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But José Luis Abreu, a.k.a. Fofé, the singer for Puerto Rico's Circo, is usually right. He has the memory of a Sanskrit scholar--and the business sense of a Don King--to quickly spot and identify by name and befriend writers and industry people alike. And his megaphone, the same one he used for the cover of No Todo lo Que Es Pop Es Bueno ("Not Everything Pop Is Good"), the band's debut, is as important to the band as Michael Jackson's left glove was to him. They're often seen with it on the streets, onstage, backstage or in a news conference, like children playing with a new toy.
So far, Abreu's flamboyant style has worked just fine for Circo (the name translates to "circus"). The independent band (distributed in the United States by Miami-based DLN) is loved by critics and has earned Latin Grammy nominations for Best New Artist and Best Rock Album. Not bad, considering the band has no airplay and relies solely on its fiery live shows, word of mouth and, precisely, Abreu's work ethic.
"Ever since we started playing in our respective bands, we've gotten used to getting our nails dirty," Abreu says. "I was one of the guys stapling fliers, pole by pole. We're used to hard work, and the most important thing for us is to do quality work within our own infrastructural limitations."
He talks about each member of the Circo team, from the roadies to the distributor and manager, "who very dedicatedly organizes these showcases for us." He sounds like Colonel Parker, Don King and a Jehovah's Witness all rolled into one. It's easy to imagine him in an Almodóvar-esque never-ending acceptance speech, perhaps at this week's Latin Grammys, wrapping it up with, say, a high falsetto "Ave Maria," just like he used to sing in church as a little boy. Megaphone in hand, Abreu sells, sells, sells, with disarming charm, humor and good vibes. But beneath all the circo lies Abreu's three aces: He can sing, Circo can play and the quintet might be the best Latin pop-rock band ever produced in U.S. territory.
"There are bands that play, and bands that play," says legendary Mexican rock journalist Octavio Hernández, who seldom has kind words for the type of pop Circo offers. "Circo can play. They're top-notch musicians, and that [Abreu's] voice, man. You can't get much better than that."
And then there are the songs. Depending on the track, Circo sounds like the Cure--or anything from '80s Britpop--but just as you've solidified your impression of the group, you realize "Odiame" ("Hate Me," a thinking man's version of the "Lie to me/Tell me that you love me" stuff for which Enrique Iglesias is famous) has its base in a Cuban danzón, and that "Arrastrao" ("Dragged On") and "Historia de un Amor" ("Story of a Romance"), two classic boleros, are revamped, respectively, into carefully constructed electric Puerto Rican bomba and a midtempo, multilayered Beatles-esque melody that begins and ends with tango. Somehow, it all sounds "pop." Circo loves to fool its listeners.
"There is one thing we don't do," Abreu says. "We don't do Latin shit just for the sake of it. If we do it, it's because the song needs it. And we do it in such a way that people will like it, even if they don't know or like Latin culture. We're perfectionists, but not obsessed. We want to do things right, but the main thing is to have fun."
The band's dress code is part of the fun. Half of Circo is into the Mohawk thing, and they all wear colorful shirts, thick '70s ties and squared slacks. "That's our little visual thing," Abreu says.
It all started with El Manjar de los Dioses, an ambitious Puerto Rican fusion band that released two albums, both of which were overshadowed by Abreu's imposing presence, both live and in the studio. When Abreu decided to go solo, he took Manjar's Edgardo Santiago (keyboards) and José David Pérez (drums) with him. Circo's international debut took place a little more than a year ago, at the second Latin Alternative Music Conference in New York. Those who expected an extension of El Manjar's Latin pop-rock fusion were stunned by five kids who expertly mastered the art of going native while remaining, first and foremost, an edgy pop band that even your grandma could like. The power of Abreu, the songs and the tight band appealed to both fresas ("strawberries," a Mexican slang term that refers to pop's "soft" fans) and rockeros alike. Circo is an ambitious yet unpretentious band that offers a fresh, direct sound, but these boricuas--Puerto Ricans--also have the capacity to make magic, especially live. When Abreu begins to improvise and expand on his own trip, the band doesn't back away from the challenge; despite its well-crafted, radio-friendly (if ignored) songs, with Circo there's always the possibility of improvisational joy, especially live.