In The Studio With Julio Iglesias, Celia Cruz, Jose Feliciano
It’s another lazy summer afternoon in the Poconos. Taking a short break. While I’m away, here is another rewind. The story ran earlier this year, during the 40th anniversary week of the release of the song “We Are the World.”
After the titular anthem, took over the airwaves in 1985, musicians across genres scrambled to create their own all-star charity anthems.
Heavy metal had Stars, a screaming, guitar-driven rally led by Ronnie James Dio and a lineup of rock gods. Canada produced Tears Are Not Enough, featuring Bryan Adams, Joni Mitchell, and Neil Young. Hip-hop joined the movement with Self Destruction, a hard-hitting track organized by KRS-One to address violence in Black communities. Even country music and Japanese artists got in on the trend.
Latin music’s answer came in the form of Cantaré, Cantarás, a sweeping anthem featuring Julio Iglesias, Celia Cruz, José Feliciano, and other Latin legends. Recorded in Los Angeles, the session felt like a moment—a gathering of voices from across the Spanish-speaking world, uniting for a cause. Whether it truly made history or was just another echo of a bigger movement is up for debate. But for one night in ‘85, I saw a room buzzing with something undeniable.
THE STUDIO, 1985
Julio Iglesias laughed, a smooth, cultivated laugh, and his teeth were white, and he kept touching my shoulder like we were lifelong friends. It was late, or it felt late, but the studio lights were bright, and the walls were the color of wet sand. Celia Cruz wore a dress made of something metallic—gold, maybe, or just a shade that caught the light in a way that made my eyes hurt. She held court, sipping from a glass filled with something dark, something heavy, the kind of drink that slowed the night down instead of speeding it up.
Someone played the piano. It might have been José Feliciano, but it might also have been someone else entirely. My memory flattened these things out, turned them into a highlight reel of sensation: the hum of the recording equipment, the way the air smelled like warm tape, expensive cologne, cigarette smoke. The heat of bodies. The way people leaned in close when they talked, because the room was too big and full of sound for anything else.
Julio leaned in—again, the shoulder touch, a signature move—and said, “Esto es histórico, amigo.” Then, slowly, in English, “This… this is history.”
Celia sang a note, offhanded, half a joke, and the whole room shifted in response, the way a room full of animals might react to thunder in the distance. There was power in that voice, in that presence, and everyone knew it. When she laughed, it was big and round and full, like something you could hold in your hands.
I stepped outside for a smoke, and the air was thick with L.A. at night—gasoline, damp concrete, the distant echo of some song that had nothing to do with what was happening in that studio but felt relevant anyway. Someone argued about the mix. Someone else talked about *We Are the World* like it was the center of the universe.
Back inside, the song was coming together. Voices wove in and out, rising, falling. A chorus that felt like it belonged to everyone and no one at the same time. Cantaré, cantarás. I will sing, you will sing. A promise, a declaration, a memory in the making.
Julio caught my eye, raised his glass. “To… el futuro,” he said, hesitating slightly, then laughing, like he knew it didn’t quite land but didn’t care.
I nodded. It was the only thing to do.