By Oliver Wang

THE LAST GIG Joe Bataan played in San Francisco was back in 1975. After performing at the Hyatt Regency – then a premier venue – Bataan followed personal tradition and invited the crowd to his hotel after the dance, "not thinking they would come." Come they did – so many that once Bataan showed up, he remembers, "state troopers were outside [asking], 'Who's Joe Bataan?' They were looking to see who invited all these people. We said, 'He went that a-way.' "

Bataan hasn't played a show here since.

In all seriousness, Bataan's upcoming show at the Herbst Theatre Sept. 2 represents a very long road back – not just to San Francisco but also to a musical career that ranks as one of the most serendipitous of the past 40 years. A pioneering figure in boogaloo, Latin soul, salsa, and hip-hop, Bataan was often ahead of his time in predicting musical trends. Says British music journalist and Latin music compiler James Maycock, "Bataan is the undisputed king of Latin soul, the bridge between black soul and brown rhythms." However, despite his groundbreaking career in the 1960s and '70s, Bataan vanished in the mid-'80s and could easily have become a footnote. Instead, he's made an unlikely comeback that's been a surprise to everyone – including himself.

Taking a stab at boogaloo

Born in 1942 as Bataan Nitollano to a Filipino father and an African American mother, Joe Bataan was raised in Spanish Harlem for most of his youth. Living in a Puerto Rican neighborhood was a natural fit for someone with mestizo roots, and Bataan immersed himself in Latin music, especially the mambo-king era of the 1950s, when musicians like timbalero Tito Puente ruled the roost. By the 1960s, the mambo fad waned and Bataan, trying to flee the East Harlem gang scene, was ready to take part in the changing landscape.

"There was a group of 12- and 13-year-olds trying to put something together," recalls Bataan, then "the neighborhood tough guy." "I walked into the auditorium, stabbed a knife into the grand piano, and told everyone that I was going to be the leader. I was about 22." The mid-'60s were a heady time in New York's Latin music community, especially with the boogaloo explosion in 1966. Bataan, who grew up inspired by Frankie Lyman's vocal style, and his group dug boogaloo's mix of Latin rhythms and R&B singing. "I sang most of the songs and developed my sound," Bataan says. "I became a writer because it allowed me to tell a story. As a result, they lasted longer than a lot of other songs that just said, 'Clap your hands – boom, boom, boom.' "

Bataan's earliest hits, like "Gypsy Woman" and "Subway Joe," combined catchy boogaloo rhythms, playful narratives about love and romance, and Bataan's distinctive Latin soul singing. This innovative blend found a home with Jerry Masucci's upstart Fania Records, which, thanks to artists like Bataan, Ray Barretto, and Willie Colon, became the top Latin label by the late 1960s. Bataan says he and his young cohort "caused problems with the big mambo [artists] at the time because we were taking their space. People were like, 'Who's this Joe Bataan? What kind of music is he playing?' It was bringing together the third generation of blacks and Puerto Ricans that wanted some identity of their own."

For the next dozen-plus years, no other Latin artist would prove as consistently imaginative as Bataan, recording more than 10 albums, including such popular titles as Riot! (Fania, 1970) and Afro-Filipino (Salsoul, 1975). He released Salsoul on Americana in 1974 and founded Salsoul Records soon afterward. As would become a familiar pattern for Bataan, his ideas were constantly innovative but others profited more from them than he did. Early in Salsoul's history, he sold his interest in the company to the Carye brothers, only to watch the label make them millionaires. Likewise, in 1973, Bataan had the idea to invite an all-star cast of Latin musicians to Shea Stadium, including Santana and La Lupe, but because of poor weather, a crowd of only 15,000 showed up. Masucci assembled a group of Fania artists at Yankee Stadium a month later and drew 40,000 people, beginning a series of arena-size concerts for the label and its all-stars.

Rapping and clapping

As the sounds of the 1970s evolved, Bataan stayed on top of salsa's growth and was on hand for the emergence of a New York street culture called hip-hop. "I grew up in Harlem; there's not much that I could not know from the streets, because the music originated from the streets," Bataan says. He took that knowledge and in 1979 recorded "Rap-O, Clap-O," a proto-hip-hop song released within weeks of the Sugarhill Gang's seminal "Rapper's Delight."

"Rap-O, Clap-O," never became a big hit in the States but was a chart-topper in Europe and is credited with helping introduce hip-hop internationally. "We battled around the world [with "Rapper's Delight"] for the one and number-two spots. I was number two in Germany, number one Belgium, four in France, you name it," Bataan recounts. Again, he didn't capitalize on his initial success, though he would go on to release two more albums, Mestizo (1980, Sony International) and II (1981, Salsoul) before making an almost total break from music for the next 20 years.

Bataan attributes that end to his recording career as a combination of several factors, not the least of which was a general weariness with the pressures of the music industry but also a desire to spend more time with his wife and young children. In a development that few would have predicted, Bataan used his hiatus to help his children train to be Olympic-caliber karate champs ("I ended up carrying the bags for 11 years"), but once again, fate worked against him: The Olympic Committee decided tae kwon do, not karate, would eventually become part of the games.

During this time, people had pestered Bataan to return to performing, but it wasn't until 1996 that he was finally convinced. That year he played a show at Hostos Community College, in the Bronx, and found old colleagues like Tito Puente and Eddie Palmieri in the audience. They encouraged his return, and Bataan slowly began to perform more. A chance encounter at a gig in New York a few years ago lead to Bataan recording his first album in 20 years, Call My Name (Vampisoul, 2004), which, despite limited US distribution, has quickly become lauded for its compelling blend of contemporary production and Bataan's indelible singing presence. With the album's success has come a whirlwind of performances, including major shows in Los Angeles and Seattle. It's all been a surprising second act for an artist who, by all rights, was all but retired decades ago. Now Bataan is planning a new live album, The Message, to be released later this year on a label (Jo-Ba) he owns with LA's Alan Beck.

Throughout this all, Bataan's signature song has remained one of his earliest: "Ordinary Guy," first recorded back in 1966. An original composition, the song bespeaks Bataan's around-the-way demeanor and self-perception. For all his career highs and lows, he's remained, at the core, just an ordinary joe: "It's been my moniker for a long time. You know, hey, I'm an ordinary guy. Don't expect anything else. I mean, that's me, and I've always been that way." All we need to know now is whether Bataan will invite the Herbst audience back to the hotel after the show.

Joe Bataan plays Fri/2, 8 p.m., Herbst Theatre, 401 Van Ness, SF. $30-$50. www.cityboxoffice.com.