same: 'More cowbell!' Will Ferrell chimes away, switching his hips-don't-lie to the head-splitting sound while the rest of the band winces. Is the cowbell inherently stupid? Or, at least, unserious? Unlike the piano with its alphabet of keys, the cowbell is not well suited to storytelling. And unlike the saxophone or violin, it's not there for your sentimental education. If high culture tends to associate wisdom with nuance and restraint, then maybe the cowbell's demand seems shrill, even shameful. Plenty of people underestimate the rigors of rhythm. But in Latin bands, the cowbell is no joke: Only master drummers can touch the music's molten center. Lately I hear cowbell everywhere. It scores many of my favorite dance-floor jams: Marvin Gaye's '(Got to) Give It Up,' Aretha Franklin's 'Rock Steady,' Madonna's 'Express Yourself.' It's the first 20 seconds of the Sugarhill Gang's 'Rapper's Delight,' hip-hop's original breakout hit. Every time I hear its lucid signature, I'm back on track, alive to the music's next move. Cowbell can't tell a story, but it's the sound that allows us to sustain one. To listen for the links between mambo and jazz, salsa and disco, funk and hip-hop. To stay in sync despite the traumatic breaks of history. Tito Puente and Machito knew what they were doing when they played in 6/8, that old bembé timeline from Ghana. Those rhythms will find you whether or not you care how far they've come. I don't go to the dance floor to think, but the Latin music I love best is too complex for passive listening. When the flute comes in, do I move like a bird? Do I follow the long roll down the piano with my feet, or do I let it shimmy through my torso? Salsa confuses as much as it consoles. Sometimes the crowded sound seems to reproduce the bitter conflicts of migration. So when the cowbell announces the coro's call-and-response, we know we'll have to work for this feeling of togetherness. The music doesn't get simpler. The room doesn't stop spinning. But now, the god we've made — must make again, from stolen scraps — homes in hard. It grabs us by the guts. It won't let us lose our feel for mortal time.
