There are times when a voice, an orchestra, a style, and perhaps something else, indefinable—soul, divine grace—come together in such a way that all those sounds, packed into three minutes, are transformed into a masterpiece. This happens with the tango Sur as interpreted by Aníbal Troilo and sung by Edmundo Rivera.
Many times—as it occurred in this case—years have to pass before the elements are fused to produce such a marvel. The piece is played by other orchestras, sung by other voices, to no avail. It comes out flat, undistinguished. Decent, acceptable, no more than that.
[Pic: Homero Manzi]
When Homero Manzi wrote the lyrics of Sur he had just received a diagnosis. He had turned forty a few days before. Now they told him it was the end. Just when he was starting to think he was getting old—we all do at that age—he realized that he was too young. A few months of life, maybe a year, was all he had left.
Then he took a long, tender look at his childhood. Childhood is one big fable. Objects speak. Animals and children understand one another. Adults are always smiling. Homero Manzi recalled his old neighborhood, his barrio. The barrio of childhood always seems haloed by the warmth of the sun, surrounded by aureolas of light. The walls bounce the ball back to you, the sidewalk jumps over its own cracks [El acero se dejan saltar sobre las rayas], and the blacktop helps bicycle tires to roll more smoothly. A child’s neighborhood is always his playmate.
And then his first love bursts into memory and the emotions well up. The fragrance of the new bride’s cologne mixes with the smells of the barrio,
tu melena de novia en el recuerdo,
y tu nombre florando en el adios...
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.
[your bridal tresses in my memory
your name flowering on a goodbye
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.]
Today the barrio of Pompeya is in the center of Buenos Aires. It used to be to the south. Like all neighborhoods that are on the uncertain border between city and country, Pompeya included both pavement and gardens, single-story houses with courtyards and invasive housing blocks. In the first decades of the century there was barely an echo of the distant hubbub of the city. The blow of a hammer striking the anvil and the chirp of a saw cutting timber were the sole sounds of the barrio. When the noise stopped, utter silence fell upon the streets and houses.
This could be the key. Edmundo Rivero was also born in Pompeya. When he sang Sur, he was not repeating somebody else’s emotions. He was remembering.
Sur... paredón y después…
Sur... una luz de almacén…
[The south, a big wall and then...
The south, a light from a warehouse...]
The big wall still stands. It’s sort of a tango relic, not unlike Rivero and Troilo’s performance, which took a long time to arrive and will never be surpassed.
[From Musica y poesía del tango by Antonio Pau (Editorial Trotta, 2001) Chapter 54, “Sur," Translation by TangoDecoder.]
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