We felt an unforgivable duty to publish this interview with Eddie Montalvo “Iron Hands,” as it is Swing Latino update on the biography of a musician who is more than just a friend, a godfather; he’s family, the kind that gives you friendship, that fills you with conflicting feelings and leads you to relive wonderful and unforgettable moments.
He is a living legend of our Afro-Caribbean music.
We hadn’t seen each other for many years, so I wanted to share the time with him before he left Venezuela (he was playing on Saturday, so we met on Friday and shared some time with longtime friends starting at noon), before the show. The next day he would say goodbye to Venezuelan soil. This interview will be published in two installments, and here is the first one.
– How long has it been since Eddie Montalvo last came to Venezuela?
– Let me put it this way. The last time I came to Venezuela was with Rubén Blades and Son del Solar. I’ll call it Seis, because Son was with another keyboardist, Arturo Ortiz, Robby Ameen on drums, and two trombones, Reinaldo (Jorge) and Jimmy Bosch. That was the last time, many years ago.
I’ve always loved Venezuela, it’s the honest truth. I’m in love with Venezuela, no matter what happens. I’m always grateful for it. I’ve always had many friends here.
The School of the Street
– What was your first experience in music? Why conga?
– Well, when I was very young, my parents and I would go every weekend to a party at an aunt’s house. At that time, my goddaughter, I’m not going to lie to you. The gentlemen were always well-dressed, with ties, the ladies with their eyebrows done, their hair combed, a real formality despite their humility.
Everyone was dancing at that party, and Eddie Montalvo was banging on the tables until he could say no more. That’s how they got me two metal cookie tins, and it became my first instrument.
When I was five, I asked my parents if it was possible for Santa Claus to bring me a bongo. My parents were poor, and yet, on December 25th, a bongo appeared under the Christmas tree.
A bongo that didn’t have a key, a bongo that you had to put a fire under to get the sound out.
At ten, without lying to you, I asked them if it was possible for them to buy me a conga, and my parents bought me a conga that cost 50 US dollars.
As I grew older, I started crossing the street where there was always a party of rumba players. I went down with the conga, and they asked me, “Do you know how to play?” And I said, “No,” then they said, “Well, if you don’t know how to play, you can’t sit here with us and rumba.”
I went home frustrated with the conga line because they wouldn’t let me sit in and play at the party.
It just so happened that there was a conga player who played with Héctor Lavoe, with Willie Colón, on an album called The Hustler.
His name was Héctor Andrade and he had a nickname: Bucky. He saw me every day when I came down with the conga line, and it seems he felt sorry for me and said, “Come here.” I said, “Are you talking to me?” He said, “Yes, yourself, come here!” Bucky said, “I see you here every day, and I feel sorry for you because I know you love the conga line, because you spend hours sitting on the bench watching us; I’m going to teach you the first tumbao like it’s played in rumba, street rumba.”
Because remember, my first music school was the street. My parents didn’t have the money. After Bucky taught me, he said, “Go home and practice.
When you think you’re ready, come, but I warn you, there will be about five rumberos playing the quinto. If you get tired, you’ll never play here again.”
I went to my room and practiced. When I felt God tell me to come down, that you’re ready, I went down.
Bucky looked at me and said, “How are you feeling?” And I sat down to play the tumba’o. About seven or eight rumberos played by, and I was still playing the tumba’o, tired, but I couldn’t stop playing, and that was my first experience. I learned a lot by watching the rumberos on the street. That way, I prepared myself and was able to sit with all of them, play the first part, play the second part, play the third part, and then quintate. That way, I played the grade they wanted and went down every day to sit with them.
Formal Studies
As I grew older, in my last year of school, I saw they had a Latin orchestra at a music school, but honestly, all they played was a Latin segment, but it was all American music.
The teacher was Italian. I knocked on the door of that school, and the teacher in charge looked at me and said, “Can I help you?” And I said, “I’m here because I’d like to know if it’s possible for you to let me play conga here with the Latin group.” He said, “Oh, no, no, no, look, son, I have tons of conga players here. Everyone comes here because they want to play conga. Excuse me, come see me next year.” And so I wasted all that time frustrated because I wanted to play.
Time came and school started in September. I tried again, and the teacher refused again. So I said, “No, no, no, no, wait, you promised me I could play conga here.” And seeing my insistence, the teacher asked me, “Do you really play conga?” “I think so.” Then he said, “Bring me a conga that’s in that room. I want it to play me a merengue, a cha-cha-cha, and a mambo.” I played it for him, and he said, “Wow, you have good hands, you’re starting with the Latin orchestra here,” and that’s how I graduated from hig h school at 17.
From School to Work
At that time, I went to work at the stock exchange in New York, and I didn’t like it, so I left. One day, I went into a New York club, and Joey Pastrana’s orchestra was playing.
It just so happened that someone said to Joey Pastrana, “Look, you see that skinny kid over there on the corner, that kid plays conga,” and he said to the kid, “Tell him to come over here.”
The kid came up to me and said, “Look, Joey wants you to go over there on stage.” I replied, “I don’t know Joey. And you’re telling me Joey wants me to go over there when I don’t even know him?” “Well, look, go, he’s calling you.”
I went over there, and he said, “Look, and Joey said, “Do you want to play a number with me?” And I said, “I don’t know who told you I play conga. I don’t play conga.” And he answers, “But the kids here are saying you play conga.”
And because of his insistence, I played a number. When I played the number, he said, “Do you want to play here? Because my brother, Willie Pastrana, is leaving the group.”
And when I came to see you, at 17, I was playing with Joey Pastrana. So, from then on, I went with Tony Pabón in the protest. I was with Ernie Agosto and La Conspiración, with Adalberto Santiago, Los Kimbos, even with La Diferente for a little while, just for a while; with the great Héctor Lavoe, with Pacheco, with Pete el Conde, very quickly. Then with the Estrellas Fania, and those from Puerto Rico.
– You replaced Ray Barreto in Fania, hence the nickname Manos de Hierro? Tell us a little about your experience with Fania.
– Oh, because I always had heavy hands when I played. And they called me that name: Ray Barretto, “Hard Hands,” and I, “Iron Hands.” They were the musicians, and your dad (Ángel Méndez) gave me that nickname. I’ll never forget this. I forgot to mention someone, Willie Colón, who I also played with and recorded the album “Siembra.”
Ray Barretto’s Replacement
I can’t explain how I was able to make my career in music, because, blissfully, I was in the audience at Madison Square Garden watching Fania, and I never in my life thought I’d play with the Fania Stars!
Regarding the question about whether I reviewed Barretto: before joining the Fania stars, there was Johnny Rodriguez, El Dandy.
He left, and I joined. So when I saw Barreto wanting to return, I said these words to Ray Barreto: “With all due respect to you, because you’re an icon I’ve always respected, this chair, I was just warming it up, this chair is yours.” And he said to me in English: “Eddie, we’re going to split the show. You play half the show, and I’ll play half.” And I said to him, “Ray, this seat is yours. I respect it,” and he said, “No, half and half.”
We always had a tremendous relationship. I remember when my father passed away, and Ray came and stayed with me at the funeral home for two hours. I’ll never forget it.
And I’m telling you from the bottom of my heart, one of the things I hold dear is that when Ray got sick, honestly, I wanted to go see him, and they always told me, Eddie, you can’t go because they have him in intensive care and they won’t let you in.
I was always calling mutual friends who knew if he was coming out of intensive care or not. They would tell me, “Eddie, no, hey man, don’t come because you’ll waste your time.” That’s how I couldn’t see him in his final days. It was only when he passed away that I went to the funeral home.
The same thing with your father, you know, your father for me is the friendship, and I’m not saying this because you’re interviewing me, but the relationship, the respect I have for your father, and you know, I thank your father because he was the one who made us, and I say this, of course, God made us, and with all due respect, but when it comes to the entertainment side of things, your father was the magazine that everyone bought.
When I started out in 1977, coming to Venezuela, I met your father, Ángel Méndez, Swing Latino, with Fernando, the photographer, and the truth is that the friendship was never lost.
We’ll be releasing the second part of this interview soon.
Pónle Saborrrr!
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