That’s why it surprised me so that he came up with bupkis. Patrick had hit up Cachao’s management, delved into some of the deepest available photo archives, and more. So when he came up empty-handed, I urged him to go well beyond his usual methods. He went to libraries to search through old books and microfilm. He called up actor Andy Garcia’s production company, which made the documentary Cachao … Like His Rhythm There Is No Other. He consulted with author Rebecca Mauleón, an expert Latin musician and musicologist. He found a few photos, but it was always the same group of small, grainy pictures.

So where are all the photos of Latin music’s pioneering era? Apparently, if they exist, they’re exceptionally rare and difficult to find. It seems that at the same time American and European journalists and aficionados were busy prolifically documenting the development of jazz and blues in clubs, on sessions, and in speakeasies, fans and followers of Cuban music were busy appreciating it another way: They were listening to it. They were taking it in. And, they were dancing their behinds off. Who needs a camera when you’ve got a willing partner and your best dancing shoes?

Cachao is approaching 90, and it’s only in the last decade or so that he has begun to receive the wide recognition he is due as an innovator, in large part because of the work of people like Garcia and Mauleón. That long delay may in part have to do with the lack of documents and recordings from his early career, which can be strange for today’s music fan. In our modern times, we’ve gotten used to everything being recorded, captured, produced, and readily available. But the period when anything like that has been possible is just a few a snowflakes against the majestic glacier of human history.

For thousands of years, most of the music people experienced was live and local. Most of us giggers can relate to that (and we’re certainly grateful for audiences who still like it that way). But even for us musicians, whose everyday experience is making and meeting the magic of the spontaneous musical moment, it’s easy to forget amid massive media abundance and vast virtual libraries that the fundamental dimension of our art is time, a fleeting succession of right-nows, each one special. Easy recording, duplication, and dissemination of music and media can tempt us to take the specialness of our art for granted. Let’s resist. Maybe instead we can each form an individual outlook that balances appreciating music in its moment while valuing the enduring contributions of the creative people who bring it to life.