Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

the neighbors voices climbing out of windows left and right.

Is that you Tito?
Put down those pots and pans.
Make better use of those hands.
Don't you know those hands were made for working?
Follow your father to his factory grave shift,
Make razorblades to sell.
We'll always have hair on our faces.

Is that you Tito?
Knock off that racket.
Here I am trying to sleep
And you've got my feet to moving.
The night was made for dancing Tito,
And dancing was made for Harlem,
But that's bastante on a Wednesday mijo.

The young king packs up his studio,
Whistling dixie like she's never been whistled before.
Twirling the melody from royal lips,
Showing her how to use those God given hips.
Where did you find that groove you in your neck?
And do the words Puerto Rico still give you the chills?

You have walked on too many streets in New York City
And the Afro-beat is shacking up with the Cuban.
You can hear their children playing in the barrio allá,
And aquí they're blowing horns of imagination.
Make those wooden sticks tap your telegram, Tito.
Let the world know about this message brewing inside you.
They hate.
They yell.
They love to see you dancing,
But your ankles told you that wasn't right for you.
Your hands never have been able to keep still.
Maybe it's because they feel the future.
Do you realize where your bridge will lead?

You are the future Tito.
Do what you got to do to be where you got to be.
Play in Uncle Sam's band but don't you go to Normandy.
Follow your hands back to the big apple,
Take a bite out of this place they call Juliard.
When you sleep at night are they still screaming…
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go somewhere where the floor is on fire
With the fusion of jazz and samba.
Make it bigger Tito until it looks like it did in your dreams.
Pick up those sticks and mata los timbales.
Have the decency to wink when they name you king.

What is it that you mixed in that ***?
Your alchemy giving birth to new species.
Have mercy Tito.
Your music is feasting on the ears of the public,
Your hands are drumming on the ecosystem.
They call it salsa, and you laugh
Because they can't taste the carne.
Shine those pots and pans.
Tip your hat to Spanish Harlem,
Where windows stay open to let the dreamers dream big
And the red brick walls are soaked with memories.
Babarabatiri Tito,
Teach the world how to dance.

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

a legend.

I was born in the waves of music
so long ago now
when the music was faint.
barely audible almost silent.
I was a accident a beautiful one
but still an accident.
She was a concert pianist
he was a guitar player in a rock band.
they should have hated each other
but that's where I came in
they didn't.
her father was a control freak
all he could see was her career.
after my parents met
it was something at first sight.
They slept together
on a bench on a new York rooftop.
I guess you could say
that's where I came in.
Her father took her away
to her recital in California.
she did not even know his name.
but I found out later
she never married
nor did he.
When Mom found she was pregnant
her father said it must be adopted.
I became an it instead the baby
or my grandson or even the boy.
Mom had an accident
after the news she was
to put me up for adoption.
She ran into the street
and a bike courier hit her hard.
I was born
but her father
I still cannot call him gandfather.
forged her name on adoption papers.
when she woke up in hospital
he said the baby was lost.
that I did not make it.
I was put into the orphanage.
I never got adopted
I guess I was bit weird.
I listened to music everywhere
in the grass the street the wind.
and I knew somehow
She was out there.
I could feel it.
I became a musical prodigy at seven
I could write music without lessons.
I could play any instrument
you threw at me.
the nuns at the orphanage
sent me to juliard.
I was their youngest student at nine.
Then her father confessed
what he had done on his deathbed.
Mom searched and searched
until she released the adoption papers
with the forged signature.
she saw my photo for the first time.
she said that's him.
at juliard I wrote a symphony.
it was put forward to play
in central park for best new composers.
The moon played
its music loud that night
The park was full
and she was playing
the concert piano.
when my music played
it awakened in her heart
I could see her feeling it
she felt me.
She felt my music.
She felt her son.
The concert finished
they called me to the stage
to take a bow.
but she came to me
in her beautiful gown.
she was so pretty.
she held me in her arms
I felt for the first time
the softness of my mother.
her eye makeup
was running down
her beautiful face.
is it ..is it you she asked.
I kissed her cheek
and whispered yes mom.
thank you for the music.

I was born in the waves of music
so long ago now as I look back on my life.
It was a time when the music was faint.
barely audible almost silent.
I was a accident a beautiful one
but still an accident.
She was a beautiful young concert pianist
he was a guitar player in a rock band.
They should have hated each other
but that's where I came in
they didn't.
Her father was a control freak
all he could see was advancing her career.
After my parents met
it was something like love at first sight.
They slept together
on a bench on a new York rooftop.
I guess you could say
that's where I really came in.
Her father took her away
to her recital in California.
She did not even know his name.
But I found out later
she never married
nor did he.
When Mom found she was pregnant
her father said it must be adopted.
I became an IT instead the baby
or my grandson or even the boy.
Mom had an accident
after the news she was
to put me up for adoption.
She ran into the street
and a bike courier hit her hard.
I was born early.
But her father;
I still cannot call him gandfather.
Forged her name on my adoption papers.
when she woke up in hospital
he said the baby was lost.
that I did not make it.
I was put into the orphanage run by the Catholic nuns.
I never got adopted.
I guess I was bit too weird to keep.
I listened to music everywhere
in the grass the street the wind.
In the noise of the clanging city
Or the pattering beat of the rain.
And I knew somehow
She was out there.
I could feel it I knew it for sure.
I became a musical prodigy at seven
I could write music without lessons.
I could play any instrument
you threw at me.
The nuns at the orphanage
sent me to juliard.
I was their youngest student at nine.
Far away in California.
My life was changing.
There her father confessed
what he had done with my adoption on his deathbed.
Mom searched and searched
until she released the adoption papers in court
with the forged signature.
She saw my photo for the first time.
She said that's him...that's my son.
At juliard I wrote a symphony.
it was put forward to play
in central park for best new young composers.
The moon played
its magical music loud that summer night.
The park was full of the heart of New York.
And she was playing
the concert piano.
When my music played
it awakened something in her heart
I could see her feeling it.
She felt me.
She felt my music.
She felt her son.
The concert finished
They called me to the stage
to take a bow.
But she came to me
in her beautiful gown.
she was so pretty.
she held me in her arms.
I felt for the first time
the softness of my mother.
Her eye makeup
was running down
her beautiful face.
is it ..is it... you ...she asked.
I kissed her cheek
and whispered yes Mom.
It's me
It's your son.
Thank you for the music.