Artwork: La Vieja Flores Reparto: Dancing this Son on the Malecón
For Jank, who saw it first
It's December 19, 2018, in Havana, Cuba. You wouldn't guess it, but everything is about to go to hell. An economic crisis unlike any in three decades, a global pandemic locking us indoors for two years, and social upheavals jolting a nation numb for too long—all are looming. But for now, an apparent bonanza reigns, and the most traumatic event is the sudden invasion of a devilish rhythm taking Cuban neighborhoods by storm.
"Ta-tá ta-uh-ta-tá, Ta-tá ta-uh-ta-tá…" resonates from speaker to speaker, balcony to balcony, bus to bus, as though a contagious virus had seized every sound system in the city. The corner of Benjumeda and Nueva de Pilar, in Central Havana, is no exception. A small, eclectic crowd gathers at the entrance to Galería El Oficio: a teenage BTS "army" member, with bleached, straightened hair and an oddly prophetic mask; two kids in faded, tight jeans and blazing-red SUPREME shirts visible from blocks away; a sixty-year-old man in beige trousers and checkered shirt, his expression that of a civil servant; a tall, tattooed young man with pierced ears; and a glamorous woman shimmering in sequins, ready to vanish into a nightclub.
They've congregated here, lured by the festive air surrounding an oddly named new magazine's launch. Few knew what it was really about—just that there would be music, reasonably priced drinks, and karaoke—reason enough to drift towards this tiny den. The assembly has a peculiar harmony, as if this eclectic mix only makes sense here, enjoying lukewarm beer and the cracked, unapologetic sound spilling from the speakers.
As karaoke heats up the night, hands fight over the microphone. The BTS "army" member boldly tackles a Rocío Dúrcal song; the SUPREME kids dare a José José number. Then, the climax arrives. As Bajanda’s first beats start, the small, sweaty room erupts into a chorus, unequal yet magnificent, belting out the reparto anthem by Chocolate MC.
At this moment, Galería El Oficio becomes a church chanting its hymn. The music electrifies the air, creating an irresistible magnetism. Here, lost amidst choruses celebrating streetwise cats and rats who rule the Malecón, I begin to understand that reparto is more than a trend—it's the music of these times, of my time. What is it about this deceptively simple sound that hooks Cubans so completely? What makes reparto fill us with such joy, such elation, in a country where freedom feels all but kidnapped?
***
The origins of reparto, as recounted by David El 22, aka Lobo King Dowa, to J. J. Curbelo, who passed the story to me:
During the pandemic, we launched a podcast called AM:PM Cassettesfrantically seeking ways to make lockdown useful. From the start, we knew we'd dedicate an episode to reparto, and Jesús Jank Curbelo had to be there.
When reparto was underground music struggling to break out of the neighborhoods, Jank was already following it. As others dismissed it as marginal or musically poor, Jank saw what no one else did. A refined journalist, committed smoker, and early-retired rapper, Jank has a unique sensitivity for spotting beauty and genius where others only see a blur. His insight was crucial for me to grasp what this new wave meant. Jank's appearance on Los Casetes de AM:PM offered the most comprehensive chronology of reparto I've seen.
Reparto, the last cry of Cuban popular music
Magazine AM:PM02.10.2020"To talk about reparto's beginnings, we must go back roughly twenty years when reggaeton's strength started rising in Cuba," Jank began. "Eddy K were probably the first ones here who transitioned from rap to reggaeton. They had hits like ‘soy el genio de la lam pam pam pam parara,’ and released an entirely reggaeton album [Aquí están los cuatro]. Yet, that reggaeton still retained rap's codes, adapted to a different rhythm, adding melodic elements."
Eddy K had a DJ, DJ Tony, who produced original music. That required knowledge and money—a drama," Jank recalls. "But on the flip side, other kids began creating music without resources." In the underground scene, young artists started sampling fragments of popular songs by Tego Calderón and Don Omar, using them as backgrounds for their tracks.
From among these enthusiastic groups emerged Femembe Records, the label that would produce stars like Elvis Manuel, Pipey, and El Micha. Elvis, with his distinctive nasal singing style, quickly became a model for other emerging artists.
Cuban reggaeton began to find its distinctive voice, and a young talent named David El 22 (later known as Lobo King Dowa) was set to play a pivotal role. Still a teenager, he began producing artists including a then-unknown Chocolate, whose first big hit, Para pa pam pam (aka El campismo), came out in 2010. Chocolate’s inspired decision to include handclaps with Cuban clave rhythms turned Cuban reggaeton upside down.
Something clicked between Chocolate and Lobo King Dowa. Lobo King Dowa knew his way around the machines, while Chocolate brought the ideas; their partnership seemed natural. At just 16 years old in 2012, David El 22 created "the pedal," the timba kick drum played in counterpoint to Chocolate's handclaps, resulting in the now-iconic "Ta-tá ta-uh-ta-tá." According to both artists, the first song to feature this "pedal" was Vívela, which included it in certain segments.
Though Vívela didn't become a hit, it planted the seed. A couple of years later, it was common to hear the pedal and handclaps in reparto choruses. Around 2015, the first fully formed reparto song emerged, combining the pedal and handclaps with a chekeré-like sound replacing the high hat. "The first song that had pedal, handclaps, and chekeré from start to finish was Ponte que estoy puesto by Adonis MC Represent and El 1yawo," Jank explains. "Although it never reached radio or TV, it heated up the suburbs and streets, as they say."
True consecration arrived shortly after with El pisteo, originally by Lobo King Dowa featuring Wildey, with another version by Wildey and Harrison. Its chorus, “Te cogió el pisteo oh oh eh oh oh oh oh,” was the first reparto track to truly break barriers, becoming widely popular beyond niche circles. The rest, as they say, is history.
***
Ninety miles away, oblivious to the karaoke orgy at El Oficio, Chocolate MC intermittently moves in and out of jail. Unaware of this specific party, he's well aware such episodes recur across Cuba. Since breaking through with Guachineo in 2015, Chocolate has reshaped the Cuban reggaeton scene, skillfully crafting songs that deeply resonate with Cuban barrio identity.
Like all pioneers, his best work is his influence. Chocolate MC defined much of reparto's codes: the brash, defiant attitude, the unrefined voice, proudly embracing marginality. He unveils a Cuba beneath masks and stereotypes, a nation of scarcity and dreams. This is the reparto nation, with Chocolate as its self-appointed president for life. What an odd habit we have of perpetuating dictatorships.
There's no better social portrait of contemporary Cuba than reparto's songs and videos. Unlike sanitized reggaeton, reparto retains its primal, subversive spirit, echoing champeta, funky carioca, narcocorridos, and cumbia villera. It belongs to the lineage of sounds marked by skin color, financial instability, dreams of quick success, and defiance of all academic manuals, needing no validation beyond bodily pleasure.
In less than a decade, reparto made us guachinear, walk expressways, and celebrate victorious crossings to the U.S. Its distorted sound—born of lo-fi limitations—has become creatively defining, the soundtrack of portable speakers citywide, the music energizing barrio parties and elite clubs alike.
***
In recent times, the closest thing reparto has had to a home is Rami Records, founded by Raymel Pérez in the upper floor of Ensenada #526, in the heart of Havana’s Luyanó neighborhood. From there emerged Wow Popy, Wampi, Fixty Ordara, and Ja Rulay—the voices paving new paths for the genre.
At 31, Raymel is one of the most powerful figures in Cuba's real "music industry." His talent for pulling the strings behind an artist’s career has made him an essential figure today. Like a tropical Berry Gordy Jr., Raymel knows precisely whom to praise, whom to ally with, whom to avoid, and especially which artists to bring together to create his label's distinctive sound.
He first signed Wampi, the sweet-faced kid who studied saxophone at a formal music school but couldn't resist the call of the streets. His talent lies in melodies and arrangements uncommon in Havana’s typically conservative urban scene.
Then came Wow Popy, a tough guy who reinvented himself and returned stronger. With an extraordinary gift for creating choruses that embed themselves in popular speech, Wow Popy captures phrases lurking in the collective unconscious and sells them as his own.
Raymel’s "trident" was completed by Fixty Ordara and Ja Rulay—two party incarnates, oversized adolescents seemingly indifferent to where this leads, as long as they can keep doing what entertains them. Watching them together feels like an aleph, revealing reparto’s infinite possible futures.
Two videos perfectly showcase their personalities and impact on Cuban youth. The first, Porno-Sotros, was released in early 2022. Cuba was emerging from a brutal pandemic lockdown, with restrictions bordering on absurdity that nearly devastated the mental health of 11 million people. The return to “normalcy” was like lifting a massive gate, sending people into a frenzy of living.
The video overlays chaotic shots of Wampi, Wow Popy, Fixty Ordara, and Ja Rulay, decked out with chains, caps, and sunglasses, performing amidst ruins surrounded by eager-eyed teens. It’s set in a neighborhood dominated by graffiti bearing Abakuá symbols (a secret male society of African origin), with a muscular brown-and-white rottweiler held by a heavy chain in Ja Rulay’s grip. As its title suggests, the song is lascivious—pornographic, some would say—a celebration of desire. It instantly became an anthem of what I call "pornoreparto," a reparto subgenre explicitly focused on sexuality, spawning two sequels (Por ustedes and Por todos).
The second video, Todo está OK again stars Fixty Ordara and Ja Rulay. It shows them first strolling through a Havana barrio, then performing in the courtyard of a solar (tenement). Their flashy clothing again contrasts starkly with the humble attire of accompanying youths. This video emphasizes naturalism—beyond the musicians’ outfits and color correction, it’s indistinguishable from everyday scenes. Curiously, amid an intense economic crisis, this track became the year-end anthem of 2022. Strange that we all sang "everything is okay" when reality couldn't have been further from it.
As they rose to fame among Cuban barrio teens, Raymel’s team found a second home four thousand kilometers away. Peru's audience—one of the last bastions of timba—once again showcased its instinct for authentic Cuban music, making Peru a frequent destination for reparto artists.
Fame in this world is fleeting. It’s really hard to make a name and make your mark; names normally disappear off the radar just as quickly as they appeared. Chocolate was a rare case. But Rami Records have come at a good time and knew how to play their cards right. Even though they aren’t the hottest thing around anymore (they are now competing with new faces, with names such as Charly & Johayron and Bebeshito), and the Trident has split (Wampi has a new manager, Wow Popy is supposedly in Miami), Rami Records and its team have laid the foundations so this genre can become more than a marginalized sound and begin to have real commercial success. Collaboration between salsa and reparto artists is a trend at the moment. There’s a freak making hyper-reparto at the minute. Five out of the ten artists and nine out of the ten most listened to songs on YouTube in Cuba are reparto. Just like one of Wow Popy’s most famous lines (“the bar grins and bears it, but it never breaks”), the genre is opening up to a field of infinite possibilities. managerRami Records and its staff have laid the groundwork for this genre to begin to be more than just a fringe sound and start to have a solid commercial base. Right now collaborations between salseros and reparteros are commonplace. Right now there's a freaky hyper-cast. Right now five of the top ten artists and 9 of the top ten most listened to songs on YouTube from Cuba are from repartee. In the manner of one of Wow Popy's most famous guidelines ("que la varilla se jorobe, pero nunca se parta"), the genre is opening up to a field of infinite possibilities.
Like many popular genres before it, reparto simply reinterprets, in a contemporary key, a theme always present in music: desire. It doesn't take much effort to trace the thread connecting "Que calentito, y rico está, ya no se puede pedir más" to "Se me sale la babita, yo no lo puedo evitar" and on to "Quieres que te lo meta, al berro y sin gorro." With salsa trapped in a creative dead end and propelled by reggaeton’s overwhelming success, reparto has emerged to reclaim Cuban dance music's genuinely popular essence—music from the street, by the street, and for the street. Is reparto the new son, marking the rhythm for Cuban music’s next century, repeating those century-long cycles we find so fascinating? Is a new El Manisero on the horizon? Our mouths and ears seem ready.
This text was developed during the Creative Nonfiction Lab organized by Revista Anfibia, the PhD in Spanish Creative Writing at the University of Houston, and the Master's in Narrative Journalism at Unsam between September 2022 and May 2023.
