In 1492 the West Indian island of Hispaniola became the first European colony in the New World, and its strife-torn history is directly reflected in its music. The Tainos - its original Amerindian inhabitants - were decimated by war and disease, and African slaves were brought in to replace them. The French then invaded the western end of the island (which Spain had christened Santo Domingo), renamed it Saint-Domingue, and turned it into a sugar cane plantation. One hundred years later the slaves of Saint-Domingue freed themselves, gave their territory the Taino name Haiti (“Mountainous land”), and drove out the Spanish from Santo Domingo. The Santo Domingans asked Spain to help them oust the Haitians, and the Dominican Republic was created. When Dominicans celebrate independence, it is independence not from Spain, but from Haiti.
Musically, these rivalrous neighbours have more in common than they like to admit - after all, the same influences were brought to bear on both. The only legacy of the Tainos is the “guira” - a “scraper”, which is often just a kitchen utensil - but the population’s African roots are still glorified in its ubiquitous acoustic percussion. Yet the two states’ dominant musical styles can easily be distinguished: while Haitian “compas” (a blend of Cuba and the Congo) has a hot, lush conviviality, Dominican “merengue” uses sparer instrumentation, and is infinitely faster on its feet. It is one of the most seductive dance musics in the world, so no one should be surprised that it is now all the rage in New York (where many expatriate Dominicans live).
This musical form is in fact an import from 18th-century Haiti, where the Europeanised mulatto classes indulged in French ballroom dance styles and where the most popular “danza”, with its added African rhythm, was called the “mereng”. (Today’s Haitians call it the “meringue”!) But if you listen to the Rough Guide to Merengue and Bachata (RGNET1039) you will hear what heady stuff the Dominicans have turned it into. The infectiousness of the music is matched by the delicate innuendos of the lyrics. “Te dare una robaita,” sings Antony Santos on the final track - “I’ll commit a little robbery” - this being his coded promise of sexual bliss.
