The train of Cuban music, still running after fifty years
For nearly six decades, Los Van Van has carried Cuban music across borders the way rivers carry memory — steadily, inevitably, reshaping the landscapes they pass through. On a May evening in Bogotá, the orchestra founded by the late Juan Formell brought their songo, timba, and salsa to the Royal Center, continuing a journey that has made them not merely a band but a cultural institution. Their presence in Colombia is a reminder that music, at its most alive, does not belong to one place — it belongs to whoever is willing to move.
- An orchestra with nearly sixty years of history crossed into Colombia carrying the full weight of Cuban popular music on their instruments.
- The Royal Center in Bogotá filled with dancers who had waited for this moment, creating the kind of charged anticipation that only a legendary live act can generate.
- Los Van Van's refusal to be confined to a single genre — weaving songo, timba, son, salsa, and changüí into a single evening — keeps their performances unpredictable and their audiences hungry.
- Their 2000 Grammy for Best Salsa Performance and a catalog stretching back to the early 1970s give them a credibility that transcends nostalgia and commands new generations of listeners.
- On this May night, the distance between Havana and Bogotá collapsed for a few hours, as it has in cities across the world wherever Los Van Van has played.
Los Van Van arrived in Bogotá on a May evening with more than half a century of Cuban music behind them. The orchestra — known across the Caribbean as 'the train of Cuban music' — was set to perform at the Royal Center, the kind of venue where dancers arrive prepared to move for hours.
The band's story begins with Juan Formell, whose gift for arrangement and composition gave Los Van Van its soul. Though Formell is gone, the orchestra he founded remains a living archive of Cuban sound, nearly six decades into its existence and still commanding audiences worldwide.
What sets them apart is their refusal to stay in one lane. They move between songo and timba, son and salsa, changüí and whatever the moment demands — not as a gimmick, but as the natural expression of musicians who have spent their lives understanding how these forms speak to each other. The Grammy they won in 2000 for Best Salsa Performance, for the album 'Llegó… Van Van,' was recognition that this music transcended borders and spoke a language anyone with rhythm could understand.
Their catalog is deep and trusted. Albums like 'Al Son del Caribe,' 'Lo Último en Vivo,' and 'Chapeando' span decades, and songs like 'Por encima del nivel' and 'Aquí el que baila gana' have become anthems — the kind that make strangers dance together. Silvio Rodríguez once compared them to The Beatles, not casually, but as a measure of how completely they have shaped Cuban cultural identity.
In Bogotá that evening, they did what they have always done: they played, and people danced. For a few hours, the distance between Havana and Colombia disappeared entirely.
Los Van Van arrived in Bogotá on a May evening carrying more than half a century of Cuban music in their instruments. The orchestra—known across the Caribbean and beyond as "the train of Cuban music"—was scheduled to perform at the Royal Center, the kind of venue where dancers come prepared to move for hours, where the rhythms of the island find their way into the bodies of people who have waited for this moment.
The band's story begins with Juan Formell, a musician born in Cuba whose gift for arrangement and composition shaped what Los Van Van would become. When Formell founded the group, he set them on a path that would outlast him, that would survive decades of change and still command the attention of audiences worldwide. Today, nearly six decades into their existence, the orchestra remains the keeper of that original vision—a living archive of Cuban sound.
What makes Los Van Van distinctive is their refusal to stay in one lane. They move between songo and timba, between son and salsa, between changüí and whatever else the moment demands. This versatility is not a gimmick; it is the result of musicians who have spent their lives understanding how these forms speak to each other, how they can be woven together without losing their character. The band's members execute these genres with a precision that comes only from repetition, from playing the same songs hundreds of times and still finding something new in them.
The Grammy they won in 2000 for Best Salsa Performance was recognition of this mastery. The album that earned it, titled "Llegó… Van Van," had already become beloved among dancers and collectors. But the award was also a statement: this was not regional music, not music for a specific island or diaspora. This was music that transcended borders, that spoke a language anyone with rhythm in their body could understand.
Their discography stretches back decades. "Al Son del Caribe" came out in 1983, when the band was already well-established. "Lo Último en Vivo" captured them live in 1994, preserving the energy that makes their concerts legendary. "Te Pone la Cabeza Mala" arrived in 1997, and "Chapeando" in 2004. Each album added to a catalog that audiences across the world had learned to trust. When a new Los Van Van record appeared, people bought it. When they announced a concert, people came.
The songs themselves have become part of the fabric of Cuban popular culture. "Por encima del nivel," "Aquí el que baila gana," "Que le den candela"—these are not obscure tracks for specialists. They are anthems. "El negro está cocinando" and "El baile del buey cansao" carry stories in their titles, narratives that unfold as the band plays. "Chirrín chirrán" and "Marilú" are the kind of songs that make strangers dance together.
Silvio Rodríguez, himself one of Cuba's most important songwriters, once said that if the United Kingdom had The Beatles, Cuba had Los Van Van. The comparison is not casual. It speaks to the band's place in their nation's cultural identity, to the way they have shaped how the world hears Cuban music. They are not a nostalgia act, though they carry history. They are a working orchestra, still performing, still relevant, still drawing crowds in cities far from home.
On this May evening in Bogotá, they would do what they have done for decades: they would play, and people would dance. The music would move through the room, and for a few hours, the distance between Havana and Bogotá would collapse. This is what Los Van Van has always done—they bring the island with them, wherever they go.
Notable Quotes
If the United Kingdom has The Beatles, Cuba has Los Van Van— Silvio Rodríguez, Cuban songwriter
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does a band that's been around for fifty years still matter? Why does anyone care?
Because they didn't just play music—they defined what Cuban music could be. They showed that you could move between styles, that tradition and innovation weren't enemies. People who grew up with their songs still come to hear them.
The Grammy in 2000—was that the peak, or just a moment?
It was recognition, but not the peak. The peak is ongoing. They've been winning audiences for decades before and after. The Grammy just gave the world permission to take them seriously in a certain way.
What's the difference between Los Van Van and other Cuban orchestras?
Consistency, maybe. And the fact that they never stopped evolving. They could play songo one moment and salsa the next, and it all felt like it came from the same place. That's harder than it sounds.
When Silvio Rodríguez compared them to The Beatles, what was he really saying?
That they're not just musicians—they're a national institution. They carry something essential about their country in the way they play. You can't separate Los Van Van from Cuba.
Does a concert in Bogotá change anything for them?
No, but it matters. It's another room full of people who want to move, who want to feel what the band has been carrying all these years. That's the whole point—the music travels, and it finds people wherever they are.