Later on, starting in the 70s and until his death in the 90s, Astor Piazzolla's music evolved into the Tango Nuevo and his jazz influences became clearer, and he started going beyond, into longer, larger compositions. Some of those longer works remind us of the evolution of Ellington in his older years, his concertos and oratorios.

What the years of despair and the nightmares of a twisted social and political life did to the country was prophetically in his early music that very few of us listened to, shocked by the realization that it was the reflection of those things we had in our heart, new things that could be and were being composed by Piazzolla!

The music that Tango Number Nine offers here is Argentine tango at its best, exploratory, open hearted and freely accepting the influences of jazz to the point that at times it's difficult to determine when one ends and the other starts.

It's a rarely performed music and not readily available in the States. This music - not traditional tango dance pieces and not exactly Tango Nuevo - is unique in its appeal to both tango and jazz fans. Using this seminal material as a foundation, Tango No 9 makes it their own, true to the original feeling, retracing the master's footsteps and bringing a fresh perspective to this passionate music.

* * * *

Tango No 9 is a rather heterogeneous group. Odile Lavault, bandoneon player, is Parisian and yes, she also plays French cafe music of the 20s and 30s, as many other tango musicians did or were influenced by in the early years, when Paris was where so many Argentinian players and singers were always welcome... After all, our greatest icon, the singer Carlos Gardel, was French. Catharine Clune is the musical director and plays the fiery violin that reminds us both of the early John Frigo and of the Buenos Aires melancholy in the style of Suarez-Paz.

Another original touch: Trombone player Greg Stephens replaces the customary bass and brings his long well sustained support to the melodies. Joshua Raoul Brody is the man at the piano, with the same strong influences of an almost operatic drama that Argentine tango players have kept alive in their styles. His musical ideas result in the cohesive style of the group and its collective improvisations and blending melodies that also remind us of the democratic structure of the best Jazz.

* * * *

"Yes but... It's the "real thing" or not?"

Relax, stretch your legs under the table, savor your drink and listen. If you are alive and you aren't ashamed or afraid of your passions; if you don't fear either exploration or discoveries, and specially if you enjoy changing... Then it's "real", as you put it. It's just the next step, that's all.

Tango Number Nine

The night is a perfume.
The night is a black dog searching the streets for your door.
The night has a complaint from long ago
A wound
A forgotten harbor...
And the night brings you once again
To the place where we gather
As if solitude were a carnival of ghosts.

You arrive like the mist that hides the islands and strands the vessels of a distant land.
Your voice is that lament, that melancholy of abandoned gardens
And the promise of another dawn.

Tango...
Once, everything was said and done.
The gods had turned their backs on us
And time started flowing and devouring our hearts
Because we were far, alien... busy in the narrow ways of others,
Without passion or rebellion, without a mere piece of oblivion to our name...
Broken... Distracted by false signals from another realm...

But you slapped our face with your insolent passion.
You came to show us the rose of the swamps
And the moon reflected on a blade
That once killed out of fear and despair.
You came with the broken Southern Cross
And your dreams turned into rags.

Your name was the name of the rebellion
And no closed door, barrier, empty fields
Or houses abandoned to the flood
And streets left for the dust to cover
In a land where everything has been forgotten
Could prevail against your fire.

"Here I am," you said, and you stood there,
Waiting for the sign....
And when it came; when the bandoneon started
To weave more mist and more melancholy
For a violin to thread in silver
You looked at us straight in the eyes
And burned us in the flowers of fire of your heart.


Carlos Vicente Suarez
Born (at a very tender age)in 1940 in Parana, Capital of Entre Rios Province in Argentina. Working Class ancestors, anarchists, syndicalists, hard working folks, veterans of the Spanish Civil War. Writing poetry since I was 12. Publishing since I was 16. One brother, also a writer... but better. Left the country in a hurry in 1967, when the government started to sound and act just like my extended family. Photojournalist, combat photographer in Vietnam, studio photographer, student, independent scholar, living in NYC and upstate NY. (Masters in Latin American Literatures and PhD in Symbolic Anthropology) Started writing stories and a play or two in 1980 when I came to the Mission District of San Francisco. Translations, essays... Love lots of Jazz and Piazzolla's tangos, storms, cats, Cuba, Ireland, venison and roasted duck, strong minded women... Birth defects: I represent myself, nothing and nobody else. I despise TV and newspapers, Hollywood and politicians, fads, fashions and trends... ketchup and canned beers, loud anything...

©Copyright Carlos V. Suarez, 2000.

 
 
 
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