Willie Colón, the dynamic trombonist, captivating singer, influential bandleader, prolific composer, and innovative producer, whose vibrant musical energy and playfully rebellious ‘bad-boy’ image—earning him the moniker “El Malo”—established him as a guiding light in New York’s salsa scene, has died at 75. His landmark 1978 collaboration with Rubén Blades, “Siembra,” remains one of the highest-selling salsa albums of all time.
His family confirmed his passing on Saturday but did not release further details.
Growing up in the South Bronx, Colón was nurtured by his Puerto Rican grandmother, who encouraged his early passion for music. By his early teens, he was already a virtuosic trombonist, working professionally. He emerged in the mid-1960s, at the forefront of evolving musical tastes among young people during a politically charged era.
The era’s Latin music, previously defined by big band sounds and cha-cha rhythms from the 1940s and 1950s, began absorbing influences from American pop, funk, and rock. This rich fusion, incorporating R&B, jazz, and diverse Caribbean dance rhythms, ultimately became the signature sound of emerging salsa.
“It was rebellious music,” Colón recounted to The Miami Herald in 2006. “We were watching Martin Luther King walking into Selma and the dogs and water cannons. The music wasn’t explicitly political yet, but the music was a magnet that would bring people together.”
His debut album, “El Malo” (1967), released when he was just 17, showcased his talent alongside the brilliant vocal power of Puerto Rican-born singer Héctor Lavoe. This collaboration ignited a career that spanned nearly six decades. Colón frequently embraced a “bad-boy” persona on album covers, often seen with a fierce gaze and dressed in dark attire, a swaggering playfulness that became part of his brand.
On the cover of “Cosa Nuestra” (1970), he ominously hovered over a corpse on a dock. For “Lo Mato — Si No Compra Este LP” (“I’ll Kill Him — If You Don’t Buy This Record”), released in 1973, he posed with a gun pointed at a man’s head. Other album titles from this period, which solidified Fania Records as a leading name in salsa, included “Crime Pays” (1972). Decades later, Colón, then residing in suburban New Rochelle, N.Y., clarified that “the bad boy thing” was “always tongue-in-cheek.”
Colón’s music was a magnificent tapestry of sounds and narratives, featuring memorable characters like “Vicente el carterista” (Vicente the purse snatcher). Lavoe’s dazzling improvisational skill brought life to intricate lyrics, while Colón’s trombone-heavy arrangements provided a thrilling, brassy pulse.
As Mr. Lavoe’s struggle with drug addiction worsened, their creative partnership waned. Colón, however, found other fertile musical ground, notably with his mentor, singer Mon Rivera, on irresistible dance tracks like “Tinguilikitín,” and, most significantly, with Panamanian-born singer and songwriter Rubén Blades.
Their collaborative album, “Siembra” (meaning sowing or planting), is widely recognized as a genre-defining work. It imbued salsa with a powerful, barrio-centric political consciousness, a theme woven throughout its ambitious lyrics. The album even paid homage to German expressionist cabaret, reminiscent of “The Threepenny Opera,” with “Pedro Navaja.” This song, inspired by “Mack the Knife,” vividly chronicled the downfall of an East Harlem criminal after a murder.
Colón, who also recorded with other legends like Celia Cruz and Tito Puente, was honored with the Latin Recording Academy’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 2004. In 2015, Billboard magazine recognized him as one of the 30 most influential Latin artists of all time, and his work inspired younger musicians such as Rauw Alejandro and Daddy Yankee.
William Anthony Colón Román was born on April 28, 1950, in the South Bronx. He was raised by his grandmother, a sweatshop worker, as his father was frequently incarcerated and his mother was only 16.
His musical journey began when his grandmother, introducing him to the sounds of her homeland, gifted him a trumpet for his 11th birthday. A professional musician neighbor taught him how to play and read music. “I would practice all day, which would drive everybody crazy,” he told The Herald.
Three years later, he exchanged his trumpet for a valve trombone, captivated by its “roar,” he said, and started performing at weddings and various events with his own bands. At 16, he began shadowing Mon Rivera in nightclubs.
“I would hang around with my trombone and a long face until Mon gave me a break,” he recalled. “He would say ‘OK, come up’ and let me play. He called me ‘el Americanito.’”
Following “Siembra,” Colón and Blades continued their partnership with acclaimed albums like “Canciones del Solar de los Aburridos” (1981), which spawned hit singles such as “Tiburon” and “Ligia Elena.” However, an acrimonious dispute over finances ultimately fractured their relationship for many years.
Despite continuing to record, Colón expressed to The Herald a growing disillusionment with a music industry that seemed to prioritize commercial appeal over innovation. He observed a trend toward performers who, in his view, were more physically attractive than musically talented.
“When the corporations came in, it naturally turned into something else, because they need formula and dependable product,” he stated. “The genius of salsa was the freedom — there were no rules.”
With a long-standing interest in politics, he ran unsuccessfully against a Democratic incumbent for state senator in the Bronx and lower Westchester County in 1994. A decade later, he served Mayor Michael Bloomberg as a liaison to the city’s Latin Media and Entertainment Commission.
In 1991, he married Julia Craig, and they had children. A complete list of survivors was not immediately available.
In his later years, Colón embraced reggaeton, appreciating its raw, streetwise energy and dismissing critics of its often explicit lyrics. Reggaeton, he told The Herald in 2006, “came in under the radar because it came from the streets,” adding, “I identify a lot with it.”
He found common ground with the new genre’s willingness to break tradition. “It might have been said about some reggaeton beats that it’s wrong — you can’t do this,” he said. “But if it feels good musically, you do it.”