Music is more than sound; it’s memory, language, and resistance. For Puerto Ricans, music is how we remember our past, navigate the present, and express who we are in the face of colonial legacies and global change.
The Museum of Puerto Rican Music in Ponce, Puerto Rico, offers an incredible foundation, tracing the roots of Puerto Rican music from Indigenous beginnings to its global influence. Still, like many cultural spaces in Ponce, its timeline pauses due to funding limitations. Here, I’ll share what I learned from the museum, then expand the narrative with a deeper dive into the more contemporary chapters of our musical history, all while maintaining a clear distinction between what was covered in the exhibit and what I’ve added for context.
The Indigenous Beat: Taíno and Pre-Taíno Rhythms
One of the first exhibits in the museum captures the musical world of the Taíno people, who were the Island’s primary inhabitants before colonization. Taíno music was deeply spiritual, closely tied to rituals and ceremonies. Instruments like the mayohuacán (a hollow wooden drum) and the guamo (conch shell trumpet) carried the voices of ancestors, while maracas and güiros created rhythmic layers that mirrored the sounds of nature.
What struck me most was the museum’s emphasis on music as communication. Taíno songs, or areítos, weren’t just entertainment; they were oral histories, woven into chants that told stories of survival, migrations, and mythologies. Unfortunately, much of this knowledge was violently interrupted by colonization.
Contextual Note: Outside the museum, scholars like Ricardo Alegría (1997) and José Juan Arrom (1989) have studied areítos as a way to reconstruct the fractured cultural memory of the Taínos. These musical traditions echo today in rhythms found in bomba and other Afro-Caribbean genres that embody the Island’s layered identity.
The African Legacy: Bomba and Plena as Resistance
If the Taínos gave Puerto Rican music its foundation, enslaved Africans gave it its soul. The museum dedicates a significant portion of its exhibit to bomba and plena, two genres born from struggle and resilience.
Bomba: The Drum as Freedom
The exhibit beautifully explains how bomba was created by enslaved Africans working in Puerto Rico’s sugar plantations. Using barrel drums, maracas, and call-and-response singing, bomba became a communal outlet for expressing joy, mourning, and rebellion.
What makes bomba extraordinary is its dialogic nature. The dancer and the lead drummer engage in a back-and-forth conversation, where the dancer’s movements command the beats. This improvisation wasn’t just art—it was defiance. Colonizers tried to suppress bomba, fearing its power to unite enslaved people. Yet, it survived, evolving into regional styles like sicá and holandés.
Plena: The People’s Newspaper
Moving through the exhibit, I was struck by the description of plena as “the people’s newspaper.” Originating in coastal towns like Ponce in the early 20th century, plena told stories of everyday life—romance, hardship, and political unrest—set to lively rhythms.
While bomba often carries spiritual weight, plena brings levity and critique, making it a vehicle for social commentary. The museum highlights key figures like Manuel “El Canario” Jiménez, whose compositions helped spread plena beyond its working-class roots.
Supplemental Context: Musicologist Ruth Glasser (1995) underscores the political significance of bomba and plena, noting that their survival reflects Puerto Rico’s enduring fight against cultural erasure. Today, these genres are kept alive by groups like Los Pleneros de la 21, bridging traditional sounds with contemporary activism.
Jíbaro Music: The Voice of the Mountains
The museum’s journey into jíbaro culture paints a vivid picture of rural Puerto Rico. The cuatro, a small ten-stringed guitar, becomes the centerpiece of this tradition, alongside the güiro and vocals steeped in aguinaldos (Christmas carols) and seises (folk songs).
What I found most moving in this section was the recognition of jíbaro music as a form of storytelling. Each seis variation—whether fajardeño or milonga—is tied to specific regions, revealing how geography shaped Puerto Rican identity. The museum rightly calls the jíbaro music “the soul of Puerto Rican mountains,” where farmers turned their struggles into poetry.
Expanded Note: Scholars like Juan Flores (2000) argue that jíbaro music carries a nationalist undertone, embodying resistance to U.S. cultural imperialism during the early 20th century. This becomes particularly significant in understanding how Puerto Ricans define themselves against external pressures.
Salsa: The Caribbean Symphony
As the museum’s timeline moves into the 20th century, salsa takes center stage. Born from the African rhythms of son and plena, salsa became a Caribbean symphony, blending Cuban, Dominican, and Puerto Rican influences into a genre that transcends borders.
Pioneers like Héctor Lavoe and Willie Colón—both of Puerto Rican descent—shaped salsa into a global phenomenon during the 1970s. The museum highlights their contributions, but it’s their ability to carry Puerto Rico’s spirit into diaspora communities that resonates most deeply.
Supplemental Note: Salsa’s evolution as a genre of resistance is explored in César Miguel Rondón’s The Book of Salsa (2008), which chronicles how musicians used the genre to address issues like racism, inequality, and identity.
Disclaimer: The museum’s timeline pauses before fully addressing Puerto Rico’s contributions to modern music. What follows is my brief addition to honor this continuation of our history.
Reggaetón (on our side of the street, I know it didn’t start with us) emerged in the 1990s from marginalized communities in San Juan, blending Jamaican dancehall, Panamanian reggae, and hip-hop. Artists like Tego Calderón infused Afro-Caribbean pride into reggaetón’s lyrics, while Ivy Queen broke barriers as the genre’s first female superstar.
Today, artists like Bad Bunny reimagine reggaetón as a platform for cultural expression, weaving themes of mental health, colonial critique, and gender fluidity into their work. Beyond reggaetón, Puerto Rican musicians like Rauw Alejandro and Kany García continue to innovate, blending traditional and contemporary sounds.
The museum in Ponce—and others across Puerto Rico—are vital spaces for preserving our history. However, they rely heavily on donations to expand exhibits and continue sharing our stories. By supporting these institutions, we ensure that Puerto Rican music remains a living testament to our resilience and creativity. Being anti-colonialism and anti-tourism doesn't mean I'm against exploring and appreciating the corners of our own towns that are waiting for us to explore: Mi Gente, get out here if you can!
Resources
• Alegría, R. E. (1997). Puerto Rico: A cultural and historical perspective. Editorial Universidad de Puerto Rico.
• Glasser, R. (1995). My music is my flag: Puerto Rican musicians and their New York communities, 1917–1940. University of California Press.
• Rondón, C. M. (2008). The Book of Salsa: A chronicle of urban music from the Caribbean to New York City. University of North Carolina Press.
• Rivera, R. Z. (2003). New York Ricans from the hip hop zone. Palgrave Macmillan.
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