I CAN'T IMAGINE YOU WITHOUT MOONS OR GEARS
I IMAGINE YOU ON YOUR LONG NIGHT OF 29,
STANDING IN YOUR TIME OF DISTRESS SO CERTAIN IN YOUR CERTAINTY.
ODE TO THE WORKER MANUEL CAPELLA - 1973
TO HIS FATHER, TWO DAYS AFTER THE COUP
GALICIAN - MANUEL CAPELLA
A DOCUMENTARY BY ALDO NOVICK
In the late 1960s, factory life in the neighborhoods of Montevideo,
was as intense as student life.
In a factory near Maroñas,
worked Don Manuel Capella, Catalan by birth.
Capella arrived in Montevideo with his wife Juana María Hernández
and their young son Manuel, in 1949.
La Unión, Villa Española, Puerto Rico and Maroñas,
are neighborhoods that beat on the left side of 8 de Octubre Av.
and in the heart of that family.
20 years later, in 1969,
Manuel Capella debuted in the show "Uruguay Sings"
along with Daniel Viglietti, Washington Carrasco, Los Olimareños,
Alfredo Zitarrosa, Marcos Velázquez and Yamandú Palacios;
the Artistic Director was the Argentinean Omar Grasso,
who would unite the singing with the gesture.
Those first steps of Manuel's,
became known with the song "Se trata de caminar".
♪ Here, and everywhere, ♪
♪ look at what is happening: ♪
♪ some doors are opening ♪
♪ and others are closing. ♪
♪ And Man slave to Man ♪
♪ because of greed. ♪
♪ We must be determined ♪
♪ to end injustice! ♪
♪ Now is the time to walk! ♪
A PEOPLE UNDER CONSTRUCTION
♪ Many people wrote chamarritas, ♪
♪ and chamarras there are lots, ♪
♪ but there was one chamarra missing:♪
♪ the chamarrita of the elections. ♪
♪ Hunger, almost too skinny, ♪
♪ fiercely roams the tables ♪
♪ and the people are already ♪
♪ getting tired of promises. ♪
♪ Many people wrote chamarritas ♪
♪ and chamarras there are lots, ♪
♪ but there was one chamarra missing: ♪
♪ the chamarrita of the elections. ♪
♪ Indecisive Doña María, ♪
♪ careful where you go, ♪
♪ because the vote is something ♪
♪ that can't be sold, given or bought. ♪
♪ Many people wrote chamarritas, ♪
♪ and chamarras there are lots, ♪
♪ but there was one chamarra missing: ♪
♪ the chamarrita of the elections. ♪
I met Manuel through Alfredo (Zitarrosa),
back in 1967.
We only met a few times.
It was a time when pretty much all youngsters
were deciding what to do with our lives and building them.
Manuel went to work at Remington
and I joined the newspaper "El Popular"
so we stopped seeing each other.
We met again after the exile,
and we built a solid friendship,
that lasted forever.
♪ And in the quiet stares, ♪
♪ silence is screaming. ♪
♪ A student was killed. ♪
♪ They thought that they could stop ♪
♪ with just one bullet, ♪
♪ the whole cry for justice. ♪
♪ With just one bullet, ♪
♪ the whole cry for justice. ♪
♪ Let the criminals know ♪
♪ the people have memory. ♪
♪ They have the people face to face ♪
♪ with their living and their dead. ♪
♪ With their dead, still fighting, ♪ ♪ with their name in the wind. ♪
♪ Your name, which is everyone's, ♪
♪ comrade Heber Nieto. ♪
♪ Your name, which is everyone's, ♪ ♪ comrade Heber Nieto. ♪
♪ We're joining the fight with you, ♪
♪ Líber Arce leading the way. ♪
♪ Also with Hugo and Susana, ♪ ♪ with all those who have left. ♪
During the years of exile, Manuel, like many Uruguayans,
sent his letters through people who traveled to Uruguay.
Some reached their destination several months
after they were written.
It was the safest, and probably the only way
to avoid the censorship of regular mail.
Next are some fragments of letters received by his friends,
Julio Garategui and Nelly Segovia.
A story penned by Capella the Galician.
The other night we listened to some recordings that arrived
and I am glad to hear my people continue to sing beautiful,
and very positive things.
It's inspiring to see that we leave our mark
and that we continue to move forward.
As for me, I sometimes get some things written,
and we'll see if we get lucky.
I'll try to send you a tape, even if it's a homemade one,
with some song for you to criticize.
As for the record, it's almost ready despite some inconveniences.
I heard the Quilapayún's-- I already knew them,
but I heard their cover of the "Santa María de Iquique" cantata,
and thought it was a wonderful story, told through poetry, music,
and I proposed we did "América Vive".
We put together an amazing group,
with the advice of the folks at El Galpón.
To tell the history of America,
with texts from Ernesto Cardenal, among others,
and advice from Atahualpa del Cioppo.
With the emancipatory cry of Artigas defeated,
on the ruins of Paysandú,
and the corpse of Leandro Gómez,
the invasion of Paraguay is implemented.
The last ray of light in such great darkness,
the Triple Alliance.
♪ In the heroic defense ♪ ♪ of that people, ♪
♪ that fought to death, ♪
♪ for the right to life. ♪
I met Manolito...
back in the 1960s, the mid 60s.
Because we lived a block away from each other.
Manuel, Eduardo Nogareda, Julio Garategui,
Blas Nelson and Jorge Estela.
We put on a show based on... it's the 50th anniversary now,
of the book "Las venas abiertas" by Eduardo Galeano.
Based on that book, we did a show called América Vive.
And later we also did...
at the foundation of the center for Protest Songs, CPU,
there was a show, that was exactly in 1968,
held at the Odeon Theater.
He premiered -I remember- Alfredo premiered Peludo.
Daniel Viglietti premiered "A desalambrar".
There was Manuel, Yamandú Palacios,
Sabalero,
and Marcos Velázquez… I think. Yes, Marcos Velázquez was there too.
I met you, Manolo, in 1972.
And not necessarily for the album "Se trata de caminar"
but because of a previous record,
which you had made with Paco Trelles.
I've spent years telling you that the album is a testimony,
of what traditions, legends, superstitions are,
which are also memory.
Like a stone crossed viper sizzling at the Pampero,
it goes blocking rock by rock,
through slopes, valleys and hills.
Who knows when the Quebrada de los Cuervos gave birth to her,
and she comes to die for no reason,
over at Fraile Muerto.
The devil knows his story.
History of black arms.
History from stone to stone, to play the flute to the wind.
♪ He knows ♪
♪ no borders, ♪
♪ and knows no paths... ♪
Things were going bad.
It was a tragic moment for Montevideo,
for all of Uruguay. Emergency Measures, violence.
Galician was identified because he was a protester,
and the authorities didn't like my poetry very much.
So the time came when we said:
"if we don't leave, we won't make it".
We crossed the Uruguay River.
We meet in Colon and from there, went to Cordoba,
from Cordoba we crossed Bolivia, and arrived in Lima.
We went to Walter Tournier's and waited at the door.
He opens the door for us and Galician pulls out a label
from a salami,
and another from some cheese,
and says "Here, your mum sent these".
His mother had sent him a salami and a cheese
but we were so hungry that we ate both things on the way.
In 1996 we ran for Congress.
Luckily we didn't win.
But we had to raise some money,
even if it was to buy paint.
And at the Lamas house,
I organized a small club to raise some money.
Carlitos Benavides, of course, showed up,
and offered to help as always.
Pablo Estramín…
But what surprised me the most,
what really moved me,
was that when we were about to start the event,
the door opened and Manuel appeared,
Manuel Capella, with his guitar.
I hadn't invited him.
He hugged me and said, "I heard about this",
"here I am, to support you."
Go for it.
♪ From Bagé to Lapuente, ♪
♪ passing through Piraí, ♪
♪ From Bagé to Lapuente, ♪
♪ passing through Piraí, ♪
♪ La Chilca Hospital, Melo ♪
♪ and finally Cebollatí. ♪
♪ And in the marshlands of Rocha ♪
♪ I drank water from the San Luis. ♪
♪ it made me sick to the tummy ♪
♪ so I went to Chuy to heal. ♪
♪ And I took advantage and loaded ♪ ♪ as much as I could. ♪
♪ But they ripped me off♪
♪ when I went by San Miguel. ♪
♪ And in the end, through Villa Indart ♪
♪ I went to Livramento. ♪
♪ And that's when ♪ ♪ I changed professions, ♪
♪ and became a guitar player. ♪
♪ That's why... ♪
♪ to the stride I'm going singing, ♪
♪ my border chamarra, ♪
♪ on one side it's Spanish, ♪ ♪ on the other, it's Brazilian. ♪
♪ Smuggling Chamarrita ♪
♪ bordering along, ♪
♪ due a customs oversight ♪
♪ I smuggled her right in. ♪
Morales-Moralito: traveling on that bus to Cusco,
is worse than being in the Caribbean infested with pirates.
You had to push it over every bump.
It was impossible to imagine the chaos that was that bus.
We were sitting near the door of the bus,
and a couple gets on, both indigenous;
she was a young native with a sad face,
and we noticed she had some blood clot on her lips.
And behind her, the man speaking to her
in Quechua, but being very mean.
And the he pushed her and said something to her.
The Galician jumped like a spring.
"Why don't you hit me?" And he grabbed him by the neck.
He yelled at the driver to open the door,
the driver pulled over, opened the door,
and the native flew out the door,
as Galician taunted him: "I'll get off, so you can hit me."
I told him to let it go,
and everyone else went "let him go, let him go".
The door closed and we left.
When we were halfway through, the driver told him:
"It'll be worse now, he'll take it out on her".
Hey, Galician, come here.
Come to the counter one more time, brother, let's talk,
between two drinks, the night and the silence.
Hear what my heart wants to say to yours,
the luminous shadows, like two young brothers,
cradled, asleep in the guitar.
This is very serious, brother,
we look like two mad guys,
maybe we all are.
The baker at the corner, the poet, the crazy ones.
The murguistas, the girls from the neighborhood.
But crazy in love.
Crazy with life and sometimes crazy from so much deranged sanity,
useless, monotonous routine.
We left Lima, and headed to Cusco, with an unclear destination,
but luckily Nicomedes Santa Cruz, that wonderful black man,
had given us a letter of recommendation
to meet in a convent,
and we stayed there until, thanks to that good monk,
we got in touch with the Mayor, who, in turn, contacted the union,
and Galician and I did a concert for the railway union.
Unforgettable.
And when we opened our eyes we were in Machu Picchu.
The painted woman turning her back to me,
hangs from a portrait alone and drawn.
The woman in the painting with a pink back,
stops my eyes, fixes my gaze.
She is almost transparent, she walks in nothing,
like a cloud where there are no footprints.
The woman tells me to imagine her...
and I imagine her among jasmines.
She is always leaving and she always stays,
and I always come back to fill her wait.
All her silence has my words,
and to my fantasy, she quietly responds.
Her voice in white, hugs me and whispers.
And my voice embraces her entire waist…
But it doesn't capture her, although it does hold her,
like a pink dream that comes and that goes.
The wall swallows her and in it she sinks,
and I sink into her, swallowed in her cloud...
The hanging woman who has no name,
says I should call her whatever I want...
And I call her soul, naked and golden,
and I call her night, woman, stay.
Almost undressed, she walks away asks me to undress her,
and not to forget her.
While in Ecuador,
he invited me to visit his great friend,
the painter Guayasamín.
And in the conversation, which was pleasant,
brotherly, fraternal, at the time,
we came up with the idea of holding a concert at his museum.
There, Manuel sang along with other great artists,
and serial works of Guayasamin's Black Paintings were sold,
in solidarity with Uruguay.
I'm still moved.
Ecuador,
Monday, 27 September, 1976.
It's cold.
I'm composing The Man in Blue ("El hombre de azul"),
dedicated to my father.
A song I finished this afternoon,
and that, after singing it, I confess,
made me shed a couple of tears.
Dad, when will I see you again?
♪ The small streets of the port, ♪
♪ with their news of cats, ♪
♪ remember María Sueño, ♪
♪ as a flower in the mud. ♪
♪ María, the one who sang, ♪
♪ with a miraculous voice, ♪
♪ placing on the shoulders, ♪
♪ the tenderness of her hand. ♪
♪ In yellow bars, ♪
♪ with men torn in pieces, ♪
♪ the wound of the red wine, ♪
♪ is on the wet lips. ♪
♪ Talking about a girl, ♪
♪ loved like a brother, ♪
♪ always talking of flowers, Maria, ♪
♪ and of flying sparrows. ♪
♪ María... ♪
♪ the lover... ♪
♪ of thieves and bums, ♪
♪ of tired prostitutes, ♪
♪ and forgotten singers. ♪
♪ One day she left ♪ ♪ into the mist, ♪
♪ God knows in what direction, ♪
♪ with a man or with an angel, ♪
♪ who carried her in her arms. ♪
♪ Perhaps so that, ♪ ♪ in her place, ♪
♪ comes that dreamed of child, ♪
♪ part of all of us, ♪
♪ with the memory of a tango. ♪
By the way,
if you see Nelbia, tell her Pepe, Imilce and Heber send her a hug.
Oh, one more thing: With regard to greetings,
I was in Lima a while ago, about four months ago,
and "Cofla" Tournier made his debut, always doing things:
audiovisuals, movies, cartoons, advertising, etc.
And also remembering you.
And waiting for the day we can hug.
I have been absent.
Today I have written again,
I have returned to my eyes,
and I discovered that absence is loneliness.
Loneliness,
is a time of my land.
I have walked the streets. My young people,
the comrades with their laughter and their wine,
hanging late at night, carrying dreams in their pockets,
gambling their youth in Autumn,
no longer inhabit my time.
Milonga, that is naming,
the open hearts,
sister, flower of the night,
growing from the silence...
I just got back from Channel 8.
We recorded the Special.
It went very well.
I think reception will be good.
I was really nervous.
But I think it was acceptable,
and, as the producers said,
"it was excellent".
Let's hope the effort pays off.
My memory remembers that day,
about five or six years ago,
when we recorded "El show de los 9", with Discodromo Show.
But it was different,
because there I was part of a team,
and here, it was just me and my soul.
Besides, it's been so many years,
that I had already lost the habit.
A very important period in Uruguayan music was the Discodromo Show era.
There, we were partners with Manuel Capella,
I was a member of Frade's orchestra,
and Manuel had a very important participation in the program.
Years later,
we met again at the Uruguayan Authors Association.
There, Manuel,
was a member of the Board which I was honored to chair,
and it was a very nice reunion,
in another aspect of music and of life,
such as working for authors' Copyright.
My colleagues and I had a band here in Ecuador,
it was called Jatari.
That peña was ours, Jatari's;
When we contacted Manuel,
Manuel gave us some suggestions to improve,
to improve the quality of our artistic activities there.
He put in a good word for us,
the house we rented,
he repaired it, made renovations,
he performed on stage together with us.
We took all his ideas and went fully on board with them,
and his first suggestion to us was to go somewhere a little bigger.
And we moved.
All the university people who already knew us,
were the ones who began to come down from Católica,
and it was also a few blocks from the Central University.
So it was a much more central location,
to academic activities.
♪ …and the bread cleaner for children ♪
♪ who were born shirtless. ♪
The best memory that we have and I understand that everyone has,
is that he was a very supportive man,
greatly devoted to the cause...
He did everything;
if something had to be carried, he was there helping,
raising the stage himself…
To us, he provided that healthy contribution...
to our musical life.
And I understand that when people refer to him,
I have friends who still have bands, after all this,
that remember him and talk about Manuel Capella.
♪ The small river horses ♪ ♪ run along the banks, ♪
♪ for fatherless children ♪ ♪ and badly injured mothers. ♪
♪ Songs of laundresses, ♪
♪ nightgowns, little shirts, ♪
♪ and the clean bread of children ♪ ♪ who were born without a shirt. ♪
Well, I met Manuel...
in Ecuador, in Quito.
There, we both began to write a script.
We did a show called "Cantopoemas del Amor de la Tierra y del Hombre"
and we began to tour Latin America.
We arrived in Mexico and there just happened to be a festival,
organized by the FEUU, the Uruguayan Student Federation,
with, among many others,
performances from Alfredo Zitarrosa and Los Olimareños.
There was also the Mexican band Víctor Jara,
a musical group named after this great singer, as a tribute.
Then we toured
different states in the Mexican Republic.
That was in September, 1979.
At the end of this,
he decided to return to Ecuador.
He always missed his land very much, his beloved Uruguay.
And I decided to stay in Mexico.
In Ecuador,
Manuel Capella organized activities in support of Uruguay.
In 1980,
as part of the Ecuadorian Days of Solidarity with Uruguay,
Alfredo Zitarrosa performed in theaters in Quito,
Ambato and Guayaquil.
Along Zitarrosa, other artists performed, taking turns:
Manuel Capella, El Galpón, and Camerata Punta del Este.
Wilson Ferreira Aldunate also participated in the events.
Oh, to the red scarf dreaming on top of a four,
Oh, to the red scarf like a bleeding dove.
With red eyes, a red scarf crying
and biting the doubt, the death that is doubting.
Not always does the dead die,
the dead doesn't always die.
It doesn't die, nobody kills,
when the people don't want it.
Oh, oh, oh the red scarf,
dreaming on top of a four.
Oh, oh, oh to the red scarf,
like a bleeding dove.
Gray-haired brown hair,
with a Venezuelan wind,
like a flag in the sky,
next to the sister skies.
Like a flag in the sky,
like wood here below,
in the middle of the voices,
that carry him away.
Oh, oh, oh to the red scarf,
dreaming on top of a four.
Oh, oh, oh to the red scarf,
like a bleeding dove.
News with a hoarse voice,
and an unbuttoned shirt,
saying the foot has died,
but the boots still walk.
Neighbor, pour me a "stick",
to sink into my chest,
here a singer sings to me,
his chest in my open chest.
Oh, oh, oh to the red scarf,
dreaming on top of a four.
Oh, oh, oh to the red scarf,
like a bleeding dove.
Red scarf with dreams,
a four and a song of heritage,
for all the scarves,
that are forming the fire!
Not always does the dead die,
the dead doesn't always die.
It doesn't die, nobody kills,
when the people don't want it.
Oh, oh, oh the red scarf,
bleeding out in the spring.
Oh, oh, oh to the red scarf.
And the four,
Ali Primera's.
Manuel arrived in Guayaquil. It was one of those things in life,
the person who introduced me or who first told me about Manuel,
was a former president of Ecuador, Jamil Mahuad,
that's how my friendship with Manuel began.
I sang in a club where we played Latin American music,
and Jamil Mahuad took Manuel and introduced me.
That was the beginning of a friendship,
a strong fraternity.
I'm talking about 1976,
something like that, '75 or '76
and that allowed us to create the peña Our America".
Many artists were a part of that,
Alfredo Zitarrosa himself, Tito Fernández, from Chile,
Illapu were there too, well...
the main acts, Los Olimareños too.
At that time, the Peñas began in Ecuador,
starting more or less after Manuel's arrival.
Manuel arrived in Ecuador in '76.
And almost everyone who was in exile at that time sang there,
well, it was terrible,
Chileans, Uruguayans, Argentineans, Bolivians.
We had met him in '76,
and as "Pueblo Nuevo" we played clubs in Loja -our city of origin-
and the first time I met Manuel, it was because we took him to Loja.
He sang in Loja many times, that's how our friendship began.
We started recording songs by him.
On our first album, in 1981, we recorded "La guitarra pueblera".
Your sign as a savior...
With Manuel, we played some international festivals.
We went to Venezuela for the Bolivarian Song Festival.
We went to Nicaragua,
for the Second Festival of the New Latin American Song.
He was also here in 1984 in the third festival held in Quito.
Manuel Capella participated in the Solidarity Days with Uruguay,
in the May Cultural Days of the Provincial Council of Pichincha,
at Sucre, Bolívar and Universitario theaters.
That included Alfredo Zitarrosa, Los Olimareños,
Camerata Punta del Este and El Galpón Drama Company.
♪ And no one is surprised, ♪
♪ by your immortal projection. ♪
♪ Because the revolution, ♪
♪ that wanted to be led by you, ♪
♪ is much greater than your death, ♪
♪ your beautiful resurrection. ♪
Friends will have a few more wrinkles,
their soles possibly more worn,
which means they learned more along the road.
I still keep the old shoes that once took a walk with you
to discover together, a bit more of life,
leaving February behind, carrying inside
some unfinished wine,
for when our lips return from the desert.
Perhaps one day the Book Fair will be held
at the Municipality again.
Our kids all grown up, perhaps we'll say:
"Hey, there, old man".
"Staying young, uh?"
I don't know.
Life gives us new people.
But old people don't leave.
We keep each other, just with our hearts,
and if we have an inclination towards grey,
let it be the grey of tango,
not that of the fog.
It must be hot there these days.
Here I come, to tell you,
that exiles are part of nostalgia,
but that even behind the black color of death,
the brides still wait for the eternal youth of justice,
and that, step by step, man by man, country by country,
we will recover,
the time of wine,
of roses,
of friends, of love,
of freedom.
Quito,
November, 1976.
That time doesn't pass us by is such a beautiful thing.
May it stay in us forever, may go ahead and live,
in tenderness.
I'm looking for a port.
Who are they?
♪ I want to return, ♪
♪ to your bars. ♪
♪ I want to return, ♪
♪ to your Carnival. ♪
In 1971, my second album was released,
the first one as a soloist: Se trata de caminar.
Then I began recording another one with Víctor Manuel Pedemonte,
that was going to be called "Canciones para habitantes".
But the inhabitants were left without songs,
because the master tape disappeared.
I was in Cuba, at the Youth Festival.
In Central America.
In December, 1978 in Panama,
with Numa Moraes and Zitarrosa.
♪ Now is the time to walk. ♪
♪ Now it's about walking the walk. ♪
♪ Now is the time to walk. ♪
♪ Now it's about walking the walk. ♪
Remember that little job we did in Lima,
when you said a lot of nice things,
and I went about the milongas?
Of course you remember!
Well, it so happens that I, the nostalgia archivist,
relaunched it, and the anecdote follows:
The Argentinean band Siripo spent some time here.
We started to work together,
with the work we called, actually, I called
"To hit on silences".
But it didn't end there.
We recorded it on tape,
which is now going around the world, hoping to become a record.
The city...
is a huge monster,
where people lose their horizon.
The city with its icy lights, many buildings and little sky.
The city with its lives, marked,
is sometimes found in the gaze of blue girls,
with grey men,
of old retirees with kids.
The city,
employees and workers,
is like a ship seeking a port.
The city breathing hope,
eyes set on each house.
The city hides when it rains,
and then it's sadness what moves,
traveler of nightclubs and suburbs of rats,
where some child dreams under a sky of tin.
The city...
is a history book:
much reminiscing, not much memory.
File made of dust, where so many wait,
after a hundred winters,
the return of spring.
The truth is I'm traveling to the coast often.
In other words, as I say, to Guayaquil,
with better options for this sad singer
somewhat exhausted in this area.
There are rough winds around here,
when it comes to work.
I was working in the old Peña "Nuestra América",
but things got messed up and there is no money to spare,
so from this month on, I decided
to return to my privilege as a recital singer,
and that helped me recharge,
and I already have something sorted out.
The last one was in Ambato,
a city near Quito, where I sang a couple of days ago.
The question is whether or not one can make a living with music.
We'll see what fate has in store for us.
Then the other possibility is to work
on something that doesn't suck too much
and keep singing as the usual big extra income.
More or less like in Uruguay.
♪ I am from the south, ♪
♪ of the American continent. ♪
♪ I carry in my voice, ♪
♪ the song of my brothers. ♪
♪ People who go, ♪
♪ their eyes set on the future, ♪
♪ knowing that ♪
♪ borders are not walls. ♪
In Venezuela, he also recorded
"Cuentocanto of Da. Manuela and Dn. Simón",
dedicated to Manuela Sáenz,
and Simón Bolívar,
which was recorded in Venezuela.
Manuel did research,
both on Manuela Sáenz and Simón Bolívar.
♪ They tell that they tell, ♪
♪ what history books ♪
♪ don't tell, which also tell. ♪
♪ They say they say, ♪ ♪ people say, ♪
♪ that it was around ♪ ♪ June '22. ♪
♪ when at a dance ♪ ♪ with great grace, ♪
♪ Manuela was seen ♪ ♪ with Don Simón. ♪
♪ He was a dream ♪ ♪ full of commitment, ♪
♪ a dazzling man ♪ ♪ from Caracas; ♪
♪ and she, the beautiful, ♪ ♪ crazy star, ♪
♪ that entered his sky ♪ ♪ and dazzled him. ♪
The Outes was a bar that really left a mark on us.
It was at the corner of Mercedes and Yaguarón St.
That was where some key characters
in culture and music would hang out.
You could meet Alfredo Zitarrosa, or Capagorry,
Nacho Suárez, or Juceca…
It was something really wonderful.
Many friendships.
And well, that definitely marked us for the rest of our lives.
♪ Today the veteran, ♪
♪ the face painted ♪ ♪ in the colors of February ♪
♪ says goodbye. ♪
♪ The murga embraces his song: ♪
♪ the farewell of his voice. ♪
♪ And here, in the front row, ♪
♪ there is a kid dreaming ♪ ♪ of a song, ♪
♪ dreaming of becoming ♪ ♪ a murguista, ♪
♪ just like his father, ♪
♪ who never took the paint ♪ ♪ off his face. ♪
♪ And the painted face looks ♪ ♪ at him from inside, ♪
♪ and does not follow ♪ ♪ the script, ♪
♪ and invites him ♪ ♪ up on stage: ♪
♪ "Come, kid, sing with your dad" ♪
♪ "The one with the murga, ♪ ♪ the one leaving now" ♪
♪ "the one leaving his place ♪ ♪ to you". ♪
♪ Come, let Carnival never die. ♪
More news:
we moved houses and now,
we have space and no stairs to climb.
But do you know how hard it was to get set up?
Here we are, with the reverse fat man,
working hard at the hammer and the rasp,
screwdriver and other utensils of the post-Inca culture.
News came from Germany,
praising Uruguay for the exhibition of Walter Tournier's short film.
We were really happy, and bought some wine.
Now he got me to type his University notes,
and here I am, working my fingers off.
We made a table that looks like the Kon-tiki.
It's huge and to ask for salt, you need a megaphone.
Yesterday, Rafael came and with the cockroaches, spiders,
centipedes and other domestic species so abundant here,
we hit hard on beer, wine, pisco, vermouth, bleach,
and other spirits we found on our way.
After the Coup on 27 June 1973,
Capella left our country,
and traveled to various countries in Europe and Latin America,
settling permanently in Ecuador,
in 1976.
In the middle of our exile I met him in Managua,
in Sandinista Nicaragua back in April 1983,
that Nicaragua,
where during a work break we were able to talk.
From Nicaragua, a thought from you for our country, Uruguay.
From Nicaragua and from any point in Latin America and the world,
I could think that, like you or any other Uruguayan,
I'd say we are convinced, we have the certainty
that, again, sooner rather than later,
we'll return to our country,
we'll return to our native land, we'll join the fight there,
whatever forms of struggle we may have to face,
to try to recover our lost freedom,
our rights, our democracy, our justice, our heritage,
that continues to exist despite these hard years of fascism,
our culture, which they weren't able to destroy,
our singing, which has not ceased,
and that continues to stand firm, upright, more certain than ever.
♪ From the bottom of Las Segovias, ♪
♪ the General ♪ ♪ of steel returns. ♪
♪ He carries a star ♪ ♪ on his shoulder, ♪
♪ and in his hand ♪ ♪ a well-aimed rifle. ♪
You see,
only now I get the energy,
to attempt a proper letter.
Here,
already at the end of this 1980,
which showed its sharp teeth,
I try to overcome the traditional nostalgia
of the so-called traditional festivities.
And among so many dear things,
still hanging on the back of our small country,
I remember them often.
Because it so happens that we,
who don't have a country used to long distances,
when kilometers are counted by the thousands,
we begin to want more and more,
and the people fundamental to us grow bigger and bigger,
and longing for a hug.
♪ Pablo, ♪
♪ if I tell you I've been singing ♪ ♪ to you for a long time, ♪
♪ however, I don't get tired ♪ ♪ of naming you in my song. ♪
♪ You know? ♪
♪ Only sometimes I am the wind ♪ ♪ when I sing for your breath, ♪
♪ and I'm in your heart. ♪
♪ Little friend, ♪
♪ who is always with me, ♪
♪ a shadow within me, ♪
♪ a shadow like a sun, ♪
♪ and a path, ♪
♪ beyond my destination, ♪
♪ the beginning of my end, ♪
♪ Pablo Martín. ♪
♪ I dream... ♪
♪ of your river entering my blood, ♪
♪ in a toy boat, carrying♪ ♪ happiness away. ♪
♪ Pablo... ♪
♪ you will become the horizon, ♪ and my voice, tenderness trembles ♪
♪ when you call me: dad! ♪
♪ Little friend, ♪
♪ who is always with me, ♪
♪ a shadow within me, ♪
♪ a shadow like a sun, ♪
♪ and a path, ♪
♪ beyond my destination, ♪
♪ the beginning of my end: ♪
♪ Pablo Martin. ♪
What the heck, we moved again,
and now we are in this unbelievable apartment
with a fireplace and all,
bedrooms everywhere, water leaks, cockroaches,
doors that don't close and lots of broken glass.
Very, very cute, very human.
For now, it's a return trip, but not to Uruguay.
Where are you returning to, Manuel?
I'm residing in Ecuador, Daniel,
I've been there for almost seven years.
Maybe it was a coincidence, when I left Uruguay,
I was in Argentina, in Bolivia, I went up to Peru,
I went to Ecuador. I intended to continue,
but well, life has its own way, and I stayed there.
A beautiful place, dear people, really.
At this point, to put it frankly,
I had some roots there,
but in any case, and not to dismiss this great act of solidarity
the Ecuadorian people had for me, the country where I live,
I will return, I will return to Ecuador for now,
but my goal is definitely Uruguay,
our beloved, ever closer Uruguay.
In Ecuador, Manuel Capella spent nine years.
He created numerous works and did several recordings,
he created bonds with many local musicians.
Galician, in some other life,
must have been Guayasamín's son,
because his affection for him,
and the tolerance he had with Galician knew no bounds.
Guayasamín, knowing Galician was about to make a record,
said to him: "Manolito, let me make the cover."
Galician asked if he could make a set of drums.
Guayasamin said he could not. "Thanks, let's leave it at that."
I look at him: "Galician, you're crazy".
"If he can't draw drums, he can stick to his doodles".
No, no.
That was Manuel Capella.
If Manolito were here to talk to him,
because one can't just talk to anyone,
expose yourself completely,
you know?
So I say, musicians, there are many.
People who listen to you, love you, open their heart to you,
who...
who open the doors of their house to you like Manolo and Gilda did,
there aren't many.
You can count them with your fingers,
if you're lucky.
Laying next to you,
and seeing the road has blooming jasmines;
feeling in your hands,
the nests of five bright stars.
And in your mature word, the music,
where the blowing wind matures, and erases the tracks.
The scars of the old tree.
Friend of my hope,
dove showing the sky:
Your singing with the joy of a sailor reaching port,
leaving behind my shoes the alleys filled with fear,
where the night stumbles with the ghosts of dead loves,
and walking under your touch that rescues me from so much winter
to take me towards the river reflected in your kind eyes.
Friend of my hope,
dove showing the sky:
Your singing, with the joy of a sailor touching port,
your name,
is like a sun burning sadness into handkerchiefs.
Your name, girl, friend,
opens up for me futures of an open sea,
and in your smile, I discover the horizon becomes whole,
to show me the sunrise where life is dawning.
Friend of my hope, dove showing the sky.
Your singing, with the joy of a sailor touching port.
Manuel tells me:
“Tomorrow night, we're meeting here".
"Alfredo Zitarrosa is coming".
"A small thing, just a few of us, that's all".
At that time,
we are talking about 1982, 1983,
through Manuel, I met Los Olimareños and Zitarrosa,
the folks from El Galpón, all those people there.
So he tells me
Alfredo doesn't like crowds, or any of that stuff,
so it will be brief, and I say that's fine.
We got there,
and I told Negro Coco to keep watch at the door,
because as soon as people there found out
Zitarrosa was coming,
everyone would want to get in, so he shouldn't let anyone in.
"Don't let anyone in", says Manuel. So all was fine.
And suddenly, Coco calls me: "Mosquito!"
He tells me to come. I ask what happened.
He says there was a man outside,
with a bottle of Ballantine's, a gallon of Ballantine's,
and that he can't tell him to go, that we should let him in.
I asked who he was, and he shows me:
A short gentleman, in a suit, with a big green tie.
There he was, holding the gallon.
So Coco tells him we'll let him in,
but he had to stay put and keep quiet.
And he says that perhaps he might sing some tango,
and Coco tells him there's no way, no tango, no nothing.
That he must go in and stay quiet.
Those were the terms, he could take it or leave it.
So he agreed, said it was fine,
and walked in, and just stayed there.
That Ballantines was not an opportunity to miss.
The next day,
Zitarrosa performed with his guitarists,
at the theater square in Quito, at the Sucre theater.
I went with my family.
We were all there.
And it's time for introductions.
They announce Maestro Zitarrosa will be introduced
by the Bolivian ambassador, who'll do the honors.
And the man appears,
the same man we refused to let in the night before,
and we told him off and all,
that he could only get in if he kept his mouth shut and didn't say a word.
There are many of us who owe a debt of gratitude,
for what popular protest music meant,
as an artistic expression of our people,
and as a factor of resistance,
in such hard, difficult years.
I had the joy of knowing him,
and another great one, that was Wilmar López.
Wilmar was, according to experts,
one of the best watercolorists in our country,
and in his modest apartment at the Euskal Erria complex,
we had a peña that we shared with Manuel.
My contribution was some occasional reading,
of some poems from our creole nativist poets,
but the heart and soul of the peña were Wilmar,
drawing wonderful things, the painter of the gaucho homeland,
Manuel and me.
Two of us supported Liverpool, one supported Danubio.
I was studying Archeology in San Marcos,
and it turns out one of the professors,
an Anthropologist,
told us about this isolated community,
close to Lima, but in the mountains,
so isolated that it had its own language:
Jaqaru.
Manuel and I decided to go to that community.
We got off at about 80, 100 km. from Lima, in a small town.
And from there we walked for hours through the mountains,
because there was only one possible path,
until we reached those three small towns.
I think the experience Manuel and I shared,
left a mark on us both.
They didn't even have doctors, no pharmacy, nothing like that.
People approached us, Manuel and I, with their children,
to ask us what we could do, if there was anything
to be done,
about the children who were dying, for some unknown reason.
Our helplessness, not being doctors, was deeply moving for us,
because we knew nothing, we had no idea,
we thought it could be the water they drank from the sewers
because there'd been a mudslide, and the water was brownish.
But that was the conclusion Manuel and I came up with,
we didn't have the slightest clue
of what might be happening.
And that helplessness...
left a mark on us both, I think, for the rest of our lives.
Of the people we met there,
most have dispersed and many are in Europe.
Víctor always writes to me from Barcelona.
It seems there's a great gang over there,
but the survival thing looks rough, too.
Alfredo is in Madrid,
but feeling like Mexico.
José is in Paris, like Marcos and Roberto.
Numa is in Amsterdam, and Daniel is also in Paris.
And here, we are all scattered, though we meet from time to time.
Well, dear people,
that would be all.
There was a lot in there, and I feel something remains unsaid.
An immense hug.
We should write more often, right?
I love you so much.
Manuel.
The match is broadcast live from Montevideo.
Seeing the Centenario again can give me a heart attack.
In a few hours, we'll get together with the gang,
to watch the match in full color,
so surely there'll be a party tonight too.
See you later.
Manuel resumes writing his letter after the match.
And here, with the victory for the sky blue,
night has fallen, and the rain falls too, of course it would.
Hey, that Paz was great. Venancio Ramos is not far behind.
Well, any excuse is good to celebrate.
We began on the 7th, at midnight,
and continued on the 8th at noon.
We're already high about this triumph of the sky blue,
with me, Negro Coco and Don Gabriel,
everyone eager for some silly candombe, made with pots.
All our pots here are damaged, with all sorts of bruises and marks,
the result of several candombe sessions,
stews turn out better anyway,
and we usually scratch the bottom of the pot,
with some special sticks we made.
It's always like this, like today. We were quiet watching the match,
when the first goal came,
and the liquid celebration began.
Immediately afterwards, it starts to rain,
the lady of the house, classic creole style,
begins to work on her tortafritas.
By the second goal, we finished the other bottle,
so for the second half, we saw double.
Meanwhile, out there, we exchange the daytime sun,
for this nostalgic, persistent rain, persevering on the window.
The other member of the household, the guitar,
can already see it coming, and stares at me.
She looks at me mercifully, from the traditional unmade bed,
for some suspicious reason no one knows.
For now,
I'm having an exquisite, very instant, plastic coffee.
Heat is coming down hard.
Ecuador. October,
1976.
It's 11:30 p.m.
Quito doesn't want to know anything about single steps.
I'd been walking empty streets and then ran into Manuel.
Walking through loneliness,
that sometimes takes the shape of an avenue, or a memory.
He told me he just realized memory is measured in blocks,
and that, since the city returned his steps to him,
he felt selfishly happy,
to have, just for himself,
the fatigue of a stranger on a Sunday,
as if it were a toy.
The man walked and heard a cat meow, calling out for love.
He was a cat too,
but didn't meow. He screamed.
Because that's the voice of the lonely.
And to say alone,
and loneliness,
is to see, in one hand, the void,
or habit of the pocket,
and in the other, the cigarette,
that knows the path to some lips,
that miss...
other lips.
I toured the countryside in Ecuador,
released a record in 1981,
went to Colombia,
to Nicaragua in 1983 with Viglietti,
to La Paz with El Galpón,
and also to Venezuela,
where I got back in touch with a great friend who recently died,
singer Ali Primera.
In 1984, I came to Buenos Aires,
but I couldn't get in.
I returned to Ecuador, to Colombia,
and after many comings and goings, finally set foot in Uruguay,
in 1985.
What I value most about Capella is not only
his musical talent, but his great sense of humor.
He was a guy who had…
he was a bit like Darno (Eduardo Darnauchans) that way,
he'd come up with great things in minutes,
he had wonderful replies.
One time we were leaving IFU, we'd been recording his album,
we'd brought in some violins and cellos.
We went to a bar, for drinks, next to Congress,
and we sat by a window, it was a very nice bar.
The Berlin Wall had just fallen, it had all been a disaster.
We were discussing the record,
and we were happy because it had gone well...
I think Cabrera had also recorded on that album,
I think he did Mateo Azul, or one of those.
At one point a guy shows up,
we were by the window. A white van pulled over,
and this guy sticks half his body out the window
and yells at Manuel:
"Galician, you left the Party!"
And Galician looks at him and says:
"No, brother. The Party left me."
You, climbing buildings up to the sky.
You, sowing hope in the fields.
You, melting manufacturing metals.
You, stunning the ear in factories.
You, kneading bakery flours.
You, shipping riches in the ports.
You, starting engines in industries,
with your textile metallurgical hand:
continue to the end!
You, fighting in the womb of the sea.
You, exploding dynamite in the mines.
You, knowing adventure in your own flesh,
it's about making ends meet:
go on again.
You, whose memory has been hurt,
by brothers who will never return,
in the name of their generous blood:
remain standing.
1985: back in Uruguay, he performs with Y. Palacios and A. Zitarrosa
in "Como Hablábamos Ayer", at Montevideo's Teatro de Verano.
We were constantly amazed at how, just with four or five words,
he could weave and write things.
He had an amazing memory.
He was a well-read person,
very, very educated,
as is the common in people who write like that,
who are sudden, who suddenly write something incredible.
And the other thing that caught our attention,
was how he'd lean on a table, not really comfortable,
and still have this impressive handwriting.
Obviously, I don't know,
maybe when Manuel was at school he did calligraphy or something,
but it was very difficult to have the handwriting Manuel had.
Pepe Sasía had made one of his dreams come true:
he had bought a bar.
"Yamandú", he named it.
Manolo, Canario, Picho,
Todesca, Gallo Todeschini,
and me, all the guys from Falta, the gang,
we wanted to throw an end of year party that day.
The shooting was running deep and the bullets kept stinging:
"Pour one here, another there"...
The glasses were full, filled up with whiskey.
Except for Manolo's,
who wanted to drink caña that day.
"Hold the ice on the caña".
"I like my caña neat."
The glass filled up to the top.
Pepe would turn around,
and stay with us.
He said, "I can't be behind the counter if my friends are there."
And the guy, who had been left alone,
couldn't cope with all the "population",
at the bar and nearby tables at that time.
Galician said "Hey, look at that guy",
Look at that guy, Pepe.
I'll help him out.
He quickly took his glass of caña in his right hand,
and went gulp, gulp, gulp,
and drank the whole glass of caña, neat.
In one gulp.
Pepe says to him: "Manolo, are you crazy?"
"The thing is that I'm going to work,"
"and when you work, you can't drink."
Ineffable.
Cheers, Manolito! Cheers, Pablo!
Cheers.
Look what I found in an old folder at home.
Do you remember...
a letter you wrote to Alfredo back at the old Outes?
Wow, back in '85.
♪ But love until we win back ♪
♪ what so much heartbreak ♪ ♪ has denied us, ♪
♪ but love until we achieve ♪
♪ a better management ♪ ♪ of affection, ♪
♪ but love until we know ♪
♪ that the wound ♪ ♪ does not fall into oblivion, ♪
♪ but love that puts some bread ♪
♪ on the tables of parents ♪ ♪ and their children ♪
1997: He performs at the Tribute to Zitarrosa
held in Buenos Aires Opera Theater
with Mercedes Sosa, Víctor Heredia, Teresa Parodi, Eduardo Galeano,
José Carbajal, Grupo Sanampay,
Larbanois-Carrero and Pablo Estramín.
♪ Montevideo at dawn, ♪
♪ loneliness was walking ♪ ♪ on its own. ♪
♪ With its portrait of spent light, ♪
♪ the night on its shoulder, ♪ ♪ isolated. ♪
♪ People not people, ♪ ♪ diminished people, ♪
♪ staining scattered stains, ♪
♪ where do they come from? ♪ ♪ where do they pass through? ♪
♪ Living inside, ♪ ♪ and outside, nothing. ♪
♪ The voices remain ♪ ♪ like they were hanging; ♪
♪ the manager leaves ♪ ♪ with his employee, ♪
♪ lying letters on the bed: ♪
♪ Montevideo, weekend. ♪
♪ But it's not all gauchos ♪ ♪ and stops, ♪
♪ full buses, ♪ ♪ worn out skins: ♪
♪ there in the square, ♪ ♪ under a burnt light, ♪
♪ Artigas-bronze ♪ ♪ became gigantic. ♪
♪ Montevideo, at dawn, ♪
♪ is just a dream ♪ ♪ about the morning, ♪
♪ of a dark man ♪ ♪ who would wake up ♪
♪ over the ink left by others. ♪
♪ Night to day, the soul away, ♪
♪ man with man, ♪ ♪ kept each other company, ♪
♪ together with many, ♪ ♪ they organized, ♪
♪ and by the next day ♪ ♪ they walked together. ♪
♪ Montevideo, ♪ ♪ weeks together, ♪
♪ is no longer nostalgia, ♪ ♪ it's hope now. ♪
♪ And although keeping ♪ ♪ our hand up may hurt, ♪
♪ the clear man... ♪
♪ raised it high. ♪
Quito, 30 December, 1978.
We're not Friday people,
we're Saturday folk.
It's a matter of habits.
Around here, Fridays are called Saint Friday,
a euphemism for drink-until-you-drop.
And already in the prayer,
the idea of whiskey, vodka, rum, brandy, etc.
begins to take shape.
All this washed down
with alcoholic and almost subhuman pseudo-bohemians.
Oh, that old plonk wine of ours.
Our people, the miracle workers.
Saturdays go by following time.
Today is Friday, 29th. But I wrote 30,
because it occurs to me there is no reason for 29s
to determine anything.
And this Saturday means '78 is over,
which means the beginning of our third year in absence,
one full of people and things,
of horizons and hopes.
♪ I will find... ♪
♪ some poem on the side ♪
♪ to reach your place ♪
♪ which almost became my home, ♪
♪ because there you are, ♪
♪ on the other side of the flower, ♪
♪ a stowaway on the side, ♪
♪ in my nostalgia. ♪
♪ Woman of May. ♪
♪ To see you again, ♪
♪ as if time was nothing more ♪ ♪ than yesterday, ♪
♪ more mature in your eyes ♪ ♪ when I return, ♪
♪ I feel nostalgic with ♪ ♪ the rattle and the bells, ♪
♪ and a new world that begins ♪ ♪ to comprehend, ♪
♪ that in my blood ♪ ♪ a river runs towards you, ♪
♪ and my caress carries ♪ ♪ your skin and memories, ♪
♪ and my words carry ♪ ♪ in them a woman's name, ♪
♪ that is pronounced ♪ ♪ almost as if by accident. ♪
♪ To see you again, ♪ ♪ to see you again, ♪
♪ to see you again. ♪
♪ I find again, ♪
♪ in your tender hand, my place, ♪
♪ and in a notebook ♪ ♪ that can't be forgotten, ♪
♪ that poem ♪ ♪ that made us both cry. ♪
♪ With the rain, ♪ ♪ crying in the window, ♪
♪ of that house ♪ ♪ that once saw you move away, ♪
♪ after just one minute ♪ ♪ of happiness. ♪
♪ Light from that sky, ♪ ♪ that was a shooting star. ♪
♪ I find again, I find again, ♪
♪ I find again. ♪
Lima.
Wednesday, 26 May, 1976.
Julio, dear, brother.
Returned to the city of ashes,
I have devoted myself to missing you a little,
and to try to regroup and sort out what to do here.
Our hearts sigh in relief,
knowing you are already back in our small homeland.
When it comes to me, I can tell you
that you need to experience the feeling of dawn
walking down Avenida Del Sol, in Cusco,
somewhat alone and surprised
by the distant sound of the train taking my partner away.
At that moment, I felt that I was flying sideways,
with my left wing missing.
Then I sat in the sun at "Plaza de la Alegría", and said to myself:
Well, Manuel.
And now?
Who are you going to argue with?
The fact remains it's not the same to be with or without Julio.
Obviously, discrepancies aside,
which are honest as they are necessary,
what unites us is a certain identity that,
human as we are, we sometimes ignore.
I can say, brother,
that words are not needed for us to understand each other.
The language we speak is more sensitive than phonetic.
Citizen of two worlds, with or without papers,
because the homeland of Man is childhood and memory.
Then, maybe it's another story,
or another part of the tale.
Later, it was an emigrating ship,
or perhaps a fleeing ship,
and my parents traveled on it,
and I traveled with them,
and my life emigrated on it.
My life.
And I was unaware.
Citizen of two worlds, with or without papers,
because the homeland of Man,
is childhood and memories.
I was talking to the baldy from Las Venas Abiertas,
such a great writer who was lecturing around here,
about not having tears in our suitcases when we return,
about putting a ban on smuggling sadness.
So that's the thing.
In any case,
here's to positive nostalgia.
Here I am.
In the south again
Again in the light,
that was my dawn.
Here at last,
longing for you more,
with more ground under my feet,
with my best step.
What happened?
Don't tell me: 'I know'.
It's not just information,
it's the heart too.
Just like...
Don Miguel used to say:
"as we talked yesterday",
my song will speak.
I'm from the South,
from this South, yes sir,
my root and my flower,
death and resurrection.
Beyond...
the sorrow and the pain,
from horizon and border,
today I returned again,
to this sea,
of breakwater and fish,
of clinging colors,
of love and south wind.
Don't say,
old friend, that you,
aren't keeping my place,
for me to be again.
My song,
this veteran song,
another generation,
found your song.
Did you know?
I guess your age,
what was and what will be,
your smell of youth.
And I know,
that your deepest blue,
will be what is to come,
rescued from the grey.
Look closely, hey,
my guitar is at peace,
and it's also at war,
in tomorrow and yesterday.
And on its skin,
where the sweat
of the work of singing shines,
I'll leave my carnation.
Always south.
Of course, among so many talks,
always about Uruguay because I didn't meet anyone,
who missed Uruguay as much as Manuel.
Every time I came,
because I had a contract, I knew when the contract would end.
I was based here, so I'd return,
and every time we said goodbye, it was a tragedy.
He was so homesick. Of course, he told me about his life,
about his issues, and about Danubio. He was a huge Danubio fan.
And then it so happens that in 2004, I direct Danubio.
So one day we got together with Manuel,
he already had some issues,
I remember we only had coffee,
and having just a coffee with Manuel,
that wasn't the usual thing.
So he says to me: "Listen, Mosquito",
"you know how much I love you"
"but if you manage to make Danubio champion"...
So he says to me:
"Listen, Mosquito," he says,
"if you want me to love you all my life",
"make sure Danubio wins the championship".
And I replied: "Manuel,"
"Can you ask for anything easier? Don't be like that!"
In an obvious joke.
And so the months go by, and things are beginning to go well,
that team was truly a football playing machine,
the kids, the players in the team were extraordinary,
so long story short, we become champions.
And when we won the championship, I remembered Manuel.
So I got a T-shirt,
and I had it signed by all the players,
and when I head off to Florida, I take the shirt and go to Manuel's,
he was there with Gilda. I surprised them.
"Hey, is this what you wanted? There you are".
And I threw the shirt at him.
2004: Capella performs at the Teatro ND/Ateneo in the city of Buenos Aires,
in a show with José Carbajal.
He was a violin in a scarf and a wind that liked late-nights,
a swirl in a corner dancing with a mailbox.
El Tito was a small coffee on the counter,
a skinny angel of sorts,
silent and thoughtful.
Which was the piano where he'd play the keys of the tango
that found seven notes in his teeth,
and a verse in his soul?
You should have seen him, both hands, drawing his color,
whistling a kiss,
such was Tito Cabano.
They say Tito Cabano, that night,
became an eternal angel,
with his bar and with his song.
He was a violin in a scarf and a wind that liked late-nights,
a skinny angel of sorts,
chatting at the bar.
Tito!
Come on, the night is calling.
"Por la Unión y por la Blanca".
To us, that conveys a feeling, a very special energy,
like that of any Uruguayan in a winning goal,
especially at the last minute.
When I meet Manuel,
he shows me the song so I can arrange the percussion.
The next night,
we were already in the studio, we had no rehearsals.
About the success, I have nothing to add,
you already know.
So much so, that when the CD was reissued,
they changed the title and called the whole thing:
Songs for "Por la Unión y por la Blanca".
You went through the throne of fame,
and your radiant light left its traces.
You won't be able to climb higher because you yourself are the summit.
Nor will you shine brighter
because you're a star.
On the grave where you rest,
an eternal harmony of rumors vibrates.
They're our children who today have become applause,
and their applause that today become flowers.
Mute my lyre,
and my song to silence returns,
and as offering, like a trophy I lift up my heart,
to place it on the camp of that great troubadour,
who shook a town,
on memorable nights of lyrical offerings.
Someone is approaching with a radiant halo.
Stop, who's there?
It's Galiguayan, he's passing by,
sowing with triumphant accent,
the fertile seeds of a race,
that has conceived the love I feel for the image of him.
♪ Candombe from Pan de Azúcar ♪
♪ and Avellaneda. ♪
♪ From Enrique Clay, Fray Bentos ♪
♪ and Forteza. ♪
♪ It goes from Lucas Moreno ♪ ♪ all the way to "Rousseau", ♪
♪ and from "La proa" ♪
♪ to the field in Joanicó. ♪
♪ Candombe of the debutant, ♪ ♪ with the transparent ones, ♪
♪ tickles in the bellies ♪ ♪ of teenagers, ♪
♪ legends of brothels ♪ ♪ and slaughterers, ♪
♪ that are not really really ♪ ♪ like that. ♪
♪ Rumor has it at "La Quince". ♪
♪ Candombera by "la Villa" ♪ ♪ and "La Flota", ♪
♪ from Cipriano Miró all the way ♪
♪ to Larravide. ♪
♪ For La Union and for "La Blanca", ♪
♪ hopping and jogging, ♪
♪ and there is a gig for Marcela ♪
♪ and for La Tota. ♪
For those of us from the neighborhood, born and raised,
in Puerto Rico, La Unión, Villa Española,
this was a tribute he paid to us.
I remember as a child, I used to sell bread
with my grandfather, he delivered on horseback.
Mario...
The characters in the song,
large families that have lived in the neighborhood for years.
And there was a code of conduct in the neighborhood.
They were tough, but there was a code, and respect
for families and neighbors,
and they also lent a hand,
because those were the days of the slaughterers,
their clandestine meat operations,
and they distributed beef, they took care of everyone.
Galician's song is beautiful.
Manuel and La Unión,
and, I would say, the limit with Puerto Rico too.
Manuel... I remember, I remember well,
in the 70s, Manuel was singing...
in that hall at IAVA Secondary School,
when we all thought the time had come to move.
Manuel was from the neighborhood,
from the neighborhood nearby, from Avellaneda,
back when Blanca was just another neighbor,
who'd scold us for playing football in the street.
And I remember his mother very well,
same generosity and solidarity as him,
who also got me in trouble once.
She got me in trouble because she saw me wearing torn jeans,
and she asked my mother
if she'd take offense if she bought me a new pair of jeans.
Go figure!
I took the scolding, I took the beating...
but the love of that woman, that endearing lady,
that mother,
that friend, that neighbor...
So no wonder Manuel
was and is the way he is.
♪ Tell me, spirit of the air, ♪
♪ of the color of its gaze, ♪
♪ Tell me, spirit of wine, ♪
♪ how far the soul hurts. ♪
♪ With the sound of footsteps, ♪
♪ I hear the voices of ghosts, ♪
♪ the early morning in the air, ♪
♪ brings back... ♪
♪ the tune. ♪
♪ Sad guitar in the frozen ♪
♪ wind of the soul, ♪
♪ loneliness, through milonga, ♪
♪ my face wants to wash. ♪
♪ Silence between the walls, ♪
♪ only the wind peeking at me, ♪
♪ flapping your name in the air, ♪
♪ brings back ♪
♪ the milonga. ♪
♪ The night looks like wine, ♪
♪ red, immemorial ghost, ♪
♪ blurring memories, ♪
♪ that I carry on my back. ♪
♪ The tree of your memory ♪
♪ is already sprouting branches, ♪
♪ while I'm walking. ♪
♪ I live and die... ♪
♪ in the tune. ♪
*When I was coming here, something nice happened to me.
Something that made me feel happy, really happy.
I was driving on my way to FUNSA.
And I felt very nervous along the way
because I've worked for 42 years here.
The significance of being here, in this place
experiencing the seize, experiencing the strike
and the reason that brings us together today
to honor our dear Gallego
and being part of all this, so nice and so meaningful
as this music session,
so, to me it's like feeling alive again and again.
♪ One story begins, ♪
♪ another one ends, ♪
♪ one remains, ♪ ♪ the other one walks, ♪
♪ but the one that dies ♪ ♪ isn't the one forgotten, ♪
♪ although pretended ♪ ♪ to be defeated memories, ♪
♪ because the ages ♪ ♪ come together some day, ♪
♪ life is round and history spins, ♪
♪ the owners of time ♪ ♪ are the ones who make ♪
♪ men and women burning lies, ♪
♪ men and women burning lies. ♪
♪ One story keeps ♪ ♪ roots that are dear, ♪
♪ and the eyes filled ♪ ♪ with water resisted, ♪
♪ and a giant "why" ♪ ♪ seeking a family, ♪
♪ and the mothers earth ♪ ♪ overcoming their wound. ♪
♪ For a different story ♪ ♪ lies beneath the ashes, ♪
♪ just like a star shining within. ♪
♪ And the fire that was sown ♪ ♪ will become the seed, ♪
♪ that will burn tomorrow, ♪ ♪ burning lies, ♪
♪ which will burn tomorrow, ♪ ♪ burning lies. ♪
♪ A story has its hidden door, ♪
♪ and another story ♪ ♪ joins hands to open it, ♪
♪ and, while different ♪ ♪ scales are weighed, ♪
♪ the truth awaits ♪ ♪ its hour of justice. ♪
♪ The story doesn't silence ♪ ♪ its convinced voice, ♪
♪ when it's built ♪ ♪ by those who cultivate it. ♪
♪ And the future is a child ♪ ♪ who is just breathing, ♪
♪ and children grow up ♪ ♪ burning lies, ♪
♪ and children grow up ♪ ♪ burning lies. ♪
WHERE ARE THEY? TRUTH REMAINS CAPTIVE
A RESPONSIBILITY OF THE STATE
♪ Friend and artist, ♪
♪ brother of neighborhood ♪ ♪ and colors, ♪
♪ black and white, ♪
♪ no greys. ♪
♪ He goes for a walk ♪
♪ along the avenue, ♪
♪ with lonely blood, ♪
♪ and in the air ♪
♪ with his wound, ♪
♪ the young boy ♪
♪ goes out walking alone. ♪
♪ Noise breaks in his silence, ♪
♪ stealthy is the pain, ♪
♪ that hurts even in the wind. ♪
♪ Sad boy, walking slowly. ♪
♪ Land of birds, ♪
♪ thought that navigates the heart, ♪
♪ with foundations. ♪
♪ Companion stayed behind. ♪
♪ When death came, ♪
♪ with its lead seed, ♪
♪ and impregnated the womb. ♪
♪ She was a girlfriend, ♪ ♪ she was a woman, ♪
♪ she was the light of dawn. ♪
♪ A fighter, dark and certain, ♪
♪ with a book and a carnation, ♪
♪ with a book and a carnation. ♪
♪ Land of birds, ♪
♪ thought that navigates reason, ♪
♪ with foundations. ♪
♪ Remember that she wanted, ♪
♪ to see the new day, the new dawn, ♪
♪ as she died fighting, ♪
♪ a star shone in the sky. ♪
♪ And at that same place, ♪
♪ where the lifeless body lay, ♪
♪ on the communal wall, ♪
♪ someone wrote: "Homeland or Death." ♪
Manuel and all of us spent the darkest night,
and in the depths of the darkest night,
there was always the hope of the glow...
of freedom.
We also confirm, through his work,
that inside the voice of a mountain,
was the glow of tenderness.
For Pepe, who is here today,
with his whitest dove.
With more wings, with more flight every day,
and with more wind.
With more mane in his truth galloped.
For him, grown, pulmonary,
hoarse, and drowned.
A song of sheer people,
a song tall like a being.
A song long like a long hill and high,
very high, like a high hill,
and like a long, long hill.
For Tabaré Echeverry, a song at the crest of the wave,
and at the top of the voice,
a song that brings him over,
that puts him here, and here it leaves him.
A song that is sown with him,
and with him,
remains sown.
♪ To Carlos Da Ponte, ♪
♪ whom I barely knew, ♪
♪ but is my friend. ♪
♪ That drum, ♪
♪ that once began to beat, ♪
♪ no one could silence, ♪
♪ it still resonates. ♪
♪ Thundering, ♪
♪ with good sounding skin, ♪
♪ of hardened wood, ♪
♪ how good. ♪
♪ He didn't trust ♪
♪ in luck or in death, ♪
♪ and he appeared, ♪
♪ much bigger and much stronger. ♪
♪ And he joined ♪
♪ drums of a different color, ♪
♪ and thus was born, ♪
♪ his most thunderous beat, ♪
♪ his most thunderous beat. ♪
♪ Wood, wood, leather, and wood, ♪
♪ leather and wood ♪ ♪ always resonate, ♪
♪ they resonate, ♪ ♪ what a good thing, ♪
♪ leather and wood. ♪
♪ Wood, wood, ♪ ♪ leather, and wood, ♪
♪ leather and wood ♪ ♪ always resonate, ♪
♪ they resonate, ♪ ♪ what a good thing. ♪
♪ leather and wood. ♪
♪ That drum ♪
♪ that once started to bleed, ♪
♪ from beating the skin, ♪
♪ still resonates. ♪
♪ Resistant, ♪
♪ facing the fire to temper the skin, ♪
♪ his voice grew as he matured, ♪
♪ how good. ♪
♪ Propagation ♪
♪ of his news and his justice, ♪
♪ and he woke up, ♪
♪ singing with the family. ♪
♪ And he discovered ♪
♪ new reasons to dream, ♪
♪ and so, he found, ♪
♪ another way to play, ♪
♪ another way to play. ♪
How are things going, Nelly?
Tell Álvaro to write to me, and to lazy Daniel,
and tell the Eduardos not to stay,
singers are needed in America,
because although I'm great, one day I'll be dead.
And that's all,
I ran out of paper, so I'll be signing off.
A big, big hug,
Manuel.
♪ The young lady had ♪
♪ cinnamon-colored eyes, ♪
♪ and a girl in her blood ♪
♪ named innocence. ♪
♪ The lady had eyes like spring. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪
♪ a soul full of anticipation, ♪
♪ and sixteen concerns ♪
♪ made her legs shake. ♪
♪ The lady had impatient eyes. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪
♪ the same thirst as the earth, ♪
♪ and in her womb, a fertile ♪
♪ territory for sowing. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪
♪ eyes like bonfires, ♪
♪ and love, more than a rose, ♪
♪ the lady had ♪
♪ eyes like bonfires. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪
♪ a prince in her head, ♪
♪ and love, more than a rose, ♪
♪ was two warring warriors. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪
♪ eyes like a storm. ♪
♪ The lady suddenly ♪
♪ became a woman by force, ♪
♪ and in her happy eyes, ♪
♪ there's a hint of sadness. ♪
♪ The lady, a woman, ♪
♪ the one with innocence. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪
♪ the same thirst as the earth, ♪
♪ and in her womb, a fertile, ♪
♪ territory for sowing. ♪
♪ The lady had ♪ ♪ eyes like bonfires, ♪
♪ and love, more than a rose, ♪
♪ the lady had ♪
♪ eyes like bonfires. ♪
♪ A milonga, ♪
♪ as if raining, ♪
♪ but in the hair ♪
♪ of the one I love. ♪
♪ That's what she sings, ♪
♪ what she sings to me, ♪
♪ as if from within. ♪
♪ Double drops, ♪
♪ with a downpour, ♪
♪ mixing glasses, ♪
♪ soaking kisses; ♪
♪ an assembly ♪
♪ of a bunch of crazies, ♪
♪ under a umbrella, ♪
♪ mad with wind. ♪
♪ The name resonated, ♪
♪ sounded like morning, ♪
♪ but it carried ♪
♪ rain from the past, ♪
♪ like mine, ♪
♪ and she also had ♪
♪ raindrops hanging. ♪
♪ There were no violins, ♪
♪ but there was "Becho" ♪
♪ and there was Outes Bar, ♪
♪ and I think Alfredo too, ♪
♪ and cigarettes, ♪
♪ blond and black, ♪
♪ and a couple of lovers, ♪
♪ in a lighter. ♪
♪ The mouth wide open, ♪
♪ the tongue wet, ♪
♪ drinking from the rain, ♪
♪ desperately, ♪
♪ with salt, with hunger, ♪
♪ for love and homeland, ♪
♪ with skin of soil ♪
♪ of reclaimed land. ♪
♪ And now it doesn't rain. ♪
♪ Bad milonga, ♪
♪ that doesn't have her, ♪
♪ under the umbrella; ♪
♪ but still carries, ♪
♪ beneath the soul, ♪
♪ like a storm, ♪
♪ under a shelter. ♪
♪ Flaco says: ♪
♪ "I know nothing" ♪
♪ but the afternoon ♪
♪ is filled with clouds, ♪
♪ and this bar, ♪
♪ has windows, ♪
♪ for your rains, ♪
♪ and for your love. ♪
♪ Come, Galician, ♪
♪ soak your wings ♪
♪ in this rain ♪
♪ colored ♪
♪ in amber. ♪
OCTOBER 2012: MARCOS FLACK OPENS THE DOORS OF EL GALPÓN FOR HIM.
MANUEL GETS SICK, AND THE CONCERT IS CANCELED.
MANUEL CAPELLA WAS BORN IN BÉJAR, SALAMANCA, ON 8 DECEMBER, 1946.
HE PASSED AWAY IN MONTEVIDEO ON 28 MAY, 2013.
♪ You are flying, ♪
♪ widow milonga, ♪
♪ you are flying, ♪
♪ as if singing, ♪
♪ biting at death. ♪
♪ The beloved song ♪
♪ keeps singing. ♪
♪ Magical rose, ♪
♪ flies and rests, ♪
♪ widow milonga of Zitarrosa's. ♪
♪ Flies and rests... ♪
♪ What will the paths say, ♪
♪ when they no longer ♪
♪ see her go by? ♪
♪ How are we ♪
♪ to face that cruel reality? ♪
The last time Manuel sees his father
is in Gualeguaychú, Entre Ríos,
in 1980.
At the hotel, he tells him he wrote a song for him,
and sings "El hombre de azul".
His father is deeply moved and starts to cry.
Manuel hugs him and says:
"Why are you crying, old man?"
The father responds:
"How can someone fit 35 years of life
into a five minute song?"
♪ The man in blue ♪
♪ walks the streets, ♪
♪ carrying on his shoulders ♪
♪ the afternoon. ♪
♪ Over half a century, ♪
♪ he carries in his shoes, ♪
♪ and an eternity, ♪
♪ following the trail, ♪
♪ the track that follows ♪
♪ his proletarian journey, ♪
♪ from work to home, ♪
♪ from home to work. ♪
♪ The man in blue, ♪
♪ the man in blue, ♪
♪ the man in blue... ♪
♪ Old swallow, ♪
♪ seeking the summer, ♪
♪ with the brief flight ♪
♪ of his old hands. ♪
♪ He sometimes remembers, ♪
♪ with tired eyes, ♪
♪ green horizons ♪
♪ that date from way back. ♪
♪ When from Spain ♪
♪ he took a ship here, ♪
♪ he carried two hopes: ♪
♪ woman and boy. ♪
♪ The man in blue, ♪
♪ the man in blue, ♪
♪ the man in blue... ♪
♪ The grease of the day ♪
♪ hurts in his clothes, ♪
♪ while he drinks love, ♪
♪ from a soup bowl. ♪
♪ Only when he sleeps, ♪
♪ his tired dreams, ♪
♪ he leaves the hard job, ♪
♪ of renting his arms. ♪
♪ But the dawn comes, ♪
♪ of rushes and coffees, ♪
♪ and behind a kiss, ♪
♪ he returns to work ♪
♪ where the sirens, ♪
♪ scream of food, ♪
♪ of so many blues ♪
♪ in the avenues, ♪
♪ gathering steps, ♪
♪ so many swallows, ♪
♪ and so many summers, ♪
♪ that the man foresees, ♪
♪ when he looks at his son, ♪
♪ who is also walking, ♪
♪ alongside so many children, ♪
♪ by... ♪
♪ the avenues. ♪
♪ The man in blue ♪
♪ keeps tenderness ♪
♪ behind the strength ♪
♪ of his hardened hands. ♪
♪ The man in blue, ♪
♪ the man in blue, ♪
♪ the man in blue... ♪
♪ my father. ♪
So, as I was saying,
I go back to the source of dignified singing and so,
with a lot of music inside,
I tell you that maybe the end of the year
is a good reference to get our hopes renewed.
That's why I wish you
an incredibly happy '81,
in which, apart from
the affection I have for you,
this unstoppable march of ours may grow too.
I love you.
Manuel.
♪ A hand, ♪
♪ palpitating milongas in grey, ♪
♪ like the sound of rain ♪
♪ against the glass. ♪
♪ Wounded with nostalgia, ♪
♪ the voice ♪
♪ for the beloved land ♪
♪ and the sun, ♪
♪ like a sweet memory ♪
♪ that shines and burns ♪
♪ in the south. ♪
♪ You'll walk ♪
♪ in your craft, ♪
♪ a worker of the song, ♪
♪ your eyes towards ♪
♪ the tenderness of the future, ♪
♪ which, more than yesterday, ♪
♪ brings closer today, ♪
♪ the time of the flower. ♪
♪ More than a place, ♪
♪ your place is a path of peace, ♪
♪ where the universal child ♪
♪ treads and waits ♪
♪ for songs of bread, ♪
♪ feeling the bones grow ♪
♪ next to the blue bird ♪
♪ that from your throat arose. ♪
♪ The corners ♪
♪ will wait for your name, ♪
♪ and, perhaps, the seagulls ♪
♪ will sense your heart ♪
♪ singing at it returns. ♪
♪ When the pain is finally, ♪
♪ ashes over the sea. ♪