Here's our subtitled video of CANTA, PAJARITO ("Sing, little bird") as recorded by Carlos Di Sarli on 10 March 1943. We hope it will enhance your enjoyment of the song as you listen and as you dance.
For complete lyrics in Spanish and English, including the unsung third verse, please see our previous post.
To view our subtitled video of CANTA, PAJARITO as recorded by Orquesta Típica Lucio Demare with vocal by Raúl Berón, click here.
NOTE: Be sure to enable "CC" (closed captions) when viewing the video. You should see introductory subtitles at the beginning of the video.
As promised, here's our subtitled video of CANTA, PAJARITO ("Sing, little bird") as recorded by Lucio Demare with vocal by Raúl Berón on 10 June 1943. We hope it will enhance your enjoyment of the song as you listen and as you dance.
For complete lyrics in Spanish and English, including the unsung third verse, please see our previous post.
For our subtitled video of CANTA, PAJARITO as performed by Carlos Di Sarli with Roberto Rufino, click here.
Be sure to enable "CC" (closed captions) when viewing the video. That way, you should see introductory subtitles from the moment the video begins.
CANTA, PAJARITO ("Sing, little bird") Music: Oscar Rubens Lyrics: Juan José Guichandut
Tango Decoder's English-language version is dedicated to Lauranne Thompson.
Some months ago I was dancing at one of Juancito Lencina and Daniel Rezk's milongas at Club Gricel, and during their charmingly kooky intervalo act they announced that the next tanda would be made up entirely of songs with music or lyrics by Juan José Guichandut (1909-1979). I thought that would be pretty cool, since Guichandut's LLUEVE OTRA VEZ ("It's Raining Again") is one of my favorite tangos and since he also co-wrote (with Oscar Rubens) the words and music to TARAREANDO ("Humming"). Both songs had the great distinction of being recorded by Di Sarli (the former with Podestá and the latter with Rufino), and both songs have also been featured here on Tango Decoder, thus adding greatly to their luster! (/snark) Those two songs were heard in the subsequent tanda along with the one decoded here, CANTA PAJARITO, which was also recorded by Di Sarli with Rufino, as well as by Demare with Berón. I can't for the life of me remember exactly which versions of those three fine songs were included in the tanda, because I got flummoxed by the fourth, YO ("I") performed by Di Sarli with Jorge Durán. To me, it didn't mesh at all with the other songs in the tanda. In any event, we now have a nice Guichandut trilogy here on Tango Decoder: LLUEVE OTRA VEZ, TARAREANDO, and CANTA, PAJARITO. Maybe we'll even look at YO some time. Here's Tango Decoder's version of CANTA PAJARITO.
To view our subtitled videos of this song in Spanish and English, you may click below:
En la soledad sufriendo está mi corazón. Y qué triste estoy desde esta noche cruel que el cielo la llevó. La casa entera enmudeció, su risa se apagó... ¡Sus pasos y su voz extraño! Se ha marchitado aquel rosal, testigo familiar de nuestro amor de tantos años. ¡Todo ha cambiado desde que se ha ido! ¡Todo está triste desde que no está! Y el pajarito tan cantor, unido a mi dolor ahora ya no canta más.
Canta, canta, pajarito... Canta, canta tu canción... ¡Ayúdame a calmar mi angustia y mi dolor, ayúdame a soñar que está a mi lado! Canta, canta, pajarito... Canta, canta, tu canción...
Ya no alumbra el sol con su fulgor mi triste hogar. Ya no besaré ni nunca gustaré sus labios de coral. Ya nunca más he de escuchar su voz angelical, ni el timbre de su risa franca, ni he de sentirme acariciar con esa suavidad de aquellas sus dos manos blancas. ¡Todo ha cambiado desde que se ha ido! ¡Todo está triste desde que no está! Y el pajarito tan cantor, que sufre como yo ahora ya no canta más.
In solitude my heart is suffering. And how sad I am since that cruel night when heaven took her away. The whole house fell silent, her laughter was extinguished... I miss the sound of her footsteps, her voice! That rose bush has withered, familiar witness of our love of so many years. Everything’s changed since she has gone! Everything’s sad since she's not here! And the little bird, such a singer, joining in my sorrow, now sings no more.
Sing, sing, little bird... Sing, sing your song... Help me soothe my anguish and my pain,* help me dream that she’s by my side! Sing, sing, little bird... Sing, sing your song...
The sun no longer shines with its brilliance on my sad home. Now I won't kiss, won't ever taste her coral-colored lips. Never again will I hear her angelic voice nor the sound of her uninhibited laughter, nor feel myself caressed by the softness of those two fair hands. Everything’s changed since she's gone! Everything’s sad since she’s not here! And the little bird, such a singer, who is suffering like me, now sings no more.
* my anguish and my pain: The sheet music gives the line as mi angustia y mi dolor, and Berón sings it as given. Rufino sings mi pena y mi dolor ("my sorrow and my pain").
Tango is the unique, improvisational partner-dance of Argentina and Uruguay. With a 150-year history, it is currently danced by millions worldwide for enjoyment, for exercise, as therapy, and as an art. Tango’s special appeal and value lies in its rhythmically varied, expressive movements and pauses that are shared by two partners moving as one.
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[Photo: Florence Walton and Maurice Mouvet, Paris 1911.]
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[Photo: Michael Krugman and friend, TangoAmadeus, Vienna 2015]
An avid learner and dancer of tango dance since 2009, Michael has recently returned from a year of teaching, study, and research in Argentina and Uruguay, where he now makes his home. He is a member of the Argentine Feldenkrais Association, Argentina's professional organization for teachers of the Feldenkrais Method®.
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Sheet music for "Mandria," 1926, music by Juan Carlos Rodríguez, lyrics by Brancatti and Velich. Note the three stanzas at the bottom of the page.
A reader writes: "Thanks so much for your video of MANDRIA! I love having subtitles for the lyrics. But I'm not sure why they continue during the musical break, when the singing has stopped. Can you explain?"
And we answer: Great question! The lyrics you see during the instrumental section are the verses that the lyricists Velich and Brancatti wrote, but that were not sung on this recording. Almost all tangos had three verses; they were included in the sheet music for the song. In early tango-orchestra recordings (pre-Troilo) most songs were sung with only one verse or a fragment of a verse, which was called an estribillo, a refrain. The singer, consequently, was called an estribillista, a refrain singer. At the same time, there were other recordings in the tango canción ("tango song") style that were recorded for listening, not for dancing, and which included all three verses, often with a repeated chorus. Aníbal Troilo's band was probably the first tango dance orchestra ("orquesta típica") to allow the singer to sing two full verses of the song, and the idea caught on fairly quickly with other orchestras, too. That gave greater importance to the singer, who now came to be called uncantor de orquesta, "an orchestra singer," although the term estribillista was still used on record labels for many years after.
In this 1939 version of MANDRIA, Echagüe sings the first verse and then, after an instrumental interlude, the second half of the third verse. It's a bit more than an estribillo, but not quite a full orchestra singer's part. However, the intention of this subtitled video is to present the full narrative of the song. Therefore we included the unsung verses in brackets, as we have done on several other subtitled videos. We believe these unsung verses do a lot to illuminate the meaning of the song, even on recordings all of the lyrics aren't heard. They may also reveal a lot about tango culture and tango history. They are part of the song's identity, its DNA. Keep in mind that many listeners at the time would have been familiar with the lyrics of MANDRIA via the tango canción version recorded by Rosita Quiroga in 1927. Keep in mind also that it was not unusual for a popular tango to be sung on the radio by any number of different singers over the years, and also to be played from the sheet music (or by ear) by small groups or solo performers in a live setting like a home, a cafe, or a bar.
As an example, I recently read a biography of Borges that describes frequent gatherings in the early to mid-1920s at the home of Nora Lange, a fiery redhead of Nordic ancestry who Borges loved, but never managed to possess. Nora used to play old-time instrumental tangos on the piano, and Borges and his intimate friends danced late into the evening. Then they'd go to a nearby bar where a tango orchestra was playing—Juan De Dios Filiberto was mentioned as one of them—and after a few drinks they'd sometimes pick fights with the other patrons, who were fans of the newly emerging style of sung tango, with its mournful lyrics, which Borges deemed to be, "the effeminate whinging of jilted pimps."
To hear MANDRIA in all its glory, with the original Spanish and English-language subtitles, please use the links below:
Too funny! I've been listening to Rosita Quiroga's 1927 recording of MANDRIA with guitar accompaniment by Vicente Spina. It's great, and of course she sings all three verses, not just one and a half like on the D'Arienzo Echagüe version. One small difference, though. The sheet music says:
Pa' matar o pa' morir vine a pelear...
(To kill or die, I come to fight), and that's how Echagüe sings it in the D'Arienzo version. But not our Rosita! She sings very clearly:
Pa' matar NO pa' morir vine a pelear...
(I come to kill, NOT to die...) Well, it's pretty clear that this woman is de agaya ("gutsy"), maybe more so than her male counterpart. Yes indeed, she's got quite a pair of "oak apples"!
Too funny! I've been listening to Rosita Quiroga's 1927 recording of MANDRIA with guitar accompaniment by Vicente Spina. It's great, and of course she sings all three verses, not just one and a half like on the D'Arienzo Echagüe version. One small difference, though. The sheet music says:
Pa' matar o pa' morir vine a pelear...
(To kill or die, I come to fight), and that's how Echagüe sings it in the D'Arienzo version. But not our Rosita! She sings very clearly:
Pa' matar NO pa' morir vine a pelear...
(I come to kill, NOT to die...) Well, it's pretty clear that this woman is de agaya ("gutsy"), maybe more so than her male counterpart. Yes indeed, she's got quite a pair of "oak apples"!
Here's our subtitled video of MANDRIA as performed by the Típica Juan D'Arienzo with vocal by Alberto Echagüe, recorded 9 August 1939. We hope it will enhance your enjoyment of the song as you listen and as you dance (and even as you sing in the shower!).
For face-to-face Spanish and English text, notes, a commentary on MANDRIA, please see our previous post.
Here's our subtitled video of MANDRIA as performed by the Típica Juan D'Arienzo with vocal by Alberto Echagüe, recorded 9 August 1939. We hope it will enhance your enjoyment of the song.
For face-to-face Spanish and English text, notes, a commentary on MANDRIA, please see our previous post.
Mandria (Worthless) Tango, composed 1926 Music: Juan Rodríguez Words: Francisco Brancatti & Juan Velich
This high-intensity tango never fails to energize the dancers at a milonga, especially in the version recorded by Juan D'Arienzo with Alberto Echagüe in 1939. Part of that effect is produced by the lyrics, which are laced with 100% pure, gaucho testosterone--for better or for worse. We present here a face-to-face Spanish and English-language version of the complete lyrics with notes and commentary. (Lyrics sung in the D'Arienzo/Echagüe recording of 1939 are in bold type.) We welcome your comments.
Original lyrics taken from the sheet music as seen on TodoTango.com. English-language version and notes by Michael Krugman and María Rosa Braile for Tango Decoder. For our subtitled video of this song, please see our next post.
Tome mi poncho... No se aflija... ¡Si hasta el cuchillo se lo presto! Cite, que en la cancha que usté elija he de dir y en fija no pondré mal gesto. Yo con el cabo de mi rebenque tengo de sobra pa' cobrarme... Nunca he sido un maula, ¡se lo juro! y en ningún apuro me sabré achicar.
Por la mujer, creamé, no lo busqué... Es la acción que le viché al varón que en mi rancho cobijé... Es su maldad la que hoy me hace sufrir: Pa' matar pa' morir vine a pelear y el hombre ha de cumplir.
Pa' los sotretas de su laya tengo güen brazo y estoy listo... Tome... Abaraje! si es de agaya, que el varón que taya debe estar previsto. Esta es mi marca y me asujeto. ¡Pa' qué pelear a un hombre mandria! Váyase con ella, la cobarde... Dígale que es tarde pero me cobré.
Take my poncho...Don’t worry... Why, I’ll even lend you my knife! Just tell me when, and in the field you choose, I’ll be there, and that's for sure, I won't object.* With the butt of my horsewhip,* I’ve got more than enough to avenge myself. I’ve never been cowardly—I promise you that! You’ll never see me shrink from a tight spot.
As for the woman, believe me, I wasn't looking for her. It’s the deed I spied you doing, the man I sheltered in my shack. It’s your evil deed that galls me: I come to fight, To kill or be killed, and the man needs to do his part.
For bums like you I’ve got a good arm and I’m ready. Take that... Counter it, if you’ve got guts!** because the worthy man* has to be prepared. This is my mark and I’m holding back.* Why bother fighting a worthless weakling! Go with her, the coward... Tell her it’s late, but I’ve had my revenge.
NOTES:
* I won't object: no pondré mal gesto. Poner mal gesto is an idiomatic expression meaning to make a rude gesture, to frown, to object to something by non-verbal means.
* horsewhip: rebenque. A short leather whip with a long, rigid handle, typically used by gauchos. (See photo, right)
* Take that... Counter it: Tome... Abaraje! The protagonist lunges with his knife (Take that!) and defies his opponent to parry, to deflect the blow, and to counter it with another.
* if you've got guts: agayas, oak apples, are a spongy spherical gall that forms on oak trees in response to the developing larvae of a gall wasp. Possibly for that reason, men who are de agaya are men who have "guts." (See photo, right)
* the worthy man: el varón que taya. Taya (or talla) is moral stature or standing. Un hombre que taya is a man who is brave, worthy, or of high moral standing. One who "measures up."
* my mark... holding back: me asujeto (regional var. of sujetar). Most duels among gauchos were not fought to the death. Once one of the combatants was wounded, usually on the face, he was considered dishonored and the fight ended there. In keeping with that tradition, the song's protagonist has left his mark on his opponent, and refrains from further combat, deeming his opponent an hombre mandria, a worthless, wretched weakling. An urban variant of this theme is described in Pintín Castellanos' milonga El Cicatríz:
De matón tenés la fama ya no te queda ni la sombra del que has sido en el barrio de la Aguada tu furor ya se acabó. Conformate a balconearla, que ya en la cara te dejaron como muestra, con el filo de un facón la cicatriz como un recuerdo te quedó.
You've got a bad-ass reputation, but not a shadow of your former self remains; in the barrio of La Aguada you're no longer all the rage. Be satisfied with watching from a balcony 'cos with the blade of a dagger, they left on your face as proof the scar like a memory that never fades.
Dancing a milonga is more fun when you know what the words mean! Our subtitled milonga-video collection in Spanish and English now contains six key titles of the genre. Five of the six are the only English-language version available online!
To view the videos, plus our full text (including unsung verses), translation, notes, and commentary, please use the links below:
MILONGA CRIOLLA ("Creole Milonga") Milonga, 1936 Music by Alberto Soifer Words by Manuel Romero
Recorded by Orquesta Típica Francisco Canaro 1936-10-06 with vocal by Roberto Maida.
Lyrics transcribed verbatim from the original 1938 sheet music in the collection of the National Library of Argentina.
Subtitled video in Spanish and English by Michael Krugman for TangoDecoder.com. Text and notes follow the embedded video. Unsung third verse is included.
Tango Decoder is indebted to María Rosa Braile for her indispensable translation assistance. Thanks also to Our Man In Buenos Aires, Lucas TangoDJ, for retrieving the cover and lyrics.
Photo: Sheet music featuring Gloria Guzman, star of the 1938 film "Radio Bar," written and directed by Milonga Criolla lyricist Manuel Romero.
Yo soy la milonga criolla la reina de las canciones que alivian de amor las penas y alegran los corazones. El encanto de mi ritmo juguetón fascina y en el se encierra toda el alma de mi tierra de mi Argentina tierra de amor.
Al rezongar el bandoneón un milongón criollo las pretenciones porteñas de otra canción con mi compás arrollo. Y no hay mujer que de un varón resista el embrollo cuando se baila corazón a corazón de una milonga al són.
Oyendo cantar a un criollo una milonga porteña se olvida la mala suerte y hasta el dolor se desdeña... Mientras pueda una guitarra desgranar tu queja en un oido, no has de caer en el olvido milonga vieja canción de amor.
I am the creole milonga,* the queen of the songs that soothe the sorrows of love and make the hearts rejoice. The spell of my playful rhythm captivates and in it is locked all the heart and soul of my land, of my Argentina, land of love.
When the bandoneón moans a creole milongón,* the porteño pretensions of another song* I crush with my beat. And there's no woman who of a man resists the complication* when they're dancing heart to heart to the sound of a milonga.
Hearing a creole sing a porteña milonga one forgets ill fortune and disdains sorrow... As long as a guitar can sow its lament* in somebody's ear, you needn't be forgotten old milonga, song of love.
* creole: The word criollo denotes to the original Spanish settlers of Argentina and their descendants, many of whom intermarried with the indigenous people. Here the term serves to assert the authentically Argentine identity of the milonga.
* milongón: A near precursor or contemporary of the milonga, similarly derived from the African candombe. The milongón is said to have originated in Montevideo, Uruguay, in the middle of the nineteenth century. The terms milonga and milongón are used more or less interchangeably in the lyrics of milongas. See our English-language version of MILONGÓN for more on this topic.
* porteño pretensions of another song: Presumably the "other song" is el tango, with its urban origins and big-city pretensions.
* resists the complication: resista el embrollo. The word embrollo (alt. sp.,embroyo) is defined as a mess, muddle, confusion, complication, tangle (e.g., of ropes or wires), a fix, or a difficult or embarrassing situation. The message here is that men are not always easy for women to get along with, and a romantic exchange with a man can be complicated. Some women may resist the complication. But that resistance is bound to be overcome when they dance "heart to heart, to the sound of a milonga. The Real Academia Española gives the primary definition of embrollo as enredo, confusión, maraña. One meaning of enredo is "love affair." We chose the more literal "complication" for our English version in order to retain the ambiguous quality of the original. Other interpretations are possible.
* As long as a guitar...: The original milonga campera ("country milonga") was a style of music that was popular among the wandering minstrels of Argentina, the payadores, during the mid-nineteenth century. This seminal form of the milonga, with its insistent habanera-derived rhythm, was an important influence in the development of tango music. By the eighth decade of the century, the milonga campera had virtually disappeared. The urban milonga (sometimes call milonga tangueada) of the 1930s identified itself as a revival and renovation of that earlier music which had been virtually extinct for fifty years. A recurring theme in the lyrics of the milongas of the 1930s is the preservation of the milonga campera during its years of near-extinction by the lone musician, who plucks it on his guitar in some lonely place. We find a very similar theme in Laurenz and Contursi's Milonga de mis amores:
Oigo tu voz... Engarzada en los acordes de una lírica guitarra, Sos milonga de otros tiempos... [...]
Sin embargo te olvidaron y en el callejón Tan sólo una guitarra te recuerda... criolla como vos
I hear your voice set to the chords of a dreamy guitar... You are the milonga of another time... [...]
Even so they forgot you and in the alleyway, only a guitar remembers... creole like you.
I like this passage from tango poet Enrique Cadícamo's biography of Juan Carlos Cobian because it reveals something, first, about the international tango scene of the time and, second, about the creative process that went on between composer and lyricist. Translation mine; if any errors, mine too...
[Illustration: Cobián & Cadícamo by H. Sábat. Clarín, Revista Viva, 1996]
In March of the same year (1927), drawn by the tremendous spread of tango in Europe by Pizarro, Bianco, Spaventa, Gardel, and the Irusta-Fugazot-Demare trio, I sailed on the luxurious packet ship Conte Rosso with the goal of checking up in my author’s rights. At that time the author was something like the electric company. He had to go in person to the European “Societies” and the various recording companies, bill in hand. Cobian accompanied me to the pier and as we said our goodbyes he gave me a signed authorization enabling me to find out how much money was due him from the European recording companies. Cobian, fronting a magnificent band consisting of Luis Petrucelli, Ciriaco Ortiz, Elvino Vardaro, Humberto Costanzo, Fausto Fronteras, Luis Minervini, and as singer the unforgettable Francisco Fiorentino, started to record a series of tangos for the Victor label among which included: “El único lunar,” “Ladrón,” “Rey de copas,” “Me querés,” “Vení, vení,” “Lamento pampeano” and others. Months later and a few days after my return to Buenos Aires, I invited Cobian to share a meal. The first thing he asked me is about the payment of my royalties in Europe. Upon informing him that I’d realized a certain amount of pesetas in Spain and some francs from the S.A.C.E.M organization in Paris, to which after a swift literary examination, they had accepted me as a member, he celebrated this happily, toasting me with his glass of wine. With respect to the charge he had given me of his royalties, I was sorry to tell him that i hadn’t found the slightest indication in his favor, because his tangos were unknown in Europe. Far from causing him any displeasure, he took this news lightly, recounting to me very enthusiastically between mouthfuls of food and swigs of wine that he had been appointed musical advisor to the “Ricordi” publishing house, at that time located on the 500 block of calle San Martín, which would publish his tangos for distribution in Europe from now on. I gave him back that signed authorization he had given me upon my departure, telling him to keep it for the future. One afternoon he called me on the phone, asking that I come see him at the publisher’s. The purpose was our first collaboration. He had finished a piece and by making me listen to it two or three times, I was to receive a “monster,” a term which in the composers’ lexicon is not taken lightly. That monster slept for a couple of months in my to-do list. I lived in a fifth-floor apartment on the 300 block of Talcahuano. Since an apartment on the second floor was unoccupied, and knowing that Cobian wanted to move, I called for him to see it. The apartment was rented for him immediately and in a few days he became my neighbor. We communicated from balcony to balcony, making our plans for the evening, even though I was tied up with writing some sketches for a review at the Teatro “Astral” headed by Segundo Pomar. Ours was a bohemia of silk shirts and gomina (hair gel). Cobian and I may have been among the first sin sombreristas (bareheaded men) of Buenos Aires. I said to him many times: “They’re going to take us for Legionnaires....” At that time the young members of the political group called “Legionnaires” were easily identified in the streets because they went without hats. One day I went to the finished lyrics of that tango that he’d made me listen to months before at "Ricordi" and whose melody I remembered perfectly on account of having myself played it an infinite number of times, with good intention but little technique, on the family piano of our house in Flores with the sole intention of not forgetting it. That way it happened that my efforts would bear fruit at the same time that the music was calling for it. It was a formula that worked perfectly for collaboration. I am of the opinion that every author of lyrics ought to know how, although not necessarily perfectly, to play an instrument with the end of recalling the melody at the moment in which he writes the verses. Now to the publishing house on San Martín where Cobian worked as musical advisor I sent the lyrics, which I had entitled, "La casita de mis viejos.” [Hear Cobian play "La casita de los viejos"], Cobián read the title and after a fleeting look, sat down at the piano in order to compare very slowly the notes with the syllables, finding them al pelo (“just right”) for the melody. After turning to it again to take in its content more carefully, he asked me if I had wished to sketch his biography, now that fifteen years had passed since he had left la casita de sus viejos without ever having returned. I responded jovially, like they say at the beginning of a film, “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.” But, speaking of coincidences, I sat down at the piano, asking that he not look at my hands, while telling him that in the second part of the piece one found a strange similarity with another tune that I then played for my surprised friend. What I played was precisely that second part of his tango, which I knew how to play from memory, something which Cobián would never have guessed I could do. On finishing the last measure I asked him seriously if that seemed to be his tango or not. Somewhat confused, without knowing how to respond, he kept smiling but didn't answer. On demanding anew whether he found the same similarity that I had, he responded that now, he was beginning to believe that he had taken some musical phrases from another composer without noticing. “That was what I wanted to know...” I responded laughing, “whether I were or were not capable of playing a melody written by you... Of course it’s yours...” At that, Cobian started to tell me off in a friendly way, saying: “Well then, no one is in their place... You write lyrics and you want to play the piano... then drop the poetry and study with ‘Czerny,’ who has a very interesting children’s course...” he concluded. “I’ll do it, but only if you promise to drop music and study the present participle instead....” I shot back, now making a joke of his didactic recommendations. Days later, in another meeting, he asked me to adapt the lyrics of his first tangos that “Breyer” had transferred to “Ricordi” and had in its time published: “A pan y agua,” “Pico de oro,” “Shusheta,” “Mosca muerta” and various other compositions, given that he had discovered in me a collaborator who possessed the dual skill of learning the music before adapting the verses to it.
Below you'll find our subtitled video of MILONGÓN with lyrics in Spanish and English. Below the video, face-to-face text translation and explanatory notes.
[Tango Decoder thanks María Rosa Braile for her indispensable assistance in decoding this song.]
ABOUT THE LYRICIST:
Homero Manzi (1907-1951) was one of tango's greatest poets and lyricists. He was the author of many of the best known tangos that are heard today, including Abandono, Solamente Ella, Mañana Zarpa Un Barco, Ninguna, Recién, Sur, and many more. In 1930 he began a collaboration with composer Sebastian Piana (1903-1994) with the intention of reviving and modernizing the milonga, a genre of music and dance that had been very popular in Argentina in the 1870s, but had virtually disappeared. Together, Piana and Manzi composed the seminal modern milongas, Milonga Sentimental, Milonga de 900, and Milonga Triste. They also wrote several extraordinary tangos together, including El Pescante, De Barro, and Viejo Ciego, as well as one of the most beautiful valses ever written, Paisaje.
Aquí viene el milongón
surgiendo del ayer,
lo trajo un bandoneón
amargao de tener
que llorar sin razón.
Y vuelve del pasao,
trayendo en el vaivén
burlón de su compás
el recuerdo de los tiempos
que ya nunca volverán.
El recuerdo de los tiempos
cuando armaban las "eufemias"
bailetines de academia
con estilo de zanjón.
Donde entraban los muchachos
de prosapia corralera
requintando los masseras
al pisar en el salón.
Cuando el tango se bailaba
corazón a corazón.
Aquí llega el milongón,
contando en la canción
su historia de arrabal
que lloró el bandoneón
y olvidó la ciudad.
Por eso el retintín
quebrao de su compás,
picando en el violín
como entonces marca el paso
ligerito del botín.
Here comes the milongón*
appearing out of yesteryear,
it was brought by a bandoneón
bitter at being
unjustly made to weep.
And it returns from the past
bringing in the mischievous
swing of its rhythm
the memory of times
that will never return.
The memory of the times
when the "eufemias"*
organized the humble dances of the academy*
with the “zanjón” style.*
Where the
sons of the stockyard came*
cocking their broad-brimmed hats*
as they stepped into the dance hall.
When the tango was danced
heart to heart.
Here comes the milongón,
telling in song
its arrabal tales
that the bandoneón wept
and the city forgot.
That’s why the uneven
tinkling of its beat,
pecking on the violin,
as of old marks
the swift step of the boot.*
* milongón: A near precursor of the modern milonga, similarly derived from the African candombe. The milongón is said to have originated in Montevideo, Uruguay, in the middle of the eighteenth century. Francisco Canaro (b. 1888) was Uruguayan; the song's unique, driving rhythm presumably reflected his early musical experiences. The lyric (1938) announces the comeback of the forgotten dance, and the sheet music (see photo) prominently identifies Milongón as a "New Dance." The song was heard in the Argentine film of 1939, Turbión ("Torrent"), produced by Canaro.
* "eufemias". Who or what are the "eufamias"? First of all, it's a made up word that rhymes with academia. Manzi's intention is not known. However, the tango savant Luis Alposta, in a private communication, has suggested that the word may be a neologism consisting of "eu-" (good) and an abbreviated form of "fémina" (woman). "Good women."
Another possiblity: Lope de Rueda's play Eufemia (1567) tells the story of a virtuous young woman who falls victim of envy and defamation, and who is ultimately vindicated through her own bravery. (A classic of Spain's Golden Age of theater, the play was undoubtedly familiar to poet and screenwriter Homero Manzi, who had also been a university professor in literature and Spanish.) Since the profesoras of the dance academies (see note, following) have sometimes been maligned as covert prostitutes, it may be that Manzi's curious appellation is meant as a form of literary absolution. Whether they engaged in prostitution or not, the porfesoras made an indispensable contribution to the genesis of the dance, for which they are deservingly honored here.
* dances of the academy: bailetines de academia. Of afro-rioplatense origin, the first academias were formed in Buenos Aires and Montevideo in the middle of the nineteenth century for dancing candombe. As time went by, other dances were added. Tango is said to have developed there, in the melting pot of the academia, where candombe, mazurka, polka, waltz, milonga, and other popular dances met and merged. The researchers Lamas and Binda (El Tango en la sociedad porteña 1880-1920, Buenos Aires 2008) make a convincing argument, supported by ample documentary evidence, that the academias of Buenos Aires and were not schools of dance at all, and the profesoras were not dance teachers. These terms were merely a cover for what were in fact clandestine dancing establishments. To wit: "Otras de las inexactitudes habituales, es considerar a estas academias como sitios de aprendizaje de baile, lo cual indica no tener la menor idea sobre el tema." (Trans.: Another habitual inaccuracy is to consider these academies as places for the learning of dance, which indicates not having the least idea of the subject.) According to them, the academias were clandestine dance halls designed to evade the various prohibitions, fees, and fines that were assessed on dancing, and which the poor could not pay. one of their citations, dating from 1880, describes an academia that was located in the closed upstairs room of a café, where the piano had a mattress strapped to it to dampen the sound so it couldn't be heard from the street! The profesoras were three or four long-suffering women who were paid to dance continuously with a crowd of men who also danced together in same-sex pairs when they couldn't get one of the ladies. The word bailetín is a diminutive form of the word baile, dance, with a mildly derogatory or dismissive tone. We may suppose that a dance like that described above, with four women entertaining a large group of men in a clandestine location, is not only small and secretive, but also of an extremely humble character. In other words, a bailetín. (Revised 7/30/16.)
* "zanjón" style: A zanjón, an open ditch, ravine, or rivulet, was one of the characteristic physical features of the arrabal. The zanjón appears in numerous tango lyrics, including Manzi's Sur:
La esquina del herrero, barro y pampa, Tu casa, tu vereda y el zanjón, Y un perfume de yuyos y de alfalfa Que me llena de nuevo el corazón.
The blacksmith’s corner, the mud and vacant lots, your house, your street, the ravine, and a perfume of herbs and of alfalfa fills my heart anew.
The identification of the dance style of the academies with the zanjón clearly marks it as something indigenous to the arrabal. To my knowledge, there never was a zanjón style per se. However, an early style of tango dating from this period is called the orillero style, the term denoting the style of dance practiced in the working-class barrios at the outer edges of the city. It may be that zanjón is a metrically correct substitution for a word with related meaning: orilla, edge, shore, river bank. Thus the style of the zanjón may be a poetic reference to the orillero style.
* sons of the stockyard: prosapia corralera. The Spanish means literally "stockyard ancestry."
* broad-brimmed hats: masseras. "Maxera" was a popular brand of men's hat or "homburg" (chambergo) with broad alas (wings) that could be turned up on one or both sides. The rioplatense Maxera was usually worn requintado, that is, cocked to one side and/or pulled low over the eyes. It is also mentioned in Manzi's Milonga de 900:
Me gusta lo desparejo yo no voy por la "vedera" uso funghi por la Massera calzo bota militar.
I like things uneven I don't take the well-trodden path I wear hats by Massera and high-top military boots.
* boot. High-top military-style boots (taquitos militares) were de rigeuer among well-dressed young men of the arrabal during this period.
Detail of an ad for a February 1943 appearance by Lucio Demare at the Palermo Palace, Avenida Santa Fe and Godoy Cruz. Note the dash-dot-dot border. That's the letter "D" in Morse code...
"If I could cry blood, I’d have to open up a hundred eyes to let out this sorrow that consumes me still."
SORBOS AMARGOS (Bitter gulps) Letra de Agustín Irusta Letra de Roberto Fugazot Musica de Lucio Demare
The scene: A seedy bar down in the El Bajo district of Buenos Aires, down by the docks, ca. 1928. Two men, old friends, sit at a corner table, drinking quietly for a couple of hours. At last, one of them begins to lament the loss of his great love. From time to time he pauses, raises his glass to his lips, and takes a gulp of bitter booze....
!Viejo!... si vos supieras cuantas noches, desde mi lecho, contemplo la puerta por donde salió, aquella tarde que amorosa y con un beso, para un mentido paseo con un adiós se marchó.
Old pal!... if you only knew how many nights, from my bed, I stare at the door she shut behind her that evening when lovingly, with a kiss, and pretending to go for a walk, she said goodbye and left me for good.
Nunca... recuerdo haber sufrido tanto como esa noche, que, en vano, mi corazón la esperó, tu, que me viste acariciarla, viejo amigo... ya sabrás lo que he sufrido yo.
Never... do I remember having suffered so much as that night when my heart waited for her in vain. You, who saw how I cherished her, old friend... now you must know what I’ve gone through.
Cada cosa es un recuerdo, cada recuerdo un sollozo, tanto cariño le tengo, que hasta en mis venas está.
Each thing is a memory, each memory a sob, so much affection I had for her, that it still runs in my veins.
Si pudiera llorar sangre, habría de abrirme cien ojos, para sacarme esta pena, que consumiéndome va.
If I could cry blood, I’d have to open up a hundred eyes to relieve myself of this sorrow that consumes me still.
Cuantas auroras me vieron, con la muerte en el semblante, la esperanza en las pupilas, y en los labios murmurar, una palabra de amor, que me arrancara, el dolor de recordar.
How many dawns saw me, with a ghastly expression on my face, hope in my eyes, and on my lips a muttered word of love, that rekindled the pain of memory.
Cuando retorne por aquella puerta, que tal vez ha de ser nunca, ha de volver mi corazón a sentir ansia, de gozar en esta vida, los placeres que ella brinda, cuando se ama con pasión.
Should she return by that door, which probably never will be, my heart will have to yearn again, will have to enjoy in this life, the pleasures it offers when one loves passionately.
Sueño con imposibles realidades, viejo amigo y es pasada, esta cruz de sinsabor, que nunca sepa mi buena madre, que la vida me brindó, caricias de dolor.
I dream of impossible realities, old friend, and it's gone sour, this burden of sorrow. May my loving mother never know that life gave me such painful caresses.
The scene: A seedy bar down in the El Bajo district of Buenos Aires, down by the docks, ca. 1928. Two men, old friends, sit at a corner table, drinking quietly for a couple of hours. At last, one of them begins to lament the loss of his great love. From time to time he pauses, raises his glass to his lips, and takes a gulp of bitter booze....
!Viejo!... si vos supieras cuantas noches, desde mi lecho, contemplo la puerta por donde salió, aquella tarde que amorosa y con un beso, para un mentido paseo con un adiós se marchó.
Old pal!... if you only knew how many nights, from my bed, I stare at the door she shut behind her that evening when lovingly, with a kiss, and pretending to go for a walk, she said goodbye and left me for good.
Nunca... recuerdo haber sufrido tanto como esa noche, que, en vano, mi corazón la esperó, tu, que me viste acariciarla, viejo amigo... ya sabrás lo que he sufrido yo.
Never... do I remember having suffered so much as that night when my heart waited for her in vain. You, who saw how I cherished her, old friend... now you must know what I’ve gone through.
Cada cosa es un recuerdo, cada recuerdo un sollozo, tanto cariño le tengo, que hasta en mis venas está.
Each thing is a memory, each memory a sob, so much affection I had for her, that it still runs in my veins.
Si pudiera llorar sangre, habría de abrirme cien ojos, para sacarme esta pena, que consumiéndome va.
If I could cry blood, I’d have to open up a hundred eyes to relieve myself of this sorrow that consumes me still.
Cuantas auroras me vieron, con la muerte en el semblante, la esperanza en las pupilas, y en los labios murmurar, una palabra de amor, que me arrancara, el dolor de recordar.
How many dawns saw me, with a ghastly expression on my face, hope in my eyes, and on my lips a muttered word of love, that rekindled the pain of memory.
Cuando retorne por aquella puerta, que tal vez ha de ser nunca, ha de volver mi corazón a sentir ansia, de gozar en esta vida, los placeres que ella brinda, cuando se ama con pasión.
Should she return by that door, which probably never will be, my heart will have to yearn again, will have to enjoy in this life, the pleasures it offers when one loves passionately.
Sueño con imposibles realidades, viejo amigo y es pasada, esta cruz de sinsabor, que nunca sepa mi buena madre, que la vida me brindó, caricias de dolor.
I dream of impossible realities, old friend, and it's gone sour, this burden of sorrow. May my loving mother never know that life gave me such painful caresses.
I was looking for the original Bar Ebro at Corrientes 1628 where some of our favorite orchestras (Laurenz, Maffia, Donato) used to play starting in 1945. Instead, I found this theatre across the street, at 1639. The top pic shows the "Astral" just before it opened on 15 June 1927. In his biography of Juan Carlos Cobián, Enrique Cadícamo recalls writing skits for theatre in that same year. He names its director as Segundo Pomar. (Revised 7/23/16)
That marquee looks promising: "Notable Orquestas Típicas"! Between 1926 and 29, many theatres had tango and jazz orchestras to accompany the silent films. Later, a lot of them hosted Carnavál dances. They'd take all the seats out of the main floor section for the dancers, and the orchestras would take the stage.
The second pic appears to show a later incarnation (30s?) with a new marquee and significant remodeling of the facade.
The Astral is still operating to this day, although it seems to have suffered further architectural indignities over the years. The second floor seems to have disappeared entirely. At least it retains a hint of that unique fenestration on what I presume are the stairwells to the right and left of the facade. When I return to Buenos Aires, I'll definitely visit the Astral!
This stately Di Sarli vals sung by Alberto Podestá tells a rather grim story. Explanatory notes follow the English version. Full text in Spanish and English and explanatory notes follow the video.
Se enredan en la noche tus hondas pupilas, tus labios son un broche teñido de lila. Tus sueños en los míos, fríos, fríos. Murmullo de tu miedo, quedo, quedo. Qué blancas tus palabras qué oscura tu angustia, la flor de tu esperanza qué triste, qué mustia. Se anuda en esta huida tu vida y mi vida. Amada, en la alborada, me llevo tu adiós.
Ríe entre las sombras Doña Encarnación. Moños federales en tu peinetón. Bailan en la fiesta de los mazorqueros, ruedan las gavotas, giran los lanceros. Y en la algarabía de la fiesta roja, junto a tu pupila bebo la congoja de mi desazón.
Your deep, black pupils are mixed with the night, your lips are a brooch tinged with lilac.* Your dreams in mine, cold, indifferent. The whisper of your fear, soft, soft. How bright your words, how dark your anxiety. The bloom of your hope, how sad, how withered. Your life and mine united in this flight.* Beloved, at daybreak, I receive your farewell.
Doña Encarnación* laughs in the shadows. The federalist ribbons in your peinetón* dance at the fiesta of the mazorqueros,* the gavottes whirl, the lanceros turn.* And amid the hullabaloo of this red-draped fiesta,* along with your pupil, I drink in the heartbreak of my disgust.
Notes
* Estampa Federal: This historical "sketch" or "impression" (estampa) refers to the struggle between the federales, who advocated a loose confederation of states without centralized leadership, and the unitarios, who advocated a unified Argentina with Buenos Aires as its center. The country was led for nearly twenty years by federale chief General Juan Manuel de Rosas, who ruled the country with an iron fist. Rosas demanded fierce, demonstrative loyalty from every citizen, and conducted a reign of terror to intimidate and in many cases exterminate the opposition.
*lilac: Blood red was the omnipresent symbol of the Rosas regime. Citizens were compelled to wear certain articles of red clothing at all times--waistcoats and hatbands for men, for example. Wearing blue, the color of the unitarios, was not only forbidden, but punishable by death. Lilac is purple in color, that is, a mixture of red and blue. The image of lips tinged with lilac suggests conflicting sympathies.
*flight: Many unitariofamilies were dispossessed and forced into exile in Brazil or Uruguay. In the first verse, two lovers plan to flee the repressive regime together, but the girl changes her mind at the last minute ("I receive your farewell"). In the second verse, they both rejoin rosista society, as reflected in their attendance at the red-draped fiesta of the mazorqueros, and the narrator bitterly watches his beloved, her hair decorated with red ribbons, dancing gavottes and lanceros with the paramilitary officers.
*Doña Encarnación: Doña Encarnación Ezcurra (portrait, above, right) was the wife of General Rosas and also the brains behind the Mazorca, a paramilitary death squad that conducted the reign of terror during her husband's regime. Note the slogans inscribed on the portrait: "Long Live the Federales. Federation or Death. Death to the Unitarios."
*federalist ribbons in your peinetón: The peinetón was an outsized decorative comb that upper-class ladies of the rosista period wore in their hair. They also wore compulsory red hair-ribbons (moños federales) to demonstrate allegiance to the federalist cause. In the portrait above, Doña Encarnación sets the style for the women of nation.
*mazorqueros: Members of the Mazorca.
*gavottes, lanceros: Popular dances of the era.
*red-draped fiesta: The original text merely says "fiesta roja," literally, a red party, but Rosas required that the venue of any official function be decorated with gobs of red bunting. The mazorqueros would certainly have observed this rule, and the image also underscores the blood-thirsty character of their actions.
Here's another piece on the dissolution of Juan D'Arienzo's first orchestra in early 1940, and the bandleader's plans for going forward. This one's from "Antena" magazine.
"...Juan D'Arienzo has formed his new orchestra. We saw him a few nights ago on Corrientes Street. In D'Arienzo we observed not the slightest sign of worry or disquiet. Smiling and optimistic as always, he spoke to us about his stay in Montevideo and his satisfaction with the experiences he'd had during the summer. "We spoke, and very superficially to be sure, about his return to the microphone of Radio El Mundo. Juan D'Arienzo is in no hurry to return. He worked a lot over the last year, and during this summer his work has also been quite intensive. A man who works that hard has the right to rest, and that's exactly what Juan D'Arienzo is planning to do. Of course the outfitting of his new orchestra concerns him as be the case for must one who must maintain such a quasi-mythical reputation and prestige.... "As for the singer, and D'Arienzo didn't say this, it seems that it will not be Carlos Varela, as he at first indicated. Now it's said that the vocal collaborator of the D'Arienzo orchestra will be the Uruguayan singer who has for some years been known by the pseudonym of "The Red Prince."* "This in summary is what as of now we can anticipate concerning the new orchestra formed by Juan D'Arienzo, whose popularity and admiration among the public has been heightened during this period."
* "Red Prince": Alberto Reynal, itself a pseudonym of Enzo Gagliostro. Reynal did in fact sing with D'Arienzo, recording his first side with the band on 1940-04-12 and his last on 1942-04-29. [See Alberto Reynal discography]
EL YACARÉ ("The Alligator") Tango, 1941 Music: Alfredo Attadia Lyrics: Mario Soto
For me, tangos by the Two Angels--bandleader Angel D'Agostino and singer Angel Vargas (right)--always have an uplifting feeling, even when they sing of sadness or loss. Sometimes the atmosphere at a milonga can feel really heavy, and then Tres Esquinas or Madreselva comes on, and everything changes. I feel like I'm getting a second wind, and I could dance all night.
Here's one of my favorite D'Agostino songs, the bouncy, oft-heard "El Yacaré." The title, which means The Alligator, refers not to the fearsome marine reptile but to the nickname of a wildly popular jockey of the 40s, Eliás Antúnez, so called because he used to ride in the pack until the very last minute, then pounce on the finish line like an alligator on its prey. Remember, not all tango lyrics are about lost love or duels to the death! Some are about drinking, gambling, mother, flowers, the sea, or tango itself. And then there's this one, all about a jockey.
Es domingo, Palermo resplandece de sol, cada pingo en la arena llevará una ilusión. En las cintas los puros alineados están y a la voz de “¡Largaron!” da salida un afán. En el medio del lote, conteniendo su acción, hay un jockey que aguarda con serena atención, ya se apresta a la carga... griterío infernal. Emoción que desborda en un bravo final.
¡Arriba viejo Yacaré! Explota el grito atronador. Todos castigan con rigor, pero no hay nada que hacer, en el disco ya está Antúnez. Sabés sacar un perdedor, ganar un Premio Nacional... Muñeca brava y al final el tope del marcador siempre es tu meta triunfal.
Un artista en las riendas, con coraje de león, tenés toda la clase que consagra a un campeón. Dominando la pista con certera visual el camino del disco vos sabés encontrar. Las tribunas admiran tu pericia y tesón y se rinde a tu arte con intensa emoción. Se enronquecen gargantas en un loco estallar, cuando a taco y a lonja empezás a cargar.
It's Sunday, Palermo* glitters in the sun, Hope rides on every horse* in the ring. The thoroughbreds line up at the ribbon And at the shout of “They’re off!” they leap out of the gate. In the middle of the pack, biding his time, A jockey waits with quiet poise. Now he's getting ready to charge...an infernal outcry... He hits the home stretch and the crowd goes wild.
"Come on, Alligator!" The deafening cry explodes. They all flog like crazy But it’s no use: Antúnez* is already in the winner’s circle. You sure know how to pick a loser To win a Grand National... "Wild Angel"* and at the end the top of the scoreboard, is always your triumphant finish line.
An artist at the reins, the courage of a lion, All the marks of a true champion. Surveying the track like a sharpshooter, The path to the winner’s circle is in your sights. In the grandstand they all marvel at your tenacity and skill, Your winning ways have got them all wound up. In one crazy outburst they yell themselves hoarse When hell for leather* you start your furious charge.
Notes: *Palermo: El Hipodromo Argentino de Palermo, Buenos Aires' main racetrack. *Horse: Pingo, Arg. slang for a good horse. *Antúnez: Eliás Antuñez (b. 1907), legendary jockey known as El Yacaré, won the Gran Premio Pellegrini in 1941 and 1950 and the Gran Premio Nacional in 1949. *Wild Angel: Muñeca Brava. I don't see any evidence that this really was one of Antúnez's horses. The name may be fanciful. *Hell for leather: The original is a taco y lonja, literally, by heels and by leather strap. Sounds like "hell for leather" to me. Could this be the origin of the English phrase?
Here's our subtitled video of CANTA, PAJARITO ("Sing, little bird") as recorded by Carlos Di Sarli on 10 March 1943. We hope it will enhance your enjoyment of the song as you listen and as you dance.
