Eddie Pamieri in Chicago, Illinois, June 27, 2016. – Credit: Paul Natkin/Getty Images
Eddie Palmieri, the virtuosic keyboardist and visionary bandleader who helped define and then expanded the aesthetic parameters of the salsa genre, has died at the age of 88. His death was confirmed by his daughter, Gabriela Palmieri, who told The New York Times he died following “an extended illness.”
A radical experimentalist who nevertheless remained faithful to the roots of Afro-Caribbean dance formats and their ability to stir both body and soul, Palmieri created what arguably stands as the most monumental discography in tropical music. Starting with his legendary group La Perfecta’s zesty debut in 1962, he explored salsa, Latin jazz, and boogaloo — borrowing liberally from classical music, psychedelia and funk, acid-rock and boricua folk. His 1974 session The Sun of Latin Music was the first album to win a Grammy award in the Best Latin Recording category.
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Born in New York City to Puerto Rican parents in 1936, Palmieri was influenced by his older brother Charlie, a pianist and bandleader whom he always referred to as “the true king of the keyboards.” The brothers would develop parallel careers during the Sixties and Seventies. But whereas Charlie favored a more traditional brand of salsa, Eddie showcased his lifelong rebellious tendencies as a teenager. For a while he dropped the piano and became a timbales player, only to return to the keyboards after getting tired of carrying his drums around New York’s tropical club circuit. Before forming his own band, he was also shaped by the flashy sartorial style of Puerto Rican crooner Tito Rodríguez — a major star from the Fifties mambo era — whom he accompanied on the piano.
An impulsive bandleader, Palmieri changed his sound, orchestrating style and session players throughout his career. He was also astute in his ability to turn the practical limitations of the time to his favor. La Perfecta began like a gutsy Afro-Cuban conjunto with four trumpets, until budgetary limitations inspired him to replace trumpets with the double trombone lineup of Barry Rogers and Jose Rodrigues. Known as a trombanga, this format revolutionized New York salsa in the Sixties. The booming riffs of the trombones left space for the rhythm section — including a rock-solid Manny Oquendo on timbales— to breathe freely. La Perfecta soon became known as one of the grittiest orchestras of the time. It helped that Palmieri’s repertoire was filled with self-penned hits, from the simmering montuno of “Café” to the raucous guaracha of “Muñeca.” Palmieri also had the good judgment of employing one of the most inspired singers of his time as La Perfecta’s vocalist: Ismael Quintana, who he met at an audition.
If Palmieri’s first four albums gave salsa fans a taste of his sonic revolution, 1965’s Azúcar Pa’Ti found him in total command of his craft. It opened with the solemn bolero “Sólo Pensar En Ti,” then burst into flames at the end of side A with “Azúcar,” a nine-minute epic of reckless salsa fever and one of the genre’s unequivocal anthems. Palmieri had test driven “Azúcar” during his live gigs at the Palladium nightclub, and relished the fact that it was particularly popular with Black dancers. Informed as he was in equal measure by jazz and Latin roots, it was only natural that he would find a way to coalesce Black and Latino dance music, confirming New York as a cultural epicenter of the time. In salsa lore, “Azúcar” is widely recognized as the first tropical track where the piano player sticks to a rhythmic tumbao with one hand while playing a melodic solo with the other.
Just like Tito Puente, Palmieri had a knack for incorporating the trends that emerged around him. But whereas Puente was happy to digest the new styles and play them with authority, Palmieri tended to both assimilate and subvert them. When the boogaloo fad threatened to bankrupt New York’s old guard in the late Sixties, he teamed up with producer Pancho Cristal and recorded 1968’s Champagne — probably the finest boogaloo record of all time — for the Tico label. Surrounded by Quintana, drummer Joe Cuba, vocalist Cheo Feliciano, and Cuban master Cachao on upright bass, Champagne was a commercial and artistic triumph. It also proved that Palmieri’s vision could thrive anywhere, regardless of generational context.
Around that time, he struck a sympathetic collaboration with American vibist Cal Tjader, recording two albums together — El Sonido Nuevo for Verve and Bamboléate for Tico — that showcased a more refined sensibility. As rock ‘n’ roll spent most of the Seventies expanding its scope on a limitless existential search, Palmieri followed a similar pathway. This was the decade of his grandest experiments: On 1970s Superimposition, he pumped up the lascivious Arsenio Rodríguez standard “Pa’Huelé” with a tight arrangement and a wicked, dissonant solo that posited salsa as a field ripe for progressive expansion. A year later, Vámonos Pa’l Monte, with Eddie joined by older brother Charlie on organ, proposed a return to the countryside as part of his ongoing socio-political awakening.
The Sun of Latin Music marked a complete reinvention: new label (Harvey Averne’s Coco Records), new lead singer (future salsa romántica star Lalo Rodríguez), a 15-minute long track (“Un Día Bonito”), a quote from The Beatles’ Abbey Road as a stately contradanza, and Alfredo de la Fe’s violin on the opening scorcher “Nada De Ti.” Released on Epic in 1978, Lucumí, Macumba, Voodoo delved even deeper into the Afro-Caribbean avant-garde. It was a sales failure, but Palmieri bounced back in 1981 with a self-titled LP known as ‘El álbum blanco.’ A masterpiece of symphonic salsa, it opened with Cheo Feliciano belting out a fiery tropical reading of the musty tango “El Día Que Me Quieras.”
The Eighties were relatively quiet for Palmieri. In 1992, he shepherded the debut album by Puerto Rican diva La India, and then, suddenly, retreated into Latin jazz. In concert, he would open most tunes with a lengthy solo improvisation, growling and grimacing, occasionally confounding his audience with obscure patterns and esoteric harmonic transitions.
After recording a strangely underwhelming session with Tito Puente — 2000’s Masterpiece — Palmieri returned with a concept that, on paper at least, appeared to be destined for failure: revisiting his early La Perfecta repertoire with old-school sonero Hermán Olivera, lengthier tracks, and a bigger band. But connecting with the hits of his youth had an energizing effect because both La Perfecta II (2002) and Ritmo Caliente (2003) showed the world what a 66-year-old maestro could sound like: The expanded piano solo on the revision of “Lázaro y su Micrófono” is lyrical and incisive. “Y así se toca, boncó,” the chorus sings after the trombone riffs on the bridge bring the house down. “This is how this music is played, brother. At this point, Palmieri seemed to underscore the paradox of the salsa genre: music meant for dancing and entertainment, but one that, at the same time, enjoys a privileged point of view when it comes to voicing out important truths about plurality and love, justice and philosophy.
In 2014, Palmieri suffered the loss of Iraida, his wife of over 60 years. The grief didn’t hamper his creativity, and in 2018 he released a lovely tribute to their love affair, Mi Luz Mayor, with guest spots by Carlos Santana and Gilberto Santa Rosa, including a torrid big band cover of “Sun Sun Babaé.”
Known for his relentless positivity, infectious laughter and eloquent speeches — in both English and Spanish — about unlocking the secrets of the Afro-Caribbean tinge, Palmieri was the last of the salsa giants from the genre’s golden era. He leaves behind a byzantine body of work that would take decades to decipher and absorb. In his hands, Latin music became unpredictable, and a little more dangerous.
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