Futuros Murguistas
by Alejandra Baccino
Fue en noches de carnavales que escuchamos al pasar, la pregunta de aquel niño:
¿Qué es una murga, mamá? Murga…
Murga es una golondrina que en su romántico vuelo,
barriletes de ilusiones va recortando en el cielo.
It was during Carnaval nights that we heard, while passing by,
the question of a child: “What is murga, mom”?
Murga… Murga is a swallow that, in its romantic flight,
cuts kites of dreams into the sky…
La Milonga Nacional / Farewell song 1968 / Lyrics: Carlos Modernell
Childhood had not been particularly easy for Washington, or Cabeza, as he was known around the neighborhood. It was due to a bet that ended with Washington’s head stuck inside a bucket when he was just a child. His entrepreneurial skills and wish for quick money had also started about that time. He seized that situation as an opportunity to organize a neighborhood bet on the actual measurements of his head. Of course, to give it a certain veil of objectivity, he would allow the participants to check that his head was actually stuck. He was not a trickster, after all. He had been blessed with calmness and an ability to think before acting that many adults would be jealous of. I still hadn’t arrived at the old Conventillo, but I can only imagine the look of surprise on people’s faces when they saw an 8-year-old recording bets with a green bucket on his head.
As it was for many kids in the neighborhoods of Palermo and Barrio Sur, life was challenging.
Even though the actual conventillos, or tenements, had been dismantled decades ago – in order to allow for more modern housing to be built— the sense of community remained. The buildings were inhabited by low-income and working-class people, including Italian and Spanish immigrants, Sephardic Jews, and Afro-Uruguayans, creating a very rich cultural mix.
Like his peers, Washington grew up with a lot of freedom to roam the streets. Early on, he learned about hierarchy, about avoiding potentially violent situations, and about poverty and misery; more than any child should ever have had to experience.
However, in that small corner of Montevideo, he also learned about art. He learned about the art of human kindness whenever the nurses in white would visit the conventillo, or when local organizations would organize soup kitchens around special dates, and, most importantly for him, he learned about music.
As in most buildings with the strong presence of a grandmother or grandfather, regardless of blood relationship, tango was the soundtrack of their life. Chola, as everyone called her, was the conventillo’s grandmother. Many didn’t know her real name, where she came from, or whether she’d ever been married. After finishing the morning chores, she would tune into the radio station and fix clothes for her wealthier clients to earn some extra pay. Most of the time she wore a stern look of concentration, but every so often she would stop mid-stitch and gaze at the horizon with a cloudy look in her eyes. Not tears – women like her had never been granted the right to cry – but more of a mix of nostalgia and reminiscence. People liked to make up different stories about her, to pass the time: some attributed her longing to a past lover, while others were convinced she was thinking of a long-lost relative somewhere in the interior of the country. Although she tried to hide it, you could tell she wasn’t from the city. But I was never able to learn the place she’d called home. Despite her solemnity when listening to tango, Chola was friendly and playful. She would pretend to be tough and unapproachable, but she loved all the kids and youngsters from the neighborhood, as she’d helped raised them and keep them in line. Most had turned out alright, hard-working and law-abiding citizens, but I am sure she had questioned herself for those who hadn’t, even if she never mentioned it.
Ever-so-bright, Washington had proposed a deal to Chola. He would go to the market for her every day in exchange for some coins (and the crusty end of the baguette, which was always missing, without fail, but never mentioned). Chola was getting old, her knees couldn’t support her for long hours, and her joints were becoming painful, so, whenever she had a few extra coins, she would ask Cabeza to help her around the house. She enjoyed the kid’s company, and she was very much aware of how discipline and responsibility would be beneficial for him. Almost every afternoon, for one reason or another, he would go to Chola’s house, and tango would always be playing in the background. After a few attempts to teach him how to dance, she had quit, as his feet didn’t seem to be able to follow simple choreography. However, he had loved the music – the percussion, the melody and the background noise inspired by rebellion. Even though tango had become popular and classy over the years, on both shores of the Rio de la Plata, Chola had explained to him that this hadn’t been the case originally. It had emerged in the late 19th century, in the working-class slums, as a fusion of lower-class European immigrants, African traditions, and local dances. Washington was too young to understand the nostalgia and lost-love themes of tango; what resonated with him the most was the percussion, the beat that, whenever he heard it, would feel like a calling of his African ancestors. Chola had perceived this, and something had stirred inside her as well, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. To be able to inspire and cultivate such passion in someone else, especially a kid, had touched a fiber she had thought long lost. One afternoon, she had decided it was time for Washington to connect with his roots. As in much of Latin America, most Africans had been brought as slaves, dispersing over the years to different parts of the continent. Uruguay was no exception to this, and similarly, most of them didn’t have any information about their origins. Maybe that is why they had started candombe, as a way to connect and preserve their heritage through the beating sound of the chico, repique, and piano drums.
Finally, it was February in Uruguay. This was Washington’s favorite time of the year. The first half of summer was over, and that meant that the capital was slowly getting its rhythm back, but most importantly, carnival was imminent. Most of the people in Barrio Sur and Palermo had started preparing in January. The Llamadas Parade, let’s say the Calls, where the comparsas displayed their talent with the drummers, the dancers, the Mama Vieja and the Gramillero, had always been the life of the neighborhood. The neighbors would prepare homemade meals to sell, rent their balconies for a better view, and help out with the makeup, the dresses and preparation of the drums. They did not only take advantage of the financial push the carnival provided, but it was also a chance to share with the society a part of their own culture, their music, the aroma, and the streets that for a few days a year were the epicenter of joy.
Like most Montevideanos, especially those from certain neighborhoods and social classes, Washington had grown up listening to the comparsas practicing all throughout the year. Although he enjoyed it and could not conceive of a late winter night or summer afternoon without the background beating of the drums, he never felt the urge to be part of one. They were a part of him, but his hands didn’t ache for the rhythm.
He never felt guilty, less afro, or less Montevidean because of that. It was a part of him, but not his whole.
One afternoon, he went with Chola to a practice session. The Calls were approaching and that meant daily practice.
“Only 5 pesos?” Chola asked, fully knowing the answer. On these afternoons, Chola would cook a few batches of pastelitos and tortafritas to sell to her neighbors who were also hanging around the comparsa. She didn’t really need Washington’s help, but she liked having him around and it was also her way of making sure he didn’t get into trouble, despite knowing that she was probably only going to get about 70% of the money. It wasn’t theft, not at all, Washington had a knack for sales and a whole strategy.
“Don’t worry, Chol. Look, I can see that there are some other people who came here to watch, and they don’t know what a wonderful cook you are, so I had to give them a taste, and then they’ll come back and buy more. Maybe it won’t be today, but for sure in the coming days they’ll show up and are likely to bring their families too. It’s about investment. Also, after all this talking, I became hungry myself, so I had to eat something.” He smiled naughtily, showing some of the permanent teeth slowly setting into place.
“Alright, alright… let’s hope they come back then,” she said gravely, but secretly proud of the boy and her culinary skills.
“What’s that over there?” Tabaré asked Chola. “It’s like they’re building something.”
Tabaré was the person you went to if you wanted the latest gossip. He didn’t have a stable job, so he spent his days looking after the parked cars around Barrio Sur. Since it was not so far from the Old City, with all the banks and public offices, many vehicles would come and go during the day, and he would help the owners park them, take care of them while they were at work, and make sure the ladies got to their cars safely. He was a nice man with whom life hadn’t been precisely fair. As he was out and about all day, seeing things, listening to people, he was also the neighborhood’s source of information for the latest updates. “I just like being informed,” he would exclaim whenever someone accused him of being a gossip.
“It looks like a tablado, don’t you think?” Chola remarked, after looking over her shoulder.
“A tablado? After all these years?” Tabaré replied unconvinced, while walking towards the workers. “In case of doubt, go straight to the source,” he thought.
Washington, who was always aware of the conversations adults were having around him, was also looking in that direction trying to figure out what tablado meant. “Tablado, tables… a barbecue? Yeah, right, who would do that for poor people.” It was too good to be true. What else could it be, then?
“What are you mumbling about?” Chola asked. Then she added, “You’re distracting me.”
“Is that really a tablado?” he replied.
“Do you even know what a tablado is?” Chola laughed at him loudly.
“Well… not really. What is it?” Washington asked, looking at Chola expectantly.
“Basically, it’s an improvised stage. But it’s so much more than that… It’s a place where the neighbors gather, where they laugh, cry and reminisce. Every year, the murguistas go from tablado to tablado, from one working-class neighborhood to another, drinking grapamiel to warm up their throats and lift their spirits. They gift us a show of colors, dreams, vocals and memory. They make people laugh with satirical performances of politicians, and the ironies of life; they prompt us to reflect, and they motivate us to want to be better in this new year. For a few hours each night, they cause us to forget, and the entire neighborhood is at peace and harmony,” Chola explained.
Washington, visibly confused and slightly exasperated, exclaimed, “OK… but WHAT is it?”
Chola chuckled. For a moment there, she had exposed her own vulnerability to what murga and tablado meant to her, but failed to notice that there was a child wanting a factual response to something he did not understand. Calmly, she rephrased it: “A tablado is where the murgas come to stage their show each February, preparing for the big competition to determine the winner for that year. Their shows are comprised of four parts: the presentation, which is an opening song to introduce their identity, and which sets the tone for the rest of the show; the salpicón, which addresses current topics in catchy songs; the cuplé, which is a small sketch, usually mocking society or political issues of the previous year; and the closing is the retirada, which is their goodbye song, and usually includes a final message about love, life, community… it depends.”
Washington replied, “Oh, OK. Is it a tablado, then or not?” He was trying to hide his excitement, but he had been completely fascinated by what Chola had said. A group of people travelling night after night, bringing joy to the people, openly mocking the part of society he would never be a part of, having fun and sighing about a better future… just for hope, just to possibly be good enough to compete for first prize. These shows were made by the people for the people, so even Washington, in his young and difficult life, could understand that the prize was much more than money. It was recognition.
Over the next few days, he went with Chola to assess the progress of the tablado. First, it was the stage, then the scaffolding for the lighting and speakers, then the few rows of white, plastic chairs.
Finally, it was opening night. A lot of people had gathered to welcome the new tablado after so many years of feeling slighted by society. After so many years, they finally felt seen again.
The few rows of chairs were occupied very quickly by the neighborhood politicians as well as the promotion unit responsible for the show, and the main participants in the daily life of the conventillos. As soon as the sun set, the neighbors started approaching their own beach or plastic chairs and some tables. Others brought tortafritas and pastelitos with quince to sell, as well as chorizo and hot dogs. This was viewed not only as an opportunity to enrich the soul, but also their pockets.
After a few welcoming words, the lights dimmed, and the audience started applauding. The first murguista came out onto the stage. Washington had never seen anything like it, and his first reaction was to laugh. The guy’s face was white as a mime, with bright-green eyeshadow, glitter, dark lipstick shaped in a mocking smile. It wasn’t scary or ridiculous, it was just… right. It matched the tone. It matched the costumes, also bright and disproportionately big. He sung a high note, which seemed surreal coming from such a creature, and it was suddenly followed by a chorus of the other murguistas. Despite the variations in make-up and colors, you could see there was a theme. After his initial shock, he let himself follow the rhythm, the movement, and the mesmerizing harmony of their raspy, unpolished voices. The audience exploded in shouting and applause. After a few minutes, they regrouped, and expectation was in the air. Washington didn’t know what had hit him – it called to mind an open-air cinema, about which he had only heard, but more amateur and improvised. It was far from perfection, yet in that setting it seemed just perfect. At times, their scripts would overlap; they would laugh at their own jokes, or miss a cue, but in that imperfect scenario, it fit like a glove.
The next part was a bit boring for Washington, as they talked about politicians and things he had only heard by name; so he focused more on the expressions and reaction of the audience. It was pure joy. They laughed, they shouted in agreement and booed in disagreement, based on the character doing the talking; but nobody took it seriously, it was all part of the show, a permission to voice and release their everyday struggles.
The last part of their show was much more solemn. It started with a small child asking their mother, “What is a murga?” Much like he had asked Chola before. After experiencing it on his own, even briefly, he understood the first paragraph and the sentiment in Chola’s explanation. “Murga is the fraternal magnet that attracts and hypnotizes,” the song continued, “Murga is the eternal smile on the lips of Pierrot… [He would later learn that Pierrot is a comical character in Italian and French comedy.] …Quixotic buffoonery, warmly applauded; it is the smile of a child responding to a song.”
The first murga group was succeeded by a few more. For a while, Washington helped Chola sell some more pastries, while looking, and already, judging the groups. Their make-up, their voices, their presence. As the night progressed, the moon came out, and slowly the older people started walking back home. After running out of hot dogs and beverages, others were counting their earnings and picking up their stuff.
The neighborhood had recovered something that Washington imagined it must have had a long time ago, but had never seen. He realized that day that he didn’t need money, a suit or an expensive car like the ones that would sometimes park on the streets of Barrio Sur. He didn’t need any of that to feel satisfied (although he still didn’t know that word). His enjoyment would be in making people laugh, in making fun of them but with them, and in seeing Chola and all the people who had, one way or another, looked after him, smiling and dignified.
That night, something changed in Washington. It gave him a sense of purpose, a dream that was attainable. He didn’t know how to sing, act, sew or do make-up. But he could learn. He knew, however, that he had something more valuable. He had the capacity to look misery in the face, and take her out to dance; to transform his own misfortunes into opportunities to make people laugh and feel. And what, above of all else, is murga, if not that?
Come next February, he knew he would be back on that stage. But this time, he would be on the other side, looking the audience in the face.
And he is.