WORDS BY JUAN PABLO PROAL AND MARCO TULIO VALENCIA PHOTOS BY DAVID MURRIETA AND MARCO TULIO VALENCIA TRANSLATED BY MARTINA NEUS Mexican street musicians are like cats: You either love them or they cause your entire body to physically spasm in disgust. I am fortunately of the former persuasion and so was more than happy to head around town and chat with the men and strangely-no-ladies-whatsoever who bust their backs, balls, asses, and feet just to bring a little happiness to the city. Or a little torture. Whatever the case, here is a tiny glimpse into the never-ending musical adventure that is their day-to-day lives. Édgar Alberto Méndez Hernández, roller organ Vice: For the benefits of readers who have never experienced the unmitigated aural bliss of the instrument, roller organs are like giant, prehistoric iPods that hold eight songs. Do you get tired of playing the same droning melodies? Édgar: I don’t really have a choice, do I? Hahaha, indeed you don’t. Is it true that when roller organs stop working, the recorders inside can be reset to whatever you want? That’s what I’ve heard–in Puebla there are some of those. Do non-music-lovers ever get rude with you? Yes, some people say: “Change the song already, it’s the same thing every day.” But since it is a special roller, I can’t change it. What is the weirdest experience you’ve ever had? So far, nothing. Nothing outstanding? No. Come on, something to tell to your friends? No, so far I haven’t experienced anything. Manuel Ledesma, mariachi guitar Vice: This is a dangerous area. Are you not scared? It’s a bit dangerous, but mostly it’s just people selling illegal drinks. We have a commission here and to tell the truth, we are against the practice, those of us in the Mariachi Commission. We have informed the delegate about what’s going on–he just doesn’t care. There’s some other delinquency, but we’re on the lookout for people causing trouble. The mariachis have always been the security on the square; the police not so much. They did just start restoring the square though, so it’s a lot cleaner than usual. There are still plenty of drunks, but they’re getting rid of them. When did you decide to take up the Mariachi trade? It’s a family thing. My dad, grandpa, they all were mariachis. My children will be too. My grandpa used to play Mexican large guitar; I play regular guitar; my oldest son plays the vihuela, and my other son plays violin. And the drunk dudes don’t try to be too clever by half ? Doing this turns you into something of an amateur psychologist. You get really good at telling what kind of people you’re hanging out with and whether or not you should be hanging out with them. Naturally you get some pig-headed people, some drunks–but you can tell from a distance if they’re really going to be trouble. Sometimes some of my band mates decide to take a chance with the borrachos, but we still warn them, “Heads up, those guys are wasted.” Thank God it has always gone well. Do you think the great Mexican serenade tradition has been lost? It’s fallen off a little bit, but in part that is because of the economic situation. We still play serenades to all types–poor, rich, middle-rich. What do you think about the iPod? Well, it’s pretty. Young people today are very alert and they like all kind of music–but they are still into mariachis. People still come and ask for music by Alejandro Fernández, Vicente Fernández, and Pepe Aguilar. Fernando Castro Barreda, quena Vice: How did you get into the quena? Fernando: I started playing quena after having an embolism. My biological clock was altered by the shock and I was just worn out all the time. I saw a quena at an antique shop, and I bought it figuring that the inhaling and exhaling would be like doing exercise without the physical exertion. That’s how I recovered from the embolism’s after-effects, and I’ve been feeling good ever since. I would have guessed you’d been playing a lot longer. How many songs do you know? I have two notebooks, each with 300 scores in them, but I can play almost all the songs by ear. I made a discovery that allows me to play quena in a wild way, as if I were a mariachi. I don’t use flats or sharps, and I play directly in a natural tone, as if a singer was singing in his natural tone, and that way I can play anything by ear. The only thing I haven’t been able to play is rap and reggaeton, because they’re too repetitive. But everything else is game? That’s quite a range. Yes. It’s based on the idea that opera singers will often do their own operatic interpretations of well-known Mexican rancheras, and vice versa. Some ranchero musicians will make rancheras out of classical music and opera, and some are actually very good singers in a classical sense. Jorge Negrete and Pedro Vargas for example. Do people ever hastle you while you’re playing? The police sometimes. I’ve been in jail twice for “causing a breach of the peace” but it is always just the usual corruption. I pay them 400 pesos and they let me go. It hasn’t happened lately though, I mostly play in the zona rosa downtown or in Madero, where they let me stay. Itzcuauhtli, Prehispanic instruments Vice: What’s the name of your instrument? Itzcuauhtli: Its name is huehuetl; in náhuatl language, which means the venerable old man of the water. How do you play it? It is a percussion instrument. I play it with my hands or with a pair of drumsticks. How did you learn it? By oral tradition, ears, and practice. Where does the instrument come from? It comes from the central part of the country, of México. We don’t know the specific point of origin. We have references in Malinalco, we have references in Puebla–there’s evidence of many places where the instrument used to be played since before the arrival of the European invaders. What other instruments do you play? Usually the teponaztli (wooden vertical drum); the ayacaxtle; the tlapitzalli, which is a flute; and the tortoise shell, which right now is hard to find because of the animal situation. Is there any greater significance to the music you play or is it just for entertainment? What I am doing is creating harmony in the space around us. They used to do this ages ago. Montezuma did it for Cortés, when he got here, on what now is known as the streets República del Salvador and José María Pino Suárez. If you go to that corner there’s an engraving that says this is the place Cortés was welcomed by Moctezuma. It was a welcoming gesture more than anything (welcome to our world, to our way of being) which, unfortunately, the European invader never understood. For anyone with a Western mind this is sorcery, but it really isn’t–this is just about creating mental and spiritual balance. Fermatta, guitar, saxophone, one of those square bass guitars without a headstock like the guy in Tin Machine had Vice: Why are you playing in the streets instead of being rich and famous on TV? Fermatta: We are not as attractive as the musicians on TV. But, we’ve been practicing for years and it’s a shame those other musicians are invited in while we’re left out here. Since our hearing sense has been developed, we can catch other player’s mistakes which common people don’t notice. We are professional musicians, but we are not commercial because we don’t have the publicity. Still we are at anyone else’s level. Even a true master like, say, Kenny G? Yes, we are at his level. The problem is that we don’t get the information as musicians. There’s no support, not even in the schools. Here, the earliest you can learn music is playing flute in middle school. Music should be taught at nursery school and everyone should be a musician, even just an amateur. Music develops the right side of your brain, it helps you in math, in psychomotor coordination, in lots of things. You go to Russia and even farm workers have an education. That’s why Mexico needs more musical support. Mexico is a country of musicians, the land of the mariachi. Here in Mexico there are really good musicians, but all our best musicians are playing in Switzerland, in France. They are in the best folkloric orchestras. Namu, a bunch of drums Vice: What kind of drums you guys got there? Emmanuel, Namu drum leader: Yembe, sacba, kundun. What can you tell me about them? They are a thousand years old. I see. How did you all get interested in the thousand-year-old drums? From teachers. Carin Cayte, Abdulai Tiarra, Ali Cambara, they are some of the teachers that have taught us. [Just to save you the trouble, none of these names check out on Google. I’ve got no clue what these dudes’ problem is–Ed.] Don José, norteño sax Vice: How’s the night going, boss? Don José: Well, it’s very quiet even though it’s a Friday. We have some weekends where nobody comes to see us, but we also have weeks where we get to work every day from Monday to Thursday, and then during the weekend there’s nothing. You never know. You need to be ready for a fight waiting for your chance to come. That’s how it is if you want to earn your bread and butter. Takataka bands are legendary because you play at parties for days without stopping. What’s the secret? Look, I’m not going to deny that there are drugs at the parties where we play. When I had more nerve, I used to do anything I could get my hands on. We could play at parties for days. Who even organizes that kind of party? Hang on a minute. [At that moment a Lobo Lariat with huge tires pulled up and Don José talked with one of the passengers, a guy with an evil-looking mustache and a huge cowboy hat. After a couple minutes he turned and said “Sorry, the chance came,” and took off. We hope he made out OK–Ed.]