(part 2/2) A brutal, unknown tango by infamous poet Luis Rubistein – and two stars enacting it

This is the second half of the article, you can find the first half here.

As we saw in our introduction to the tango poet Luis Rubistein, his lyrics have a markedly dramatic style and a sometimes even nasty edge, like in the previously-mentioned, controversial tango Un crimen, which relatively graphically describes the murder of a wife or girlfriend by her own lover. Today, we will focus on another tango by Rubistein with a similar, yet more ”complete” story. This tango has remained totally forgotten, but fortunately there is one recording we can use to “reconstruct” it, along with the photos below, on which two important singers act out the story of the tango, for their many fans back in the day. And one of them is still very popular with you dancers even today, because of his grand role in Golden Age tango music. Let’s introduce you to both of them, before moving on to our little piece of theatre.

The male role in our lyric is played by Francisco Fiorentino, the archetypical “orchestra singer” in tango history: around 1940, Aníbal Troilo’s band was gaining staggering success playing great dance music that, at the same time, gave plenty of central space to Fiorentino to sing, which was a kind of exciting musical blend not seen much before, and one soon adapted by the other famous orchestras. Formerly, the main two styles were either a singer being the dominant factor (tango canción, example, like the recording we will analyse today) or the orchestra being the dominant factor with a singer only singing a refrain (estribillo, example, lyrics by Rubistein as well). Needless to say, this new “boom” brought both Troilo and his singer Fiorentino great fame, instead of just one of these two sides. In what we consider the best dance music nowadays, “Troilo-Fiorentino” still plays a central role, sophisticated and lyrical but not too complex (the reason why later orchestras are often less danceable).

Yet, other than most similar singers in the early 1940s, Fiorentino was not quite new to the scene. He had been a refrain singer for a very long time and even a bandoneonist for various orchestras, combining these two roles as well. And even though some current-day Argentine snobs look down on Fiorentino for not having a really fancy voice, he had already made quite the name for himself during those earlier years. It’s therefore not surprising we find him portrayed in this little play below, together with a popular, female tango canción singer. We cannot really say Fiorentino was top-of-the-line popular back then, in the mid-30s, but apparently still famous enough to be considered for a fan feature like this. And how about a sweet, unknown fun fact? The most likely first example of “Troilo’s” later success formula is actually also sung by Fiorentino, with the orchestra of Roberto Zerrillo. We can sometimes find clues and roots in unlikely places.

The other star featured in our little story below is Mercedes Simone, more known for her singing of “full tangos” than dance music and for her acting in several tango-related movies. However, before you dancing-minded people fall asleep, she has actually made her contribution to our dancing universe too, and for a female singer, actually a relatively big one. Simone has left us… two refrain tangos with the Adolfo Carabelli orchestra, very danceable tangos indeed, and while there obviously isn’t a lot of material, she still seems to beat the female competition…. simply because of how little refrain singing/dance tangos have been recorded with female singers. Anyway, it’s unfortunate that we do not have any recordings with Fiorentino and Simone together, but we can at least reconstruct the concept with the photos below, which we will now finally discuss.

fiorentino simone tango theatre

“What have you done?!, a tango by Rubistein”, an eye-catching title for this feature, about a tango that “tells(/sings, literally) of profound drama of love and of remorse”. On the first photo, you can see Fiorentino standing with a gun next to a shocked Simone, on the second, a crowd of neighbors surrounding the killer and the killed, and on the third, Fiorentino bringing flowers to her grave, which is like a tango metaphor for a guilt that cannot be undone. Most of the feature, well, features the lyric by Rubistein while the captions next to the photos explain what situations from the lyric are being enacted.

I always love the relatively natural expressions of tango stars on relatively informal photos like this (do browse my blog, or search by musician or singer if you want to see more), because nowadays we are mostly familiar with portraits and other arrogant, exaggerated, artificial scenes typical for famous people, which was as much the case back then as it is today. In any case, let’s listen to the only recorded version of this tango, interestingly enough also with Simone. Apart from the lyric, the music was also composed by Rubistein himself, but in a tango canción we often can’t really distinguish the melody that well.

In the story, a man kills his lover by gunshot in her chest, and while the story is told from the man’s perspective, we first hear the woman screaming these words to him, “What have you done?!”, while lying down, bleeding from her chest. While the man shudders and neighbors arrive at the scene, screaming “Murderer!!” at him, she continues with words he would never forget: (not fully quoted for conciseness) “What have you done, my sweetheart, when I’ve always been so good to you…”. And the look of her eyes would always follow him, in his life in prison. And in the end, bringing flowers to her grave, he wants to tell her that “inside my chest, your quavering voice is an eternal burden”, but of course, his cruel vice is irreversible, and he’s condemned to loneliness ever after.

This tango reminds me of a few tangos in which a man returns to his former lover’s grave and only silence awaits him, and even though the root for his ‘betrayal” is much more likely a betrayal in love than a murder, we can never really know what the lyricist intended. In the case of Rubistein, it’s almost pathetically explicit, and we will surely not excuse martial violence, but Argentina back then was a very macho society and a lot of tangos, as a product of their times, show, let’s say, the dark underside of the life of the streets. This is why even a gruesome story can teach us something about the cultural context of tango music.

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(part 1/2) A brutal, unknown tango by infamous poet Luis Rubistein – and two stars enacting it

More often than not, the creative masters behind some of your favorite tangos have remained totally hidden to the wider public of tango dancers and even, yes, to some of the craziest aficionados out there. Some of those classic songs are rightfully associated with the orchestras and singers that recorded them, but often, this was just an adaptation of a piece of music by an external musician plus a poet or lyricist who came up with lyrics for it (or the other way around…). Today’s article will teach you a bit about one of those poets, and a second, upcoming part will introduce you to a totally unknown composition by him – along with a nice surprise for fans of a certain singer, who is the prime personification of the Golden Age of tango singing.

In the early 20th century, Argentina was attracting a sizeable inflow of Jewish immigrants from the Russian Empire, an environment plagued by antisemitism, which culminated in mass-scale violence (“pogroms”) and other forms of persecution. These Jews and their descendants have greatly contributed to Argentine/Buenos Aires culture and intellectual life until the present day. And unsurprisingly, that also means there were Jewish tango musicians and lyricists, even though they are not necessarily among the most famous orchestra leaders or singers. The Russian-Jewish influence can be traced back to orchestra musicians, composers, a few orchestra leaders, and also a few poets. The most influential of them, was, arguably, Luis Rubistein, a man of enfant terrible characteristics and an original and quite dramatic poetry style.

rubistein collage

Luis Rubistein was born in 1908 in Buenos Aires as the son of fresh Jewish refugees from Dnipro, a town in present-day Ukraine. As a boy, he was expelled from primary school for throwing an inkwell at his teacher, who told him off for writing poems in the classroom. Without any further formal education, Rubistein, a real street kid, educated himself by mingling with the tango crowd and dedicated his life to the world of nightclubs, cabarets and tango music. As a tango poet, he should be recognized for his dramatic lyrics, some of which have been eternalized as amazing dance classics (example, example, example, example, ejemplo, בייַשפּיל: “I am a prisoner of your unlove!“). These lyrics sometimes contain situations and language that have the power to make you feel particularly touched, even uncomfortable, essentially provoking you into feelings or memories of melancholy, loneliness and in some cases even disgust. Rubistein is one of the poets who recognize tango both as an intellectual pursuit and something spiritually connected to the ”barro” (“mud”), the often tough life of ordinary people in a raw, sprawling city.

I sometimes wonder how life must have been for these Eastern European Jews who(se parents) fled persecution in their homelands and, later in their lives, even had to endure the torturing thought of their relatives being brutally exterminated by the Nazis. It’s impossible to find out what went through their heads at the time, but let’s listen to a lyric by Rubistein which is possibly one of the most emotional, atmospheric writings you will ever find in tango: Charlemos (translation), “let’s dream together, on this gray, rainy afternoon”, an illusion of romance with an revealing, yet cryptic ending. We can interpret it simply as a song of heartbreak or missing love, but we will never know what the true intentions behind such melancholy were, from the author himself. What’s more, the absolute number one lyric you need to get familiar with is Nada más (translation), my personal favorite tango, and the absolute summit of pathos in tango:

“How much snow will there be in my life…
without the fire of your eyes!
And my soul, yet lost,
bleeding through this wound,
will lay down and die.
On the cross of my yearning
I shall fill my soul with darkness.
The blue of the sky will cloud
above my distress
of watching you depart.”

And beyond these sorrows of love, there are also lyrics describing the typical life in Buenos Aires neighbourhoods (Carnaval de mi barrio) and a few heavily using lunfardo, the tango language of the streets, but to reinforce my point made earlier about the ”uncomfortableness”, Rubistein also wrote perhaps the most questionable lyrics in Golden Age tango music: in Un crimen, a remorseful murderer explains somewhat melodramatically to a judge how he killed his wife, throwing details at us we don’t really want to hear. Here, Rubistein shows his emotionally provocative side, in a negative way, but it’s also quite immersive, a result of that same ability to pull you into his lyrics.

In the second part of this article, we will see a similarly rough story (just don’t take it too seriously, it’s pathos after all!) which you will be able to understand better due to knowing a bit more about the author and his signature writing style. So, be sure to stack up on some calming pills and fasten your seatbelts for another ride into uncharted tango history!

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Let’s “imagine” a lost Fresedo song

(I recommend reading my previous article about Fresedo which might foster your understanding of some of the topics below…)

Around 1935, like a few other orchestras, Osvaldo Fresedo’s music was starting to become more “mature” in one way or another, leaving behind the more “simple” and traditionally guardia vieja sound of the early 1930s and earlier. Arguably, the recorded music from around the years 1933-1935 (example, example) shows us a transition into the typical “sugary” style of Fresedo that would culminate into the, in my not-always humble opinion, perfect Fresedo dance style we can find from 1936 (example) until early 1939 (example) and that starts to decline immediately afterwards. However, the point of today’s article is not to give a further, broad overview of Fresedo’s career, but to zoom in on a specific aspect of it and provide wider context from there.

One of the main goals of my blog is trying to show the huge gap between, on the one hand, recorded tango music, such as the examples above, and on the other hand, the huge repertoire of unrecorded music that we will never be able to listen to. And yet, there are some clues that can make us at least imagine ourselves how that shadow repertoire could have sounded like. In the little caption below, mention is made of Fresedo’s orchestra playing a song called “La reja” (“the bar(s)”, as in; a part of a window or balcony, giving us the association of a serenade) which, as a matter of fact, has never been recorded and is thus a piece of proof of what we are missing out on. That being said, let’s now find some context for this particular song and for how it could have sounded under the creative direction of a Fresedo on Golden Age Fire.

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fresedo ray la reja2

For starters, “La reja” is a virtually unknown tango in the typical style of Carlos Gardel (recorded in 1928). This implies a somewhat melodramatic, yet passionate scene, trying to evoke a longing for the melancholic and nostalgic streets of a Buenos Aires that has remained stuck in time. In other words, a kind of tango that may involve heartbreak, just like many tangos normally do, but also more particularly one that is undeniably tied to the faded glory of that passionate city many of us will always keep yearning for. “La reja” is the tale of a lady who fell in love with a womanizer because of his beautiful, seductive words at her balcony, but, alas, his love was not sincere and she would never really overcome this abandonment.

“La reja” can be included in a loose, but not insignificant category of tangos that tell us life stories from Buenos Aires and its outskirts, stories with themes varying from local Casanovas and tough guys, beautiful women, beggars and prostitutes, to boys playing soccer and young cart drivers with their horse. I personally really enjoy listening to this type of tango because of the whole (nostalgic, melancholic) cultural context that is much more present than in most of the typical lost love songs that only mention ”me” and ”you”, so to say. I am currently obsessed with the lesser-known, violin-orgasmic tango ”Barra querida” by Pugliese and Jorge Vidal (1950) about lost youth, with lines spoken to absent friends from the past, such as ”Come on buddy, let’s get drunk, because I might never be able to come back to my neighborhood, so let’s toast to our gang, which will never return”.

In any case, “La reja” is not a poetically spectacular tango or anything, but it does enrich our image of an old Buenos Aires with its typical characters and tales. And more importantly, it would have sounded amazing as a Fresedo-Ray recording, and because we don’t actually have access to it, we need our imagination to ”create” that sound ourselves instead. To give us some clues about the musical style, let’s listen to the most popular Fresedo song from 1935, ”Isla de Capri”. This tango is quite upbeat, almost nervous, more so than the other Fresedo songs from that year, but “La reja” could have taken either direction, and the Gardel recording is actually quite upbeat as well, in comparison to some of his actual hits. Speaking of those Gardel hits, Fresedo did record one of them in the same year: “Volver“. Like with “Isla de Capri”, Ray is given more space here to sing more of the lyrics than what was possible in the old-fashioned, refrain-only singing (estribillo) that we see in previous Fresedo tangos.

”Volver” is, in turn, quite on the slow side and perhaps a bit too slow or even a bit tedious for most dancers, but Fresedo still did a great job adapting a tango made for singing into a warm, reasonably pleasant song. Anyway, let’s take a look at a third song from the same year, “Pampero“, which is not as upbeat as “Isla de Capri” but less sleepy than ”Volver”, and also has the extended singing new in Fresedo’s style. For some reason “Pampero”, even though little-known, feels like the archetypical Fresedo song before his true, slower Golden Age style set in: it is still quite rhythmical, but what makes it different from the typical older tango music is the affectionate lyricism that is unlike anything ever recorded before in tango music. I like to imagine ”La reja”, our unrecorded song, that way: having a bit of rhythmical emphasis, just like the Gardel recording, but also taking the Gardelian style of lyric and combining that with a lovely, sophisticated musical lyricism that we find to be lacking in both guardia vieja music ánd the mundane, undanceable guitars that usually accompanied Gardel.

However, 1935 also offers two popular Fresedo songs with limited singing (the aforementioned estribillo, a refrain or one part out of three) and of shorter length in general: “No me pregunten por qué” and “Recuerdos de bohemia“. Our lost song could also have been along similar lines, instead of the extended style discussed before. It is impossible to pin down which of these two directions “La reja” took when it was adapted by Fresedo, but it’s definitely worth it to just listen to the examples above and let your fantasy do the rest. In either case, we should try to imagine Ray’s singing as a cornerstone of Fresedo’s new style, which is tonally not unlike Gardel (every singer seems to have seen Gardel as an example) but slower than him in today’s song, which is even true in the relatively fast track “Isla de Capri” as mentioned above. I imagine Ray taking either one part or two parts of the serenade story and singing it with slower emphasis than Gardel did in the recording we have at our disposal.

Just like we’re not able to define whether one or two parts were sung, we cannot know for sure which parts Fresedo would have chosen for his version. The refrain of the song is actually the serenade, the sweet words sung by our ladies’ man, which I personally can’t imagine to have been included without the “intro” before it, the description of the romance that was going on. The strange thing, actually, is that this lyric feels like a complete story that is hard to cut in parts, while most tango lyrics have a third part that is never really sung in dance music and usually feels a bit different or awkward in comparison to the sung parts. You know, this Fresedo song might have even included all three parts of the lyric of “La reja”, as some kind of strange exception to the rule of tango dance music. We will simply never know, we can only guess. It’s more likely, however, that the song had at most 1 minute of singing, like in the Fresedo songs that had more singing than just the estribillo.

Anyway, the only thing still missing in this analysis are other versions of “La reja” than the original Gardel one, and out of the three that are available, the most important one to us is the estribillo recording by Canaro in 1927, strangely enough a year before Gardel’s recording. Why is it important? Because by extension of what was argued in the last paragraph, it shows us that an orchestra director made the actual choice of just taking the refrain that is the serenade, and leaving out the rest of the lyric that might give the listener more context about this serenade. Again, this is what the Fresedo recording could have been like lyrics-wise. The other two versions, very much post-Golden Age songs by José Basso and by Pugliese, are of lesser importance because they include the entire lyric, just like the Gardel version did, but I still recommend you to listen to them, because they do somewhat show what an actual, more modern orchestral version of Gardel’s song would have been like, even though pretty much worthlessly so in comparison to Fresedo’s prime years. And with that said, I hope this little journey helped you realise how certain songs could have sounded like, just with the power of your own imagination.

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“A wife in my life? No thanks, I prefer tango”

I cannot but observe our little tango sect as the perfect refuge for solitary souls and other complex characters, who probably have never really met normal society’s standards, but instead like to discretely convene in some random, rundown venue, just to hug some other hermits for a series of 12-minute illusions of romance, even if it’s just to forget about their real-life problems. Yes, that was an awfully long sentence, welcome back. In any case, I can offer you weirdos a little bit of consolation, because it turns out even the original high priests of this sect went through similar troubles themselves: once you’re married to tango, I guess there is no way out?

In the interview below Francisco Lomuto is asked something very upfront: “sir, why are you not married?” Well, probably for the same reason 90% of my readers are not married and that includes the writer, and also Anthony Cronin for some reason. And indeed, Lomuto declares he is so busy with tango music that he never really felt he could live up to the expectations of marriage. The workaholic admits he had enjoyed a romance here and there, but nothing ever lasted because “I simply do not have the time”. When asked, Lomuto acknowledges he might just not have met the right person yet, but due to his incessant working life, it still seems far from realistic.

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lomuto bachelor

Having tried to find some clues about Lomuto’s private life, I could not find any hints that he ever got married or had any direct descendants. Also, in general, I have never really noticed a lot of info about the family life of major tango artists, and it’s not hard to see why. The members of succesful tango orchestras and the famous singers lived very bohemian, unconventional lives full of professional pressures of the kind that Lomuto mentions in this interview. That is not to say that those musicians never got married or had children, because it would take some serious research to draw any firm, definitive conclusions about their private lives systematically. Intuition, though, points in the same direction as Lomuto’s life story above.

And to conclude today’s topic, it is also interesting to try to read between the lines a bit. Even though Lomuto himself declares in the interview that music was the reason for the absence of women in his life, we can only guess whether this was the whole truth. He may also simply have enjoyed limiting himself to short affairs with some of his female fans, because this was probably also a perk of being a famous musician, especially for wildly popular, handsome singers, but most likely not limited to them only. The point here is: who knows?

What I do know is that Lomuto’s discography contains a lot of let’s say, less serious tango music and other genres like foxtrots, just like Rodriguez and Canaro, and there’s definitely a distinct “macho” vibe in a lot of it. Let’s listen to a typical song in which Jorge Omar sings things like “I was born to love, I can’t stop myself, I am fascinated and driven crazy by the smile of a woman” and “to suffer for love is the joy of living”. Popular valses like Ay mi nena and Cuando estaba enamorado have similar topics. It never gets vulgar, but it is all a tad more playful and light-hearted than orchestras like Di Sarli and Troilo. In short, it’s very much possible more was going on in señor Lomuto’s life than what meets the eye.

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A cornerstone of Fresedo’s smooth sound?

It has been my intention so far to cast some light on barely-known musicians or songs in tango history. Today, let’s zoom in on the virtually unknown musician featured below, Adolfo Muzzi, born in distant times when Adolf was still a boy’s name like any other (sorry, Adolfo, you can’t help it either). Born in Rome in 1897, Muzzi was one of the many tango figures who were born in Italy and moved with their families to the then very “promising” Argentina, at a very young age. One can only imagine the influence of Italian (musical) culture these musicians or singers brought along with them, captivated by a new and sophisticated music genre that was just as exciting as their young and thriving new homeland.

Casting these nostalgic musings aside and returning to the topic at hand, what we can find about Muzzi is that he was the first violinist of Osvaldo Fresedo’s orchestra during at least twenty years. This meant he played an important role in how the orchestra’s musical style generally sounded ánd evolved with time, and probably also how individual arrangements were made. There is some element of speculation in that, but one thing we can say more for certain is that we can link Muzzi’s name to violin solos heard in recordings of this important orchestra. These solos can either mean the (multiple) violins coming to the foreground in a certain song, or simply one violin, which very likely was played by Muzzi due to his role as first violinist. And this blog wouldn’t be this blog if I didn’t proceed to invite you to listen to some of those violin parts in Fresedo’s music.

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muzzi, violin de Fresedo

However, before we continue, let’s talk a bit more about Muzzi and why he made an interesting pick for our blog. I generally prefer to discuss the music of the Golden Age, but we shouldn’t forget that other than the singers, who were generally young guys, many of the “veteran” musicians in the Golden Age were born around the turn of the century, or even before, and thus were a part of the music’s obscure beginnings as well. Muzzi actually played in Firpo’s pioneer orchestra from 1916 onwards, until he joined Fresedo in 1923. And before joining Firpo, young Muzzi had been playing in a local orchestra in the famous barrio of La Boca, at the time a hot spot of Italian immigration.

In other words, this man witnessed ánd contributed to the evolution of our beloved tango music throughout more than three decades. And yet… that’s all we can say! There’s no more info about him, the rest of his career or about when he died… and there are only a few, pretty early compositions on his name, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that list is incomplete. Another “unknown soldier” for sure! However, now that our scarce “intel” is sadly depleted, let’s turn to the actually available music to actually link Muzzi with something we can listen to. I shall discuss with you four songs from several stages of Fresedo’s career until Muzzi’s role in it seems to have ended, and our sweet sugary diabetes man continued without him for easily another three decades (or with him…. info is really scarce!).

Let’s begin with Alma en pena from 1928. In this era, tango music was still relatively simple and it’s harder to find particularly pronounced solos like the violin one we are searching for. However, after Ernesto Famá’s refrain ends at 2:30, it’s immediately followed by a violin solo that lasts until the end of the song. It’s not particularly spectacular, but try to recognize how this violin (or should we call it Muzzi?) tells its own story, perhaps as a response to what had just been sung, and perhaps to replace a part of the lyric that has remained unsung.

In a similar vein, let’s listen to Volvé (1932), just when the the orchestra started to evolve into its full Golden Age splendor. If you listen to the singing that starts around 1:35 (“Come back, look, please just come back! Keep cheating on me if you want, I won’t bother you with my jealousy…”), you can notice that the singer is actually accompanied by a violin solo that, in my view, really adds some extra sense of sorrow to the story being told in human words. I can assure you that, once you begin to consciously hear all the musical tricks that are being pulled off in tango, your listening enjoyment will increase even further! By the way, if you can, also try to hear how the violin comes and goes intermittently in the rest of the song.

Now, let’s move on to the kind of music most of you find more interesting, the Golden Age! Fresedo offers us a very exciting repertoire of recordings with Roberto Ray, and it’s hard to make a decision, but let’s single out a very popular song from 1939 (just before Fresedo and Ray parted ways) called Vuelves, not only because it’s an absolute dream to listen to, but also because perhaps the most beautiful element in that dream is … sí señor(a), the violin! Let’s start listening to Rays singing and specifically focus on what comes after 1:48 and at 2:08, namely the silky smooth violins that add so much emotion to Rays voice! An absolute delight to listen to, some of the best pieces of musical art ever produced in the history of tango. And now, after so many years of adoring this song and this style, we at least know a little bit of who was in charge of these violins…

You like Fresedo with Ray? I bet you do! Well, you’re lucky, because our next article will specifically focus on something that has to do with those years. It’s actually been in the works for a while, but once I get rid of my writer’s block, you can expect something quite interesting!

Finally, less popular among dancers but still very great, and more up-beat dance music, we shouldn’t forget Fresedo with Ricardo Ruiz in 1939, 1940 and 1941. The typical “sound” of these years probably involves the violin even more, and we can hear that in one of my personal favorites, Sólo tú (1941). In this song, actually similar to our previous ones, the violins get the role of accompanying the singer, almost like a duet but not with human words. Around 1:00, the violin introduces the singer instead of the other way around, and its solo role lasts until around 1:30, after which you can also hear bandoneon, piano and even harp clearly ”singing” along in the musical story. In any case, we could theoretically keep analysing Fresedo’s music this way until the end of time, but at least we now know a little bit about a person who was an important force behind all this splendid musical creativity.

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Arcieri, a typical ”Unknown Soldier”

As you might have noticed in my previous articles, a recurrent theme I like to place emphasis on is how incomplete our vision on Golden Age tango music is. This vision has been mostly defined by the actual recordings that were made and can still be listened to today. While in some cases the ”privilege” of studio recording does reflect who the most succesful and popular artists were, I can easily list some utterly painful cases in which there aren’t really any acceptable reasons as to why so much creative and high quality music has been lost forever. For example, in early 1940, D’Arienzo was deserted by all of his musicians, and the pianist, Juan Polito, went on to lead a key orchestra for several years that included D’Arienzo’s star singer Alberto Echagüe. Nothing was recorded.

I could easily list other examples, such as Troilo only being able to record 2 songs from 1938 until 1941, but for now, let’s focus on one specific and more obscure example of what we are missing out on. The photo below shows the orchestra of a certain Antonio Arcieri around 1935 and perhaps the most surprising element here is that the aforementioned Alberto Echagüe was its singer. Just a few years later, Echagüe would become one of the pillars of D’Arienzo’s powerful musical revolution that had begun gaining traction in 1935 and would foster a Golden Age for all the main tango orchestras. The few existing internet biographies don’t mention Arcieri’s orchestra in Echagüe’s career, so it might have just been a short stint, or… we’re once again dealing with something that simply hasn’t been documented all too well.

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antonio arcieri con echague

What makes this story even more confusing is that the (scarce and short) available articles about Antonio Arcieri don’t even mention the existence of his own orchestra around these key years of tango music history. A very interesting thing we do find however, is that all these bios mention Arcieri being a violinist in Ricardo Tanturi’s musical endeavours starting somewhere in 1920s and continuing throughout the 1930s and 1940s. This basically means Arcieri went on to play an important role in one of the classic Golden Age orchestras. But it also means that it’s quite possible that when Arcieri was leading his own orchestra, his style was similar to Tanturi’s. That’s an important conclusion, because beyond all this speculation, in one rare track we can actually hear how Tanturi’s orchestra sounded like in the early Golden Age! Exciting, right? I’ve always found it quite different from conventional Tanturi just a few years later, and yet, also positively similar and mature.

So, why is this important? I tend to argue that towards the rise of the Golden Age or perhaps even a few years before that, the main tango orchestras started developing a more mature and distinct musical style for their orchestras, whereas until more or less 1933 most of the orchestras pretty much sounded alike (this is the part the article where Theresa Faus is scripted to get totally tilted). In essence, that’s why I would have loved to hear how Arcieri’s orchestra, possibly similar to Tanturi’s, could have sounded like, especially with a singer of a caliber like Echagüe. But the sad conclusion is that we will never know, just like due to the lack of recordings, we can barely hear how Tanturi’s orchestra sounded like before 1940. And this is a pattern we see happening with several Golden Age orchestras (or singers who went solo and made actual music for dancing too) that became much more free to record music in the late 1940s, when the special excitement of the Golden Age years was all over and done with.

And yet, as a conclusion, fortunately there’s a small consolation for those wondering how Antonio Arcieri’s orchestra sounded like, because at least he did leave us one tango (head phone users beware of an annoying glitch at 0:16) in 1944 with Juan Carlos Miranda, who was arguably Lucio Demare’s best singer in the years before that. And you know what the funny thing is? To me, actually this song kinda reminds me of Tanturi before 1940. So, can you imagine this style with Echagüe as a singer? That’s some pretty cool stuff, right? At least you have the power of your imagination.

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How to survive Corona times? Learn from the best!

When you first began dancing tango, you probably couldn’t have imagined that one day, you would be stuck at home with no access whatsoever to any tango salon. Sure, maybe one day you would have some kind of back or knee injury and unable to go to the milonga, but that’s peanuts compared to all the milongas actually being closed. And… let’s say there’s a slight chance you aren’t quite the sports type, so without your musical calorie burner, how on earth are you going to stay fit?

Well, fortunately for you, once again your lord and savior shall be Francisco Lomuto. Yes, Lomuto, the original tango comedian who’s always leading the way in your life. Adult responsibilities taking their toll? No problem, just relive some of your best childhood memories. Has the love of your life just abandoned you? A strong drink’s ready for you, sweetheart. Feeling stuck in a dead-end job? Just move and laugh a little, for God’s sake. Feeling lonely? Let Lomuto be your wingman. Can’t decide which instrument to learn? Just play all possible ones.

And today, señor Lomuto brings his inevitable answer to all your Corona troubles. Let’s stay fit by swinging, and I am not referring to jazz dance or a form of liberal sexual behavior, because neither are a good idea in Corona times. Instead, just ride/swing the swing, like you used to do when you were a little kid. Simply put on some rhythmic tango music and feel the happiness hormones get to work again. Lomuto has your back.

lomuto swing

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Something not only tango DJs struggle with…

Are you reading this AND are you a tango DJ? My mathematical instincts tell me there’s a statistical chance of 65% that you meet both these standards. In case you do, before beginning with your tango DJ career, there was a 85% chance that you weren’t expecting just that one particular thing which would turn out to be tragically obvious later on.

Hell yeah, I refer to arriving for a gig somewhere and finding out that…. the venue’s sound equipment was bought somewhere in the 3rd century BC and that, in somewhat crude language, your audio for the night is essentially fucked, or that you have other unforeseen technical issues that are either related to your own laptop, cables, system or to whatever external technical obstacles there are left between you and what you actually arrived there to do, namely simply playing some nice music for a bunch of dancers, whose night is risking to become just as terrible as yours. And then… usually, there is some unexpected solution and you all live happily ever after.

Well, at least now you can finally comfort yourselves realising that you are not the only ones with these tales of bitter tragedy! Turns out the professional lives of those who made the music we play… were far from idyllic either. In the caption below, a still young-looking Miguel Caló is asked about ”the fear for the microphone” among artists, which seems most obvious for singers, but the famous band leader reassures us by saying not only singers suffer from it. In fact, Caló sheds some light on a whole different perspective of worry and trouble, one that most listeners are totally unware of: when a tango orchestra is playing live in a studio, everything sounds great, but how is it going to sound all distorted on the radios in people’s homes, usually under far from perfect acoustic circumstances? Well, all the musicians could do is essentially just hope for the best. Just like we tango DJs do. Life is far from perfect, after all….

caló microphone

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A ‘D’Arienzo Unknown’? History retold: a case like Mauré and Reynal

That’s quite a long text below, huh? But… how about a little game first: if I say ”Alberto Echagüe”, what orchestra will you immediately mention? But had I said ”Juan Carlos Lamas” instead, would your reaction have been just as quick? Well, if you note any difference there… that difference can be explained. Let me guide you into a bit of relevant tango history.

Some of the major tango orchestras had only one main singer at the time, but in others, this key role was shared by two or even more vocalists. Actually, even within one single orchestra, this could change over time, depending on factors like the popularity and/or skill of the singers involved, or the creative choices of an orchestra leader, or maybe just chance and circumstances. Let’s take a brief look at a few examples.

From 1935 to (late) 1938, Francisco Canaro’s almost exclusive singer was Roberto Maida, (click for a gem of a live performance) until Canaro hired Francisco Amor as a second singer and, crucially, he also let a big star, the orchestra’s veteran Ernesto Famá, return. In a music scene so full of rivalries and competition, Maida immediately quit the orquesta. From that point on, Canaro’s discography shows a different pattern: even though Famá was more important than Amor, both singers appear in Canaro’s recordings of those years, and (unfortunately, rarely) even together as a duet. That way, something fundamental had changed in the orchestra.

In the rich landscape of Golden Age orchestras, we see these two different ”trajectories”, so to say, coexist and/or merge all the time. In the case of Lomuto, Jorge Omar was the main singer for a number of years, but was then joined by his predecessor Fernando Díaz, apparently without any real issues. In fact, they also left us a number of interesting duets during various years, and they eventually left the orchestra together, continuing as a team elsewhere (just like Famá and Amor). Donato is perhaps the best example of a duet-rich orchestra, where Horacio Lagos was, admittedly, the most important singer, but essentially shared his post with not one but two other singers.

In the case of Biagi, during his first years we can see a lot of recordings both by Ibáñez and Falgás, but without any recorded duets. After they quit, Jorge Ortiz becomes the singer for a few years, until the old ”shared” pattern returns with (a different) Amor and Acuña. In Troilo’s case, Fiorentino remained the main flag-bearer for many years, just like Vargas in the famous D’Agostino-Vargas combination. However, in 1943, Marino was invited to join Troilo’s orchestra (without much envy, unlike Maida and Famá earlier), and they now had two main singers, who also appear together in a few duets. There are many more examples. Sometimes, orchestras had several singers, but only one of them was actually important, like in the case of Demare. Also, like we just saw, sometimes rivalries got fatal, but other times, things worked out just fine. As you can see, there are quite some variations.

Now, let’s focus on what is arguably the most popular tango orchestra, that of Juan D’Arienzo. From 1938 to early 1940, this orchestra had just one major singer, Echagüe (here’s a live performance for your enjoyment). And after D’Arienzo lost all his musicians including Echagüe, he came up with someone sounding rather similar, Alberto Reynal (left, on the picture below), a tendency which actually wasn’t uncommon. However, at some point in 1940 he also hired Hector Mauré (on the right, below), a young talent with an entirely different kind of voice. And even though Mauré is seen as much more important nowadays, both these singers were able to record an ample amount of songs. After Reynal left the orchestra, someone else joins (Juan Carlos Lamas) with, again, a voice quite similar to Echagüe, who eventually rejoined the orchestra. But in any case, both Reynal and Lamas were allowed to record a great variety of songs, so we can’t really say they were mere secondary singers left behind by one dominant star, like we see in some other orchestras (want an example? Take a look at Demare with Miranda, during that time only a few songs appear with a minor name instead of Miranda).

But then you say, what is really the point of this article? Well, the general idea of some of my earlier posts on this blog is that there is a lot about tango we don’t know, because the recordings we now have are only a part of the actual repertoire of Golden Age orchestras. They were playing live all the time, and probably had to follow the latest trends in their competition with other popular bands. If we follow that line of reasoning, the current discography of D’Arienzo doesn’t show his entire repertoire, and it also doesn’t show any songs that D’Arienzo and Reynal, shown below apparently working on something with D’Arienzo, may or may not have shared together.

Let’s just fantasise and even philosophise about a beautiful vals duet, which is common in other orchestras of exactly those years, like Canaro, Donato and Lomuto. Just imagine a thrilling song like this perhaps including the voice of Mauré too, or a popular recording by other orchestras like this one instead performed by D’Arienzo with Reynal and Mauré at a concert somewhere. Or how about their own version of the following duet? Such daydreams require some true thinking ”outside of the box”, and my reasoning is perhaps merely based on historical speculation, making up (?) things that actually may never have happened. But at the same time, it’s an interesting approach if you want to imagine how glorious the Golden Age of tango should have been for those lucky enough to experience it fully, in person. The recordings we now dance to only allow a limited view of how amazing those times must have been (…even though we are really lucky with how much was saved through recording). And the photographic material I have gathered like the picture below, only attest to how much will be forever shrouded in mystery.

d'arienzoreynalmaurépiano

Most of the factual information used in this analysis was based on my own knowledge as a  researcher, tango DJ and collector, but for some historical details and ideas I want to thank Michael Lavocah, a researcher and writer of a number of excellent books about tango history, like his book Tango Stories: Musical Secrets.

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Fresedo’s favourite song – inspired by Chopin

EDIT: There has been some discussion about the right recording belonging to the track title below. There are two recordings, one of which is posted below, but they seem registered with different composers. According to Michael Lavocah, the ”Tristezas” mentioned by Fresedo might be a different song altogether, which was perhaps never recorded. But it would be hard to draw any definite conclusions.

Most tango dancers today probably associate the major orchestras with a small amount of very famous recordings: for example, Canaro is often identified with classics such as Poema, Invierno and Alma de bandoneón, and when you think of Biagi, great hits like Quiero verte una vez más and Golgota presumably come to mind. But, how about the favourite songs of those orchestra leaders themselves? Let’s look at a little piece of evidence below. By the way, before we start, I recommend a similar article about Canaro.

In the article below, from the early 1940s, Osvaldo Fresedo talks about his favourite piece, which may come a true surprise to anyone familiar with his music. Sure, probably the number one song by Fresedo, for people nowadays, is Buscándote, probably closely followed by a number of very popular tracks with Roberto Ray, his champion singer from the late 30s. However: interestingly, as we shall see, Fresedo’s own preferences are not as obvious as our modern-day perspectives suggest.

But first, we need to discuss a small caveat. Fresedo is asked about his favourite ‘piece’, which may either mean any tango song he adapted, played and possibly recorded with his orchestra, or a tango song he fully composed himself. Many people don’t realize the following: many famous tangos were not composed by major tango musicians themselves, but by individual composers who either worked in tango orchestras, or on their own. In any case, sometimes their creations became popular and were adapted by orchestras that played all kinds of songs at the same time. These composers often collaborated with lyricists and poets to produce successful songs, that could perhaps become immensely popular as ”a hit of the moment”.

To cut a long story short: if we could ask Fresedo the same question with a slightly different choice of words, like ”What is the best general song you ever recorded?”, he may or may not have answered Buscándote, for instance. But even then, even if we just look at his favourite own compositions, it is quite remarkable that he mentions a completely unknown song from 1927, Tristezas (”Tristezas/Sorrows is my tango, the one I prefer above all others”), from a distant era when tango music was much less sophisticated than in the Golden Age. But, don’t forget that Fresedo was a real tango veteran with a very long career, even though most people nowadays probably don’t realise that. So, why did he choose Tristezas?

In the text below, Fresedo explains that he found inspiration in the work of classical music genius Chopin. At some point in the year 1922, Fresedo found himself suffering from a flu at home, yet his doctor allowed him to play the piano and practise, and so he did. On a misty afternoon, he started composing this song, Tristezas, inspired by the ”sweet, absorbing sadness” of Chopins music, who by the way also inspired Donato’s famous song La melodía del corazón. I am not very familiar with Chopins music, but the sadness in his compositions indeed mirrors so much of the melancholy we find in tango music, even though (!!!) we will never exactly know how much of it was indeed inspired by classical compositions.

In any case, just this one tango is very revealing in the sense that it shows a bit of Fresedo’s soul and passion, and even though nobody can say, because Fresedo is obviously not there anymore to ask, we may conclude that some of his more famous, later music may have been inspired by Chopin too. Now, in case you are a seasoned listener of classical music, it’s up to you to speculate on the question whether such an influence may indeed be widespread in the rest of Fresedo’s music.

fresedochopin

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