William Anthony Colón Román

grew up in the South Bronx, the child of Puerto Rican parents who carried their island’s music, humor, and grit into every corner of their home. The neighborhood around him was loud, crowded, and full of rhythm—street corners humming with boleros, doo‑wop, and the early sounds of what would become salsa. Music wasn’t just something he listened to; it was the air he breathed.

As a kid, he first picked up the trumpet, trying to imitate the musicians he admired. But everything changed when he discovered the raw, brassy power of the trombone. The sound of Mon Rivera and Barry Rogers hit him like a revelation. It felt closer to the streets he knew—bold, unpolished, and full of attitude. That instrument became his voice.

He spent summers in Puerto Rico on a small farm near Manatí, surrounded by family, countryside, and the slower rhythm of island life. Those trips grounded him. They gave him a sense of belonging that would later echo through his music, even as he built his career in New York.

By 15, he was already talented enough—and brave enough—to walk into Fania Records and get signed. Two years later, he recorded his first album, a project that unexpectedly sold more than 300,000 copies. It was a moment that changed his life, but also the sound of Latin music in New York.

Johnny Pacheco, Fania’s musical director, saw something in him and introduced him to a young singer from Ponce: Héctor Lavoe. Their partnership became legendary. Together, they created songs that felt like the Bronx itself—gritty, funny, tragic, and full of swagger. Colón’s gangster‑styled album covers weren’t just an image; they were a reflection of the world he grew up in, long before that aesthetic became mainstream.

As the years passed, Colón didn’t stay confined to music. The same passion that drove him creatively pushed him into activism and New York City politics. He used his voice—onstage and off—to speak for his community.

Songs like “Pedro Navaja,” “Aguanilé,” “Tiburón,” and “El gran varón” weren’t just hits. They were stories, warnings, prayers, and portraits of the people he knew. They carried the weight of real lives and real struggles.