Brighton is proud of its diversity, you can find pretty much anything going on. Musically it's all happening- rock, pop, jazz, country, flamenco, ska, samba etc. So with the wealth of talent buzzing around if you had the inclination to form a salsa band you would think that it would be easy- Wrong! Yeah ok, get together with a bunch of friends who own various instruments and muck about playing Latino style music, great fun- it's a hobby! Now supposing someone wanted to put together a really tight exciting salsa show. Achieving this is going to be a lot more difficult. You will need: -

1. A small army of musicians who are not only excellent but are also dedicated to the understanding of the mechanics that drive the rhythm and melody of latin dance music.
2. Sexy Spanish speaking singers with the ability to dance.
3. Time and patience to develop the concept.
4. Money to launch
5. a. Image
   b. Transport
   c. A personal address system
6. Enough gumption, energy and determination to take the helm and navigate the craft through a sea of time wasters

Well! There's this bloke called Dominic David, and he's done it.

2008 AD and the definitive line up of the South's finest salsa outfit is at last coming to light. Bouncing audiences of the wall and delighting the pleasure seekers with sets to make em sweat. Dominic David has stuck by the ugly duckling for six years and has nurtured her into the going concern that is Bacalao. Things were not always the same. At conception a few podgy jazzers, phat funksters and ska faces were called together by Rico Sharpe, the type of neurotic non-talented sociopath that raise their ugly heads on every music scene from here to eternity. Our band of wastrels started copying (ne murdering) some of those tunes you find on salsa compilations at the back of the collection. To make matters even more heinous the shambolic rehearsal band of fakers went out and inflicted themselves on the innocent public. There really should be a law against this sort of de-markation.

Like most university cities the ratio of the ethnic drum bashers is disproportionate compared to the local population but from the mire of djembe bashers and bongo beaters, you will inevitably discover some dedicated followers of passion for el ritmo. And our anti-heroes of salsa pretentiousness were very lucky to hook up with three fine percussionists- Scott Arnold on bongo, Chris Taylor at the timbales and the aforementioned Dominic 'Taffy' David occupying the conga seat. The latter being an aficionado de salsa brought a knowledge and sense of commitment, and thus the first awkward steps were witnessed. The percussionists started to groove the ne'er do wells into some kind of entertainment order. Along with burgeoning trumpet maestro Jon Atwood and the hit or miss sax sidemen, something was starting to ferment. I will admit that, attending a gig to see another band where our fledglings were co-incidentally playing, I found myself quite charmed by the happy go lucky carnival sound.

Or should I say I wasn't tempted to pull out my ouzi and spray them. And so they carried on for a couple of years, lucky, in that anyone who was booking them, knew doodley squat about salsa . Inevitably, and similar to any parochial music combo the political infighting, ego bitchiness and lack of clear direction almost lead the Mufios to dodo land, which, even I will admit, would have been a pity. You see, three other local neo-latino shambossa, Mamboo Jamboo bands had started purveying their own brands of mediocrity and the anti-heroes were capable of blowing them out of the puddle. Fortunately for everyone the founder member died of a rare tropical in-growing hair disease and local music lovers gathered together to dance on his grave. Shortly after this further rejoicing was in order when, unbelievably, the co-founder committed hari-kari with his banjo. Taffy David was at last captain of the ship. His inexperience was balanced by his shining enthusiasm and natural ability to organise and motivate the rabble. He set up a club night 'Globenation' and with precious little help put on some damn fine nights, one of which was something of a belle a bete affair. Somehow two fine musicians had been cajoled down from that big London place to bolster the ranks. Nuyorican trumpet Don 'Joe de Jesus' and the inspirational Cuban star of violin that is 'Omar Puente' looked like the cruel hand of fate had served them with a retribution summons for past sins. They struggled to make it all sound half decent and one can only imagine their despondency and cursing as they drove home. I believe Joe moved back to New York shortly thereafter and it's best you draw your own conclusions as to the reasons for his exodus.

The band were on their second helping of piano players and with the departure of the second, who in their right mind would take on the daunting task? Enter 'Diego Monsalve', a Colombian gentleman with just the right amount of skill and temperament to fill the situation vacant. But, alas inexperience still prevailed and a hapless bunch of shouters and croakalists turned up late for the wake and were drafted in to front the conjunto and the beast lurched off on another demolition derby. The worst event saw them careering into vocal supremo 'Osvaldo Chacon' leaving him badly bruised. Fortunately he was strong enough to bounce back, But the nice people at the Casablanca club couldn't let themselves be libel for this sort of terror again. The plug was pulled and the lights went out over Bacalaosville.

Now! As the oirish say, 'ya always have a bit of good luck wit yer bad luck!' what with percussionists coming and going, or not even bothering to turn up, something truly remarkable happened. Will Fry, a 17 year old percussion prodigy needed somewhere to vent his teenage timbale rage and at this point the story starts to get a lot happier. David, Fry and Monsalve, using their combined tenacities moulded the re-incarnated Bacalaoes into a new shape and those Pescadoes leapt awkwardly upstream, hoping to be hooked and served on a bed of fluffy rice with salsa sabor. Taffy conguero had to get some gigs. The horn section were becoming disgruntled at the apparent lack of venues where they could earn a few beer vouchers for their honking and wailing. Threatening to disband and return to their true professions as bankers, book cookers and wheel chair pushers! Que pena!! How sad! Because they had stuck by the monster for sometime now and law of averages would determine that they would get some things right some of the time. Dominic managed to get them a gig- the last gig in town. A late night drinking haunt on the back streets of oblivion.

A Monday night session called 'Roy's Jazz thing' run by congenial impresario 'Roy Gee', who, luckily for the band, is a very good chap. He said 'ok I'll let you play, but please don't upset my regulars'. The Hanbury Ballroom is that typical nite spot where, after elevenses, alcohol, loud jibber jabber and chinking of glasses vie for superior noise level versus the musos. Due to lack of interest on this particular night the band were winning. Taffy and Superfry were hammering down some wicked beats- sadly not at the same time. The horn section became an elastic band unto themselves, Monsalve was struggling against a beached whale of backing vocals. The ever solid bass man 'Ian Trice' was trying to hide behind the PA and the whole thing was coming across like yellow bird up high in banana tree. Once again I was tempted to get the shooter from the motor. Oh by the way, I was party to this debacle for the same reason as the other dozen or so winos and dipsos in attendance who didn't have to work the next day. Sufficiently swallied, I started to do my impersonation of a bad salsa dancer with the page three stunna I was knocking about with at the time.

Out of the melee I noticed something really genuine happening, albeit mutantly embryonic, like the baby in Eraserhead, one was feeling sympathy with the horror. Over the next few months Fry and David got tough and sent the band back to salsa boot camp. This regime proved too much for the stalwart bass man and he flew the coop for his much easier career of teaching kids! Another salsa poseur who had been trying his luck in Spain and had returned with his tail between his legs was lurking in the shadows. The bongo seat was unoccupied and frankly the rhythm section needed a good man with a cowbell. Fry encouraged him to get onboard the good ship Bacalao and so bongo, vocalist, clown Bernado Calavera was signed up. A few days later the lords of karma must have got out of the right side of bed and bass hunk 'Simon C Russell' was truly wafted in from paradise.

The band elevated their sound another few notches as Russell quickly set about learning the pad and honing the tumbao. The horn section, realising this was becoming more than just something to do on Tuesday night, upped their ante. I was beginning to hear through the grapevine of Brighton's cafˆ© society that the Bacalaoes were preparing to enter the big grown ups arena through the world stage door. Don't believe the hype I thought, as I eagerly purchased my ticket for a tsunami benefit at the fantastic Komedia. The evening was organised by entrepreneur and man about town 'Izi Muraben'. By the time of the gig the band had been blessed with more good fortune in the shape of trombone and musical arranger 'William Rumfitt'. He had been kicking the horn section in to shape and with the addition of Colombian singer/sculptor, front dude 'Rafael Berrio' this promised to be a good night.

And so, there I was, like a Haji, receiving a spiritual cleansing at the banks of the Ganges. I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. What a sound and what a show! There was the horns sounding like top New York session men, with the addition of Rumfitt, top C splitting Andy ... and the always exquisite 'I got the music in me'-'Julian Nicholas'. I was just about brought to my knees orgasming. Hey ok, I'm exaggerating, some elements of the set were still a bit rough, but that kind of rough that you love in a new band. The front team of Berrio, Calavera and Deb Montuano had style and harmony and were busting moves straight outta the salsa manual. Monsalve hoisted the lateen sail and the rhythm section spliced the mainbrace as they rounded Cape Horn and set course for the Caribbean.

A great deal of money and positive vibes were raised and Bacalao were rebooked for the Komedia summer party. Shortly after David and Calavera set about organising the infrastructure and drawing up the charter. It was important to recognise the full potential of this mission. To compliment the Bacalao mother ship, a smaller, more portable vessel was constructed, 'Cuatro Monos'. A five piece that squeezes into areas too small for Bacalaoian proportions. Carrying a repertoire derived from the early son period, through the Buena Vista Social Club and beyond.

Dominic David a.k.a 'DJ Bungeroosh' has already established himself as an international DJ often working alone but also supporting the band and other top artistes (Salsa Celtica, Sierra Maestra, Amparanoia, Los de Abajo etc). He is a fine exponent of bop til you drop world music sets.

Amongst its ranks Bacalao also boasts an impressive array of music and dance instructors and enjoy imparting their knowledge in many different environments.

So that's the advertising bit done with, back to the conclusion of the story...

Some reinvestment has been necessary for the equipment, image and not least a gig diary and the satisfaction of ever-frequent entries into it. This keeps even me happy, as I have been drafted in as driver/technician and ambient guru. And so! Regularly and merrily we trundle off to entertain at clubs, smart dos, art centres and fiestas playing salsa to a broad spectrum of peopleoides of all ages. Apart from the odd bitter dispute about what particular shade of red shirt is acceptable or who's got the company hair gel, all seems well. But who knows! Will ego cast a dark cloud over the proceedings? Perhaps success phobia, apathy, the inland revenue or the wrong shoes may bring the downfall of this phenomenon ... ?