Cuban Hip-Hop Artists Moving Forward, Left Behind

By Brett O'bourke, The Miami Herald
May 12, 2005

Cuban documentaries typically cover one of only two topics: the way things were, or how things got to be the way they are. The triumph of La Fabri_K, Lisandro Pérez-Rey's Cuban hip-hop documentary, is that it dares to look ahead.

La Fabri_K is the story of hip-hop groups Doble Filo and Obsesión, which join forces to record an album and travel to the United States for performances in Miami and at New York's Apollo Theater.
The hip-hoppers come from the coastal town of Alamar, where - thanks to radio waves picked up easily from Key West - hip-hop has been embraced by a small group of young people.

Alamar is dirt poor. For a small group of socially conscience rappers, young Cubans with a stake in their country's future, activism is slinging street poetry about the realities of life.

Their music can't be the bling-bling fantasy of mainstream American rap. It's the old-school, bootstrap, class-conscious rhyming from which hip-hop was born.

``We know that we have the power through our words to change the lives of others,'' says Magia Rodriguez, who along with her husband Alexey make up Obsesión.

Yrak Saenz and Edgar Gonzalez round out the cast as Doble Filo, and Saenz serves as the emotional linchpin for the film. After the groups record their album and stage a successful concert at the Grand Theater of Havana, disaster hits: Saenz is is denied a travel visa. The film uses Saenz as its connective tissue, the strand that pulls the story back to Cuba when the rest are on tour. The phone calls from his friends in the States are heartbreaking. Rey, who wrote, directed, produced, shot and edited La Fabri_K, is a deft filmmaker, presenting the story in simple, straightforward style. His best moments come when he just lets the rappers talk, reflecting on their American experience.

On outside influence in Cuba: ``We have many unresolved issues here,'' says Alexey. ``But we are more than capable of resolving these issues ourselves. We don't need anyone from outside telling us how to solve our own problems here in Cuba.''

On Miami: ``I dunno, I guess I just imagined that Little Havana would look more like Havana,'' says Edgar.

On capitalism: ``There are signs everywhere for stuff,'' says Edgar. ``Everything seems so polished, yet there are homeless in the street.''

On censorship: ``Naturally censorship exists on the radio and on television and quite possibly managers of venues may censor artists by choosing not to book rap groups.'' says Magia.

On American rappers: ``They should sell some of their gold chains and help out those they left behind in the ghettos . . . give it back to the people. Otherwise what's the point of it all?'' says Alexey.

Sporting baggies and sideways ball caps and railing against the evils of the record companies, the Cuban rappers look like characters out of a P. Diddy video. But there is nothing ghetto fabulous about the ghettos of La Fabri_K. The members return to Cuba, to the dust and hunger of their daily lives, and to their continued fight for a better future, whatever that may be.