Gonzalo Rubalcaba

C aminos

1suite

Gonzalo RubalcabaC aminos1suite

1 Santa Meta

2 Alameda de Vientos

3 Via Prodigiosa

4 Ronda de Suerte

10:58

9:29

6:35

13:41

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1 Sendero de Aliento

2 El Hijo Mensajero

3 Destino Sin Fin

4 Sendero de Espuma

9:11

9:21

10:01

14:48

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“...it is precious in the biodiversity of world religion.”

Gonza lo Ruba lcaba

My point of departure for everything

is almost always the experiences I’m

having in life, on the path I’ve decided

to take. It’s a path of information, a

path of experience, a path of confron-

tation, and it often is a path full of

empty spaces. We don’t exactly know

what we’re about to see, and we’re

ignorant of what’s already happened.

We don’t know it all. This is what

makes me think that we should never

stop researching, searching, listening,

reading and being curious.

Yo casi siempre me lo planteo todo a

partir de las mismas experiencias que voy

teniendo en la vida, en el camino que

he decidido andar. Un camino lleno de

información, de diversas experiencias de

confrontaciones, y otras veces lleno de

vacios. Ignoramos precisamente que

vamos a ver más adelante, incluso

ignoramos en parte que ha pasado detrás.

No lo sabemos todo. Eso es lo que me

hace pensar que no se puede parar nunca

de investigar, buscar, escuchar, leer,...

mantener la curiosidad.

Yoruba

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PATHS

Even a casual visitor to Havana can observe how widely the African-derived religions are practiced there. The big three are Congo, Abakuá and Yoruba, but there are more. They are important as belief, and also as a high culture of systems of knowledge in Cuba, each with its own legacy: cosmology, language, deities, dances and music.

The most visible of these systems, and the one on which Gonzalo Rubalcaba’s Suite Caminos is centered, is the Yoruba religion (known by various names, including santería, or regla de ocha, or, in the 19th century, when the name “Yoruba” was not yet in use in Cuba, lucumí.) The last major African religious system to arrive in Cuba, it was transported there from the Oyó empire, in what is now Nigeria, after Oyó was taken down by an Islamic jihad in the 1820s and ‘30s. In the 1850s, when Cuba was the last place in the

Americas still receiving African captives, a wave of human trafficking is said to have brought entire villages at a time from Oyó, including, intellectuals of the religion. The musical legacy of the Yoruba religion is particularly brilliant – a great West African classical music, con-served in astounding detail – and has played a vital role in the continuity of knowledge that the religion embodies. Organized at a high level of complexity, it has been conserved with a sense of orthodoxy in Cuba by deeply commit-ted believers.

This religion – or practice, or system of knowledge – that came to Cuba in the heads of chained-up people has been maintained with great clarity, in a stunning number of variants, by men and women of humble means. As such, it is precious in the biodiversity of world religion. But that’s not the whole story.

La religión yoruba is not simply a feat of preservation, but a dynamic process that came from Africa. Much of the formalization of the Yoruba religion in Cuba happened after the end of slavery, implemented by free people in a complicated process that involved back-and-forth with the motherland, as well as with other kinds of influences. Serving the needs of its living com-munity, and constantly transforming through interventions by scholars, ritual experts (including musicians), and be-lievers that have fed back into traditional practices, the Yoruba religion in Cuba has diverged in many ways from what it has become in present-day West Africa.

Wherever there is a sense of African religion in the Americas, it appears as something in the process of continual transformation, even though the sense of an ancestral tie is paramount. This process of transformation has been

going on for as long as we know, always growing out of what already existed. The 20th-century Cuban scholar Fernando Ortiz, author of the first historical ethnographic work on Afro-Cuban culture as Cuban identity, wrote of transculturation: Cubans adapted African principles and practices to serve their needs. They did so over and over – during slavery, the independence struggle, the racist neocolonial republic, and in the postrevolutionary Cuban state and its associated expatriate diaspora.

Over two centuries or so of this process, what we now call the Yoruba religion has become Cuban, and this Afro-Cuban religion has in turn traveled to distant parts of the Americas and around the world, especially in recent decades. Everywhere it has traveled to from Cuba – New York, Miami, Puerto Rico, Caracas, Mexico City and many other places – it has continued to transform.

“This religion...has been maintained with great clarity...”

by Ned Sub let te

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PATHS

“The orishas are complex beings who embody natural forces...”

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ORISHA or SANTO?

Walking down the street in some parts of some Cuban towns on the right day, you might pass a house where a tambor is going on. If you were to be invited in, you would see a celebration going on in which the orishas (deities) are addressed through music. Managing the energy that calls divine forces down to “ride” the believer in a state of possession requires the knowledge of specialists: the olu batá, or drum master, and the akpwon, or ceremonial singer.

The cantos (songs) and toques (drum pieces) that call the orishas constitute a repertoire that is as rhythmically complex as music can be, with a steady flow of elaborate, subtle melodies whose twists and turns are reproduced with great consistency by different singers

In Cuba, under conditions of duress, the orishas assumed the images and names of Catholic santos (saints), hiding in plain sight. So, for example, the im-age of Santa Bárbara with her hatchet is understood to mean Changó with his ax. But even though people commonly refer to them as santos, the orishas are something quite different from saints. The orishas are complex beings who embody natural forces – Changó the thunder, Oyá the wind, Ochún fresh water, Olokún the depths of the sea, etc. – each with his or her own gender and personality, expressed in foods, colors, attributes, preferences, dislikes, songs, rhythms, and dances.

This kind of marginalized, subterranean ambiguity has been with the orishas all along in Cuba. When Pope John Paul II visited Santiago de Cuba in January 1998, he placed a crown on the head of the yellow-gowned figurine that lives in the hilltop Catholic church by the town of Cobre. It – she – represents La Caridad de Cobre, the protector of Cuba. John Paul was not attempting to endorse African religion, far from it; but in the eyes of practitioners, it was the orisha Ochún that the Pope crowned – the deity of eroticism and prosperity, who has her own Oshun River in Nigeria and is understood by santeros to be syncretized with LaCaridad de Cobre, complete with yellow dress.

Cubans go to a Catholic mass, then leave the mass and go to a tambor de yuka, or a toque de santo.

Los cubanos, lo mismo van a la

misa católica dominical, que salen

de esta para un tambor yuka,

un toque de santo o un guiro.

There is no central authority for the Yoruba religion, no Afro-Cuban Vatican. Some practitioners insist on the separ-ateness of orishas and saints, and will not call the orishas santos. But in any case, the orishas don’t lose their identity by being correlated with saints; they have plenty of selves.

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5

SUITE CAMINOS

Unlike in Haiti, where the spirits called lwa are a densely teeming otherworld, in Cuba the orishas are finite in number, far fewer than existed in the mother-land. But they are multiple: the orishas are not single beings, but are clusters of related figures. So there is not, for example, one Yemayá, but several, who are refractions of each other, each with her own name, song, characteristics, etc. The songs of the various Yemayás are sung one after the other in a kind of sacred medley within the larger ritual sequence in which each orisha is represented, each one with its own set of multiple selves.

These multiple selves of the orishas are very much like what in the Hindu system are called avatars. The Cuban word for this phenomenon is caminos – a Spanish, not Yoruba, word, meaning “roads” or “paths.” Even under theumbrella of the same orisha, these

caminos may have strikingly differentcharacteristics. Some see the Catholic syncretization as merely one more camino.

Bringing it into the domain of sound, Gonzalo Rubalcaba sees these caminos as “echoes” of each other – his word – that express the individuality of believers.

The caminos are the avatars, they’re the guidelines that echo through each of these sanctoral entities. It’s naturally very plural, the form in which we use this knowledge, for you, for me, for him, for her, for the other.

When we listen to this oddun the “letter” of divination that the babalao, or ritual expert, must interpret after consulting the oracle Ifá and when we hear what each of your santos says, it applies in a personal way. It’s not a static, inflexible, non-dynamic order that requires we all inform ourselves the same way going in, no? It’s an instruction that doesn’t lose sight of who each of us is, that is to say, of individuality. And that’s the concept of camino.

Los caminos son los avatares, son

los lineamientos a travez de los

cuales cada una de nuestras

entidades santorales hacen eco

de nuestro pasado, presente y

futuro. El uso de sistema de

conocimiento ha de ajustarse a

las circunstancias por las que

atravieza cada persona.

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“...the orishas are not single beings, but are clusters of related figures.”

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“...añá – a spirit placed inside the drum by its builder...”

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In Africa, different orishas had their own territories, their own rivers, their own drums. But in the compressed space of a sugar prison camp, or behind the doors of the cabildos de nación in Cuba’s city and towns, where the religion and the music kept each other alive during long years of captivity and persecution, the orishas had to coexist. It was apparently under the influence of the Catholic mass that a creolized ceremony emerged, in which Changó’s batá drums (though other configura-tions exist) had to serve for all the orishas, who had their own drums in Africa.

The oru, which did not exist as such in Africa, is a sequential salutation to the various orishas. There is an oru seco, with drums only, played for the orishas to the exclusion of the public, and an oru cantado of songs. Memorizing and performing this liturgy is a virtuosic

intellectual feat for percussionists and singers, requiring a huge commitment of study and practice. A drummer can learn by playing on unconsecrated drums, but he must be initiated before he can touch a drum empowered by añá — a spirit placed inside the drum by its builder, who is both an organo-logical and a spiritual craftsman.

Writing large-scale musical works in the form of an oru is a distinctly Cuban compositional genre that flourished in Gonzalo Rubalcaba’s generation. The late 1980s was a watershed time: the official atheism of the Cuban state receded, and was discarded in 1992. As the African religions exploded in popularity, the melodies and rhythms ofthe sacred Yoruba repertoire turned up both in popular Cuban music as well as becoming familiar in jazz, both in Cuba and internationally.

This is not a first attempt to bring the tradition to a symphonic con- text, a context of listening. In the 70s, in Cuba, this phenomenon was consciously brought about by Irakere and later in the ‘80s, other groups came up, like Afro cuba, Opus 13, or Proyecto, which I formed after I left school. The objective was precisely to establish an intellectual order in the creative process of this music composed of elements that were born of an attraction of folkloric elements, among other things. And I don’t want to simply go back to that idea, but to continue developing it, continue expanding that idea.

Este no es un primer intento de

llevar la tradición a un contexto

sinfónico, o de escucha. En los años

70 en Cuba aparecían entidades

musicales con tal necesidad:

“Irakere” y posteriormente otras

agrupaciones como “AfroCuba,”

“Opus 13,” “Proyecto” entre otros.

Pero digamos que las agrupaciones

mencionadas respondían a un ins-

tinto de conexión histórica con

excepcionales creadores cubanos de

principio de siglo, que ya proyec-

taban dicha estética musical, entre

ellos Ernesto Lecuona, Amadeo

Roldán, Alejandro Garcia Caturla...

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SUITE CAMINOS

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“...the orishas are hearing great music these days...”

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It’s not necessary to hear Suite Caminos as a dialogue between past and pres-ent, although that dimension exists. We can also hear it as a dialogue between present and present. Structured as a dialogue between two groups of musicians, it’s a feat of performance, composition and production.

In New York: a mini-orchestra with three horns (Will Vinson, alto and soprano; Seamus Blake, tenor; Alex Sipiagin, trumpet), guitar (Adam Rogers), bass (Matt Brewer) and Ernesto Simpson on drums, with Gonzalo Rubalcaba leading from the keys. Through its combo instrumenta-tion, Rubalcaba’s way of writing entails much orchestral-style doubling, thereby pulling a precise rainbow of fused timbres from this small group. Playing in Rubalcaba’s highly personal melodic and harmonic language, in rhythmic templates that converse with the

orishas’ rhythms, the intensely rehearsed group recorded at the studio called – a curious name in terms of this project – Avatar. (Rubalcaba’s 2008 album Avatar, a landmark of 21st-century jazz, was recorded there.)

In Miami: a group of traditional percus-sion and voices. The singers are highly skilled, active professionals of the Yoruba repertoire. Their harmonies are glorious.

The two groups’ paths interlock. An essential figure connecting them, a key musical facilitator of this album, is the New York-based Pedrito Martínez, who in recent years, while becoming famous as a percussionist, has brought the art of the akpwon to public attention in various high-profile collaborations, and who is also an excellent vocal harmonist and first-call studio musician.

On the evidence of this album, the ori-shas are hearing great music these days in Miami, where Rubalcaba lives.

Sonyalsi “Sonia” Feldman, whose soulful voice powers two songs (to Olokún and to Obatalá), is well known as a per-former and teacher of the repertoire, as is Philbert Armenteros, who does the heavy lifting together with Pedrito on the layered choruses. Mario Hidalgo, whose powerful song to the dead opens the album, had never recorded; Rubalcaba heard him at a misa in Miami.

There isn’t a complete sequence of all the santos, but with the santos who are being saluted, I have created a sequence that is more or less a religious se- quence. I see it as a suite, because I see it as a group of pieces whose discourse ultimately shares an idea. [That idea] was precisely [to express] what the songs say, what the songs defend. There’s a contrast of tempos, a contrast of spirits, a rhythmic contrast, a

formal contrast, a personalization of each of the pieces.

“Suite Caminos” agrupa una selec-

ción de cantos y toques predomi-

nantemente Yoruba y Arara en el

caso de “Via Prodigiosa,” a travez

de los cuales promueve un discurso

que defiende la evolucion espiri-

tual, el descanso eterno del espíritu

y su alzamiento; la educación,

conciencia y libertad de todos los

seres humanos, la salud y bienestar

de estos, el amor de y hacia las

madres, la esperanza, la fe, la

union, y la indetenible fuerza

creativa de la juventud...Una obra

musical llena de contrastes sonoro,

ritmico, armonico y estructural,

persiguiendo una personalización en

cada una de las piezas.

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SUITE CAMINOS

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“Every time I listen to it (Suite Caminos) I hear more.

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Sendero de A l ientoPath of Breath

9Coming together after intense rehearsal during the few days when everyone’s schedule could be cleared to coincide, the instrumentalists make this compli-cated music sound easy. Their tracks were mostly recorded live, playing those perfectly fused lines and those tense silences together in the room. The solos aren’t dropped in; you could never get it to feel like this putting parts down one at a time. We’re so used to music being assembled that it’s all to easy to forget what it means that this intricate music was played.

The two antiphonal groups of Suite Caminos express the same spirit as they flow in parallel; an endless flow of musi-cal legacy crosses paths with an endless flow of musical invention.

In the course of preparing these notes, I listened to Suite Caminos every night, more or less, for a month or so. I’ve

gotten used to what happens where, but I haven’t gotten to the bottom of it. Every time I listen to it I hear more.

Ned Sublette is the author of Cuba and

Its Music: From the First Drums to the

Mambo and co-author with Constance

Sublette of The American Slave Coast:

A History of the Slave-Breeding Industry.

Thanks to Dr. Julie Skurski for her com-

ments. Thanks also to Dr. Ivor Miller,

and to Ted Panken.

Aumba waori, aumba waori, awa osun, awa oma, leri oma leyawo, bobo egg un cawe . . . The ceremonial sequence begins with a salute to EGGUN, who are not orishas. They’re muertos – spirits of departed ancestors, who are the spirits nearest to us, living presences that help us in life and who are invoked before the orishas are invoked.

This first exposition creates a sound portrait of the overlay of religious systems in Cuba by framing traditional Yoruba musicians in the sacred space of Catholicism. The link is Rubalcaba’s organ, heard in a cathedralesque acous-tic, evoking the mystical Spanish church composers of the 16th and 17thcenturies. The multitracked coro

harmonizes in a style that approximates the parallel organum of Gregorian chant, while also evoking African choral styles – defining in the process a sound unique to this recording.

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3“Before doing anything else, you have to reckon first with the dead...”

Ante cualquier paso o decisión (santoral) hay que contar primero con los muertos, los espíritus, En Cuba la fe y practica religiosa se da de manera especial: no importando a cual de ellas estamos afiliados o identificados se establece siempre un puente o abrazo. Los que hemos crecido con la fe en la llamada santería, abrazamos y respetamos la iglesia y la fe católica y somos igualmente respetuosos de otros sistemas de fe. Esto explica que aceptemos el bautizo catolico antes del proceso de iniciacion en la religion Yoruba o Santeria, Palo, entre otras creencias y rituales africanos asentados en Cuba.

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E l H i jo Mensa jeroThe Son Bearing a Message

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Before doing anything else, you have to reckon first with the dead, with the energy, with the spirit of the departed in order to then focus on the santo (orisha). . . Because first the santo has to pass through the stage of being dead. I wanted to create a bridge – in this case, a sonic one – to tie the instrumental and vocal world that comes from the African tradition in Cuba to the instrumental world of the organ, associated with the Catholic ecclesiastical space. In Cuba there is a very special religious phenomenon: independently of whether you have a family heritage based in Afro-Cuban religion, there is also an embrace of the Catholic church. So we can’t go to santería or return to the African faith unless we’ve been baptized under the umbrella of the Catholic church. That’s how it works in Cuba. Not only within santería;

Now that the orishas are being saluted, the horns come in. The path-blazing Elegguá, often depicted as a mischievous child, who dresses in red and black and who is only rarely depicted in his Catholic identity of El Niño de Atocha, is always saluted first in ceremonial order before the other orishas.

When at last the voice kicks in (at 7:44), Philbert Armenteros sings not over church organ and batá, but over a funky Cuban bass tumbao with conga. At that moment, we are fully in the present-day sacred space.

The cantos don’t always appear at the beginning of the pieces. The cantos appear sometimes as the

first exposition of the piece, some times in the center of the piece, and some times almost at the end of the piece. This comes from an intention to follow not specifically religious templates, but templates that are authentic, musically speaking.

Los cantos y toques suceden en cada pieza de acuerdo con el plan estructural que persigo, y no hay un patron religioso en este sentido. Busco simplemente un balance y una unidad formal dentro de cada pieza.

3ELL

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74“We’ve never known exactly what Olokun is – woman, man, monster...”

Sendero de EspumaDest ino S in FinEndless Destiny Path of Foam7 Yemayá Asesú,

Asesú Yemayá, Yemayá Olodo, Olodo Yemayá . . . YEMAYÁ, blue-clad mother of the sea, associ-ated with salt water, took on great im-portance in the holocaust of the Middle Passage. She is one of the most popular santos, in Cuba and in the similar but different orixa culture of Brazil. This piece contains some of Suite Camino’s most pictorial music, with a timbral motif that glimmers.

Here is an evocation, this is the piece in which I most try to evoke something . . . which is, what’s tied to the sea, its force, its intrigue, its secrets, its pressure, its power, its sound.

Intento evocar el mar, su fuerza,

su intriga y secretos, su empuje,

poder y quizás algunos de sus

sonidos.

Nunca hemos sabido con exactitud

la identidad de Olokun-mujer,

hombre, monstruo, sirena, habitan-

te de las profundidades, de lo

desconocido, lo inesperado y

abrupto.

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From the depths of the ocean, OLOKUN, the protector of Benin City, is unknowable. The operative principle in this piece, the longest of the suite, is that of surprise. The beginnning recapitulates the church organ before setting out for the unknown. Sonia Feldman’s voice seems almost bluesy, but that’s also the result of the harmonies Rubalcaba nails it with.

We’ve never known exactly what Olokun is –woman, man, mon- ster, or what. And that condi- tion of the depths of the sea is surprise. You run into something you never imagined you’d en- counter, you run into unexpected, abrupt changes.

OLO

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YANSÁ / OYÁ, the fierce female war-rior, guardian of the cemetery, creator of storms. Features guest guitarist John McLaughlin, who blows up an electrical storm, and the unmistakable voice of Pedrito Martínez.

Not all the drum language on this album is Yoruba; in this piece, the Yoruba mel-ody rides a 6/8 palo (Congo) rhythm – Congo is arguably the deepest-rooted of African identities in Cuba – and uses a conga drum. This is one of the secrets of Cuban music: though highly differen-tiated in its varieties, it’s all superimpos-able, as indeed are the religions.

This is the edgiest use of timbre in this group of pieces. I was looking for that flash, that power Yansá has of moving the

winds with total irreverence, to install that as the spirit of the piece.

Esta pieza quizás sea timbrica-

mente la mas atrevida. Busco el

destello, la irreverencia del viento,

su aparente desordenado

desplazamiento.

Alameda de VientosSanta Meta

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Holy Goal Grove of Winds

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Akete oba oba seniyé, baba yokodara, obanla ese, obanla ese, baba funmiyale . . . OBATALÁ is the sober master of justice and the law, the wearer of white who can come down to any believer’s head no matter which orisha acts as their guardian angel. Some scholars have suggested that the figure of Obatalá is a syncretization (the combin-ing of elements from different belief systems) that took place in Oyó with Islamic knowledge systems (Obat Allah).

Even though there are various Obatalás with different person- alities, I’ve always understood Obatalá as something lordly, majestic, that has the capacity to dictate rules of order, balance, and justice. This is probably the

most orchestral piece of the suite. Because I see Obatalá as the conductor of the orchestra – the one who directs, who says, this goes here, this there. The one who says, this is the best way to say it, this is how to put things in order.

Independientemente de la diversi-

dad de Obbatala, para mi es una

representación señorial, magistral,

justiciero. Obbatala lo veo como el

conductor de la gran orquesta...

une, organiza, tranquiliza, y

trasmite ideas y sentencias de

manera virtuosa e inteligente.

Probablemente sea esta pieza

la de mas tratamiento orquestal.

OB

BA

TA

LA

“I see Obatalá as the conductor of the orchestra – the one who directs...”

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17“Musically this could be a connection I don’t yet understand.”

Ronda de Suer teVia Prod ig iosa

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Prodigious Way Roundabout of Fortune

Bejila omo edun bejila omo edun beji bejila ambeku yare . . . The IBEYI son dos jimaguas – they are twins, which have a special significance in Yoruba belief. The twinning is embodied here by the pairing of Pedrito Martínez and Philbert Armenteros’s voices. Then there’s a sudden intervention . . .

There’s a tune that appears suddenly as a theme that I realized later was a little Arabic- sounding. I don’t know why. I’ve tried in some cases to make a connection, but a con- nection that contrasts, not a con- nection where the principal idea of the song remains, but an idea that contrasts with the songs.

And in this case, I found myself in a musical language of Arabia and the east. I don’t know why. Inspiration, intuition – I can’t explain it. Musically this could be a connection I don’t yet understand.

Melodicamente esta pieza

tiene un aire Arabesco sin que haya

sido un propósito consciente...

algarabia, goce, talante festivo,

bulla y celebración... Rasgos

estrechamente ligados al espíritu

de los Ibeyi, los Jimaguas.

This movement is built on a rhythm from the Arará (Dahomeyan) repertoire. ASOJANO is the figure who came from Dahomey to Yorubaland, there to be known as Babalú-Ayé, who helps the sick. He is usually referred to in Cuba by his Catholic name, San Lázaro.

The rhythmic part that accom- panies the cantos is a hybrid of Arará, rhythmically speaking... with the presumption on my part, of introducing into this Arará system, rhythmically speaking, other elements that don’t have – not that I’m aware of, anyway – any direct contact with another Afro-Cuban tradition. I mixed the acoustic instruments playing Arará rhythms with electronic

percussion, some of which I played. Harmonically and in its dynamic approach, it might be the most abstract of the pieces.

Quizas la mas abtracta de todas...

Existe en ella un abrazo entre

elementos ritmico - percusivo Arara

y otros imaginarios generados por

medios electrónicos. San Lazaro, el

milagroso, conocedor de todas las

situaciones extremas que nos ofrece

la vida.

SAN

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CREDITS

Gonzalo Rubalcaba – Piano on all selections except 1, synths on all selections, palmadas and tambor on selection 7

Matt Brewer – Upright bass on all selections except 1

Adam Rogers – Guitars on all selections except 1 and 6

Ernest Simpson – Drums on all selections except 1

Gary Galimidi - Electric Guitar on selection 5

Will Vinson – Alto Sax on selections 2,4,5 and Soprano Sax on selections 6,7 and 8

Alex Sipiagin – Trumpet on selections 2, 4, 5, 6 and 8. Flugelhorn on selection 7

Seamus Blake – Tenor Sax on selection 2, 4, 5, 6

Pedrito Martinez – Lead Vocals on selections 6 and 8 and chorus on all selections. Percussion on all selections and palmadas on 7

Philbert Armenteros – Lead Vocals on selections 2, 3,7,8 and chorus on all selec-tions. Percussion on all selections except 3

Mario Hidalgo – Lead Vocals on selection 1

Sonyalsi “Sonia” Feldman – Lead Vocals and Chorus on selections 4 and 5

Special Guest: John McLaughlin – Electric Guitar on selection 6

James Anderson Recording Engineer

Akihiro NishimuraAssistant Recording Engineer

Mario Garcia Haya, Gonzalo Rubalcaba & Gary GalimidiEditing

Gonzalo Rubalcaba & Gary GalimidiMixing

Katsuhiko Naito Special thanks for mixing guidance

Alan Tucker, Foothill DigitalMastering

Dayne Dupree Graphic Design, 5passion Design

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All selections written, arranged, produced and directed by Gonzalo RubalcabaVocal segments based on traditional compositions