Music
“I was playing my guitar and lying underneath the stars,
Just thanking the Lord for my fingers.”
— Paul Simon, LIncoln Duncan
A band plays in a processional at the church in Teotitlán del Valle, Oaxaca.
One of the things that I had hoped to accomplish during my time in Oaxaca was to become better acquainted with the many musical traditions enjoyed in this part of Mexico; to my disappointment that hasn’t really happened, but now I’m at least vaguely familiar with the sounds of some of the more widely-known styles: the deep, rhythmic thumping of cumbia; the fun, simple backbeat of ranchero; the sweet, vibrato-laden excesses of mariachi, to name but a few.
Each region in Mexico has its own folkloric and romantic traditions that are expressed through music, and Oaxaca is no exception. There are traditional songs here that are required accompaniment for any and all calendas (street parades), played by raucous brass bands at top volume. (I can hum along with these songs now, having heard them hundreds of times.) There are also story-telling songs which local singers seem obliged to perform at every opportunity, especially the Oaxacan classic “La Llorona,” a mournful tune about a woman driven mad after mistakenly drowning her children in a fit of jealous rage. Fun stuff!
Live music is everywhere here—in the restaurants, bars, and, literally, in the streets. Calenda bands can be hired for any occasion (weddings, graduations, church groups, neighborhood fiestas); sometimes two or three different bands will be blasting away just a few feet apart in competing celebrations.
Many of the small towns that dot the landscape outside of Oaxaca City are famous for their local youth music programs, nurturing the brass, wind and percussion players who will, in their turn, grow up to create bedlam in the streets of the city. On numerous occasions we’ve also seen roving groups of trovadores, bedecked in traditional black robes and tams, playing Spanish songs on guitar, mandolin and bass that in some cases predate the Conquest.
A group of troubadours works the crowd in the Historic Centro of Oaxaca.
Here in Oaxaca you don’t just hear the music of Mexico, but of the world. At the Zócalo on any given evening you might find an orchestra playing selections from the classical repertoire; a 15-piece marimba band performing Cuban danzón (to the delight of spiffed-up old-timers who dance to this sedate, sensual music); Andean buskers playing “My Way” on pan flutes and charangos; and solo acts singing covers of every song imaginable, to the soul-less accompaniment of a band-in-a-box electronic keyboard.
Mariachis serenade a family in the Zócalo.
And speaking of marimbas: one of my favorite sights (not to say sounds) is that of the portable marimba band, comprised of two men who shoulder their antique instrument and walk from storefront to café to restaurant, plunking down the marimba and banging out a rhythmical but generally unrecognizable melody (due in large part to the notoriously bad tuning and tone of the crude, hand-made wooden blocks). They play a number or two, pass the hat among any witnesses who haven’t already fled, scoop up their marimba and march off down the street in pursuit of their next victims.
Marimba on the move.
Perhaps catering to the tourist sector, many restaurants now play Pandora streams of classic rock, soul, Motown, jazz and the Beatles, which leads to frequent double-takes on my part and a sense that I have wandered into Bizarro-Land. The one time I entered a McDonalds here (driven by intestinal distress to find something bland to eat), they were playing Steely Dan’s “Babylon Sisters” over the speaker system, as children cavorted in the Bouncy House and mounds of jalapeños accompanied each order of McFish Fillets.
Being a musician myself, I always tip the restaurant performers and, sometimes, the street buskers as well—often impoverished men playing the accordion as their wives and children look on from the curb. I follow a simple, inviolable rule, based on the fact that Americans, on average, know only three “Mexican” songs: La Cucaracha, The Mexican Hat Dance, and Cielito Lindo (think “Ai-- ya-- ya-- yai!”). Because Cielito Lindo is by far my favorite of these three, I automatically tip a musician if he or she is performing it in any way, shape or form—even on a dusty old marimba. Perhaps not surprisingly, I part with a lot of pesos in this way.
When we came to Oaxaca I brought with me an old acoustic guitar, on the off chance that I’d get to play with local musicians and learn about Mexican music. My wish came half-true. As I’ve mentioned before, we were invited by our neighbors to a house party back in October, and a friend suggested that I bring along my guitar just in case. A small group of musicians was playing Beatles on the patio, and when their performance was abruptly ended by a torrential downpour we all retreated inside to jam on acoustic instruments. A few weeks later they invited me to a rehearsal, and the rest, as they say, is history.
The oddest thing about this encounter for me was the fact that these were Mexicans whose passion is to play American and British classic rock of the 60s, 70s, and 80s—which, as it turns out, is exactly the kind of music I’ve been listening to and playing nearly my whole life. It also makes them the darlings of the local expat crowd, who flock to every performance to swoon over the band’s renditions of songs from their youth. These guys refuse requests to play the music of Mexico, or any songs in Spanish for that matter (sorry, Cielito Lindo!), but they love to rock hard—which is what, amazingly, I have found myself doing on a borrowed electric guitar for about 6 months now.
It’s a family band (father/daughter + father/son), which has made things even more fun for me, as it provided a shortcut into the authentic interpersonal connections that I was hoping to experience in Oaxaca but had despaired of finding. At our rehearsals, the talk abruptly shifts from Spanish to English and back again without a bit of warning, giving me invaluable listening experience but also a touch of whiplash. Playing great songs, with people I’ve grown to love, at interesting venues around this Mexican city—not to mention sitting at the kitchen table with the family before rehearsal, snacking on roasted chicken and drinking mezcal—has provided some of the most unforgettable, pinch-yourself moments of my time here.
Rockin’ with The Geckoz.
The connections I have forged with my bandmates—made possible by a fluke of where we ended up living—transformed, virtually overnight, my life here in Oaxaca, and helped me turn a corner from being a stranger to being a welcome member of a local family. It is all more than I dared wish for, but it also makes it that much harder to leave. Despite the inherent sadness of my inevitable departure from Oaxaca, the band has managed to remain philosophical about it all. It’s been a great ride, we all agree, but no one will admit to thinking that the story will end here. As previously mentioned, a family member is getting married, and we’re already discussing my return in November to play with them at the wedding. After that we’ll see what happens next.
They say that when you travel, you end up learning as much about yourself as you do about the places you visit. One of the things I’ve learned is that I cannot last for long, wherever I am, without creating some kind of music. It is truly a universal human language, as well as a frictionless conduit through which the most intimate and gratifying feelings may pass between people, even among total strangers. Without access to this conduit I am not my complete self, and I am never happier than when making music—especially with, and for, other people.
Looking back, it’s true that I haven’t learned as much about Mexican musical traditions as I would have liked. That said, here are a few things that, after a year spent listening to all kinds of music in Oaxaca, I think I can assert with some assurance:
In their musical tastes, Mexicans are vastly more romantic that their American counterparts.
Playing (and singing) in tune is overrated.
There is no such thing as “too loud.”
The accordion has never gone out of style here, and probably never will.
Incredibly, #4 may also apply to the tuba.
Mariachi is unquestionably the best music in the world to get drunk to.
I will miss all of it.
