Tuesday, August 5, 2014
For me, one of the tremendous pleasures of a walking town is that, freed of a car, I become part of a throng of people who mingle, talk, and congregate. What follows is fascinating — where people congregate, some folks naturally want to entertain and others listen. I love New York City for that thrilling chance of stumbling across great street talent, while doing nothing more than hurrying from Point A to Point B. On my first trip to the heart of Mexico, at the invitation of my friend Ariadna, I encountered equally enchanting musical surprises.
In Mexico City, remarkable voices boom out across Chapultepec Park. Mexico City is an urban giant of the most congested kind, with a constant rumble of old taxis, busses, trucks and cars, but in Chapultepec Park, one can walk among trees and breathe. Street vendors line the pedestrian zone, selling everything from snacks to caps. Without an ounce of shyness, they advertise their wares by singing at the tops of their lungs.
“Is that music?” my new friend Helene asked me, when I said I just had to capture this street symphony on video.
“Well, they’re singing in tune, in sequence, and they end their phrases in a consistent descending minor third. Yes, I believe it’s music.”
Especially noteworthy was the ice cream vendor who continued to sing without break as he scooped helado for his customers — his remarkable breath control produced a volume that could have projected to the last row of the Metropolitan Opera House, were he onstage.
More obvious perhaps was the talent we encountered in the beautiful colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. In the open-air courtyard of a restaurant improbably named Mamma Mia, we heard a guitarist, Severo Barrera, whose virtuoso fingerwork punctuated a folksy sense of line and phrasing. Another evening, in the Hacienda de Guadalupe, a dancer of outsize ability taught fluid, acrobatic salsa moves to a group of eager learners. His baseball cap on backwards, a bemused smile on his face, his encouraging “Uno, dos, tres — Quatro, cinco, seis, siETe” was like music above the lilting recorded track.
The real “battle of the bands” came out at night, in El Jardin, the town square, with its rows of clipped laurel trees, in front of the many-spired, neo-gothic Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel. There, on a Wednesday night no less, people of all ages milled about; couples held hands, children scampered, teens laughed, until all hours. Three different mariachi bands played with zest in different corners of the park, punctuated by a boombox accompaniment for some hiphop dancers. No boombox could compete, however, with these large mariachi ensembles, each composed of multiple violins, trumpets, and guitars, led by an enthusiastic singer or two. Fresh players, young guys in their embroidered black bolero jackets and trousers, red silk cravats tied at their necks, sat on benches with their violins or trumpets in hand, waiting their turn.
Above it all, the bells of the churches in town began to peal, even at midnight. It was not just a feast for the ears — it was a true fiesta.