After reading the varied Facebook tributes and posts, it is true that none of them appeared to 'absolutely' confirm Mr. Rodriguez' death with first-hand knowledge. Thus, an interested and well-meaning listener posted the following comment: "I can't find any reference to his death on any web search I've done. If he [Augie Rodriguez] is that significant, it would have been mentioned by now."
Or would it...? I certainly understand the assumption. In the internet age, when the slightest jiggle of Kim Kardashian's left cheek sets Twitter ablaze, it would stand to reason that - if an individual were truly 'significant' - their story would instantly be all over the web. In this case, the Rodriguez family appears to be taking the time they need to make a formal announcement about a deeply personal loss. But it is the latter portion of the listener's comment above which raised the intriguing question: Does media coverage truly equate with cultural impact, professional accomplishment or artistic skill? And how does the short memory of the celebrity-machine impact the measure of an artist's 'significance' when it comes to marking their passing - particularly as it pertains to performing artists of color?
In the context of the 1950's and 1960's, Augie and Margo were about as highly-acclaimed as a nightclub dance act could get. They first gained fame at New York's Roseland and in particular, the fabled Wendesday night Mambo Shows at the Palladium Ballroom. Studying both at Carnegie Hall and with the iconic Katherine Dunham, Augie and Margo left audiences slack-jawed with their distinct fusion of mambo with the precision training of ballet and modern dance - somehow also retaining the mambo's core frenzied abandon. As the Palladium's Wednesday shows in particular drew the Hollywood and Broadway celebrity set, it is accepted in dance circles that their work influenced Broadway legends-to-be like choreographer Bob Fosse (a fellow dance-school classmate). They helped take the mambo national with their appearances on The Tonight Show, Steve Allen, Perry Como and other top variety shows. In one particularly eye-popping vignette, Augie and Margo performed a torrid, dervish-like mambo on the rooftop of the newly-opened Havana Riviera Hotel, in a 1958 telecast of the Steve Lawrence Show. By this point, they were regularly opening for and performing in major revues with the greatest headliners of the day: Harry Belafonte, Liberace, Judy Garland, Johnny Mathis, Jerry Lewis, Lena Horne, Patti Page and Jack Benny. They were fixtures of the early 'Rat Pack' performances of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. In fact, Davis engaged Augie and Margo for twelve consecutive years as his 'Supporting Stars,' opening his performances around the globe. They danced by request at the White House for both JFK and Richard Nixon, and did a Royal Command Performance for Queen Elizabeth of England.
So, while not 'superstars' per se, Augie and Margo were very successful, highly-respected, nationally-known, and - as they literally introduced spins and slides that are part of the salsa repertoire to this day - they were definitely 'significant.' But in contrast to other disciplines, such as sports and the sciences, time has a habit of obscuring the accomplishments of performing artists - changing the narrative the more chronological distance there is from the era in which they made their mark.
When a sports icon like Mickey Mantle or Joe DiMaggio passes away, their long-ago accomplishments are allowed to stand on the merit earned in the context of their time. Appropriately, their achievements are celebrated as 'front-page news,' even when their 'statistics' may have long ago been eclipsed by subsequent players. Not so in the popular arts. For example: in the late-1930's and early 1940's, there were few box-office stars bigger than singer/actress Deanna Durbin. An Oscar-awardee with the largest fan club network in the world, in 1946 Durbin was America's second highest-salaried female (beating out Bette Davis for the top spot in 1947). If measuring her status within the context of her time (as we do for sports figures), her passing should have been front-page news. But tastes have changed so dramatically since the mid-1940's, and Durbin's light-operatic vocals don't feel 'relevant' to today's audiences and cultural arbiters. Thus, Durbin's passing in 2013 received only the obligatory 'tag-line' mention at the end of the evening news.
The situation becomes even more complex when it comes to yesteryear's performers of color, whose 'valuation' occurred during an era of overt and institutionalized racism and limited access to media. So rare were appearances by artists of color, whole communities stopped what they were doing as word spread that Chita Rivera, Barbara McNair, or Ricardo Montalban were merely making a guest appearance on a variety show. And when it concerned a person of color hosting a program, even a recording superstar such as Nat 'King' Cole experienced difficulty. With no national sponsor willing to stand up to the potential repercussions from Southern markets, Cole's show was cancelled just months into it's second season. As Cole famously quipped: "Madison Avenue was afraid of the dark." It's not that Cole wasn't a big enough star to warrant a TV show (he was); it wasn't that 'audiences weren't interested in the Nat Cole show' (the ratings were solid); but rather - in 1957 - the social construct of the era dictated the level of popular celebrity that even a superstar such as Nat King Cole could attain. As such, it also impacts our 'valuation' of these artists today (ie: if they were popular, wouldn't they have: made more movies; sold more records; headlined at 'X' club..., etc).
They say 'Hindsight is 20/20.' but I would contend our estimation of the past can be altered by which mirror you use, and the angle at which it's held. Today, it's too easy to forget the other factors which play into how we take stock of the artists who brought us to where we are. The commercialization of the popular arts can obscure the achievements of true pioneers, as they are being judged and quantified by a popular culture that has 'moved on'. Ironically, the advances that they helped to bring about can unjustly obscure their relevance to the very public that is the beneficiary of their artistry. That's why it is critical to continue to celebrate our icons and to keep telling their stories.
