The restaurant at the corner of 111th and 3rd was packed, with just enough room for the servers in their stereotyped get-ups to hip shake their way to the tables.

You'd have thought the bartender had slipped a CD into the player; every Buena Vista Social Club hit--"Chan Chan," "Dos Gardenias," "Candela"--spooled one after the other. With each sip of her mojito, the older woman in the polka dotted blouse and cherry-sized pearls danced a bit more disjointedly. The music moved her as if she was hearing it for the first time.

But I wasn't much interested in her.

From my place at the bar I looked at the musicians: at their hands, their eyes. At the way one plucked the bajo with disinterest the woman couldn't hear. At the fluttering movement of the drummer's hands on his congas, sneaking in a beat that wasn't supposed to be there. I looked at their bodies, all tall and lean.
*
Later, in a dim room behind the bar, I filmed while Francisco interviewed them. Free of the instruments--free of those particular songs--their hands were different... they were so very Cuban, animated and passionate. The men talked about their journeys, where they've lived, what they've played. They talked about their influences, about the music they listen to when they're alone, the music that breaks them open and then makes them whole again.

And it wasn't "Chan Chan."
*
The band got called back to sing "Happy Birthday," in English, but the trumpet player--also a pianist-- stayed behind. I was behind the camera but I couldn't help watching his eyes. I recognized the look--that long distance, half-vacant gaze of someone who's utterly aware that he's just doing what he's doing to get along, hoping that "for now" doesn't turn into "forever."
*
I have a way of turning simple moments into complex ones, of deconstructing apparently joyful scenes into little panoramas of hidden pain.

I've never been able to let go and be that dancing woman.

I've watched and listened too much for things to be uncomplicated.