Almost every music publication has its quick summation of the expiring year. For 2000, some say "rap-rock," others "post-rock," and still others "teen pop," or simply, "Eminem." Which will be remembered years from now? What was 1993 the year of? Or '95? I know that sometime during the '90s there was the Year of Ska, Swing and my personal favorite, Women. Were some of these the same year? I don't know, or care: as a selling point, magazines seek to define a year that rarely has one defining trend-- the Year of Grunge is the only unanimous, lasting summation of a particular year from the '90s.

So can you fill in the blank? 1997: The Year of _________.

One of the hundreds of acceptable answers might be "Cuban Jazz." Although it really broke in '98, that year saw the release of the Buena Vista Social Club and the Afro-Cuban All-Stars' A Todo Cuba le Gusta, both of which showcased old, forgotten Cuban jazz artists, many of them dating back from long before Castro's coup d'čtat. Add a touching documentary, a world tour, and coverage in every yuppie publication on Earth, and what do you get? Instant worldwide success and a hip quotient that money can't buy.

You know what happens next: the side projects, the solo albums-- anything to take advantage of the current wave of popularity. Then there's the backlash. Cynical critics begin referring to the Buena Vista Social Club as a "commercial juggernaut," and office hipsters suddenly realize they don't actually need more than a couple Cuban jazz albums. As with ska, swing, even women, the hype recedes, sales slide and record companies cease looking for related projects. A trend has died.

Isn't it sad? Put away your Kleenex. Trends usually die when their time has come. Okay, so maybe neo-ska should've died in the womb, but my point is this: rarely is anyone sad to see trends go. True fans welcome a return to the underground, and those with only a passing interest are happy to move on to The Next Big Thing. It's also important to remember that most artists that are central to a trend continue to produce after the trend has died. The Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Cherry Poppin' Daddies, for instance, are still cranking the shit out.

And so are the many members of the Buena Vista Social Club and the Afro-Cuban All-Stars, including octogenarian Ruben González. In the 1940s, González was the original pianist for legendary Cuban son composer Arsenio Rodriguez. From the '60s to the mid-'80s, he also played for Enrique Jorrěn, the inventor of the cha-cha-cha. But his solo debut, 1997's Introducing..., was his first studio recording in 43 years. Since then, he's released six albums. Chanchullo is, unofficially, his American follow-up.

Although twenty-one musicians join Ruben González on the album, the central instrument on Chanchullo is, as one would expect, the piano. Thus, the opening title track-- a "descarga" or "Cuban jam session"-- features a bouncy vocal/horn chorus that frames the solo jaunts of Ruben's rollicking fingers. But on the following son number, "De Una Manera Espantosa," González allows some of the other players to warm up-- particularly Guajiro Mirabel (trumpet) and Javier Zalba (baritone sax). Then "Lluvia" allows the percussion section, which includes congas, bongos, cowbells, timbales, cowbells and a guiro, to step up to the forefront. Noted Buena Vista vocalist Ibrahim Ferrer also delivers his romantic vocals, albeit briefly.

Chanchullo continues its diverse streak. The danzňn-influenced "Central Constancia" offers some of the sweetest violin and flute accompaniment I've ever heard. Eliades Ochoa's guitarwork on "Quizas, Quizas" and "Choco's Guajira" shows why he, too, deserves to have a solo album. (He does, in fact, have one.) And the cha-cha-cha of "Rico Vacilo" is so light and playful as to make you forget all your worries. Even Ry Cooder's solo can't mess it up.

But the mainstay is, of course, González. All of his solos prove his impressive talent, which flows from restraint to rambunctiousness. One of the album's strongest tracks, for instance, is the minute-and-a-half solo "Si te Contara," on which González manages to fuse his adolescent classical origins with his life-long Cuban skills. But perhaps the greatest testament to his ability is that, even while in the background, González is furiously at work over the keys, adding a dimension to the music that's no less significant because of its Ellingtonian stealth.

This may not be the Year of Cuban Jazz, but it's certainly The Year During Which Good Cuban Jazz Music Was Still Being Produced. Okay, so this catchphrase doesn't quite have the same ring to it. Fortunately, the music still does.

-Ryan Kearney