Zitarrosa: The most Uruguayan singer of them all

Alfredo Zitarrosa (March 10, 1936 – January 17, 1989) is one of Uruguay’s most emblematic singer-songwriters. When he became famous in the 1960s his record sales rivalled The Beatles’ in Montevideo. His commanding voice, heart-wrenchingly poetic lyrics accompanied by a traditional four-piece guitar quartet and his sharp suits and Brylcreemed hair were instantly recognisable. He took Uruguayan folklore music and made it cool. “He showed that […] you didn’t need to dress up as a gaucho to play those styles,” said one of his contemporaries.

His most well-known compositions include Adagio en mi país, Qué pena, El violín de Becho and the musical poem, Guitarra negra.

A poet whose lyrics depicted social injustice and a lifelong member of the Communist Party he was exiled from Uruguay during the dictatorship between 1976 and 1984. On his return a multitude turned out to welcome him. However he died as many world class musicians do here in Uruguay. Admired but struggling to pay the bills. I’m reminded of the unjust fate of blues musicians in Mississippi.

His popularity remains today. In 2016 to mark the 80^th anniversary of his date of birth, a massive concert was attended by tens of thousands.

Despite the fact that he’s one of the most influential singer-songwriters in Latin America, there’s virtually nothing written about Zitarrosa in English. His Wikipedia entry in English is surprisingly lengthy but a very poor translation on Wikipedia. However it translates  some of his lyrics and is worth looking at that for that alone.

I was moved (to tears actually) to read a very personal story by one of my favourite guitarists Ney Peraza on Facebook. So I called him up and asked him if I could do a translation. Learn and share.

ALFREDO by Ney Peraza

The only time I ever heard my old man sing was on Uncle Ruben’s birthday in Paso del Borracho. The whole family was sitting in the shade of a huge vine playing cards. My dad lost and he had to sing a song. So he sang El Taipero by Zitarrosa. He actually looked like Zitarrosa and when he began to sing, it was Alfredo’s voice that I heard coming out of his mouth. He sounded exactly like him, or at least that’s what my childish ears recall, probably enhanced by the admiration I felt towards the two men who were both short in stature, hair slicked back, and whose voices inspired immediate respect.

When I was a kid, I used to say that I was a Wilson supporter like my father, but in reality I was much more attracted to the Frente [Editor’s note: the Frente Amplio, the political coalition currently in government in Uruguay]. The mystique, the rebellion, youth, and most of all, the songs. Those songs that played all day long on speakers placed on the sidewalk outside the committee offices of the local branch of the Frente. They were heroic songs. They moved me and I did not know why. The Olimareños, Viglietti, Numa and the immense, powerful, compassionate voice of Zitarrosa.

I remember my excitement as I heard the crackle of the loudspeakers in Plaza de los Olímpicos and that voice of thunder that drew applause after each sentence. The whole neighborhood was streaming to the plaza. They were going to get to hear Zitarrosa sing! As I think about it now I am reminded of the red circles drawn around each bullet hole on the walls of the committee and the word ‘bullet’ written next to each circle. At first, my father did not want us to go because it was a political event organised by the Frente, but Zitarrosa’s being there was too much. My father’s admiration won over the political differences and we went too. The plaza where I played every day had was swarming. Zitarrosa was a hero to everyone present. This was a rite. With the masses of mates and thermos flasks [classic drink carried around by 99% of Uruguayans], Peruvian ponchos, beards, berets, banners, fliers, stickers and the looks of hope on people’s faces, it was as if Artigas had come to sing [José Gervasio Artigas, the father of Uruguayan independence].

Then came the time of silences, secrets, fears, unanswered questions, books and records hidden away, despair, people you knew who disappeared, gunshots, sirens, chanchitas, roperos and camellos [all three are types of vehicle used by dictatorship to round up dissidents and others], death, neighbours and uncles and aunts who had been locked up, visiting days, military marches on the radio and communiques by the dictators. All my musical heroes left the country and disappeared from the radio.

It wasn’t till years later that I heard Zitarrosa again–on a cassette at a friend’s house. The excitement of listening to that voice again was compounded by the adrenaline of doing something dangerous. Listening to banned singers was a coming-together and an act of resistance.