Milonga

I’ll try to keep the hyperbole and blather out of this blog.  We went to a milonga a few nights past.

Milonga – Noun  (plural milongas)

1.       A form of music originating in Argentina, Uruguay and Southern Brazil

2.       A dance which accompanies this music

Origin

From Spanish milonga

Attached images will tell a better story than I can. Suffice to say that we were plunged into a rich stew of sound, vocal expostulation, light and movement that was intoxicating.  If you travel to Buenos Aires Do. This. One. Thing: Café Vinilo in Palermo on a Monday night. It’s on Gorriti near Bulnes. I'll add some audio and video links to this when I have easier access to them.

You have to ring a bell at the front door to gain entrance (I have no idea who they would exclude if they let the grey pilgrims from winterland in). Like all evening fare in Argentina it starts pretty late-ish – 10pm.  There was a bit of terpsichoric skirmishing on the dance floor just as we found our seats along the wall – young couples dancing arrythmically (it seemed to me) to recorded tango music.  It was the first time I had seen tango dancing live (almost true – I’d seen it at the Dovercourt House but there is no comparison in terms of technique or timing). After each piece the audience would applaud.  I thought more people would jump into the fray but for the most part there were usually only one or two couples dancing.  The few dozen looking on – were they expectant? Judgmental? Curious? I can’t read Portenos (that;s what they call themselves). I think that if we had stayed around after the musical performance there might have been more going on but we ancients need our 20.5hours/day of rest or we turn into calabasas.

At 11 or so we plunge into black – like a power shortage.  No dimmer.  Complete void, an expectant vacuum of noise..  A moment later a sudden blare of ruby and amber lights burst above the raised dais illuminating a wide plume of smoke, the glint of a bass sax, a gleaming cello, bass; an ancient piano stands off stage left – its operator crouched like a vulture over the keys.  The Orquestra Victoria.  A dozen or so musicians begin to play a most stirring, romantic, sad and haunting music.  Sitting on a wooden box center stage a young man directs while playing his bandoleon – he swings his neck rapidly to indicate the beginning of a phrase or detaches his right hand from the keys and slices the smoky air – CRASH! delicious.  It was like being plunged naked into black coffee! The lights are beautifully choreographed to the music – sometimes a single spot ekes out a face, floating in inky space, sometimes the musicians are wholly backlit like a black row of scarecrows. We sat transfixed for an hour, being battered and torn and dragged across heart’s half acre by a language we barely understood.  Wow! The musicianship was superb and the singer, who emerged now and again to plunge his hand into our chests and hold our living, beating hearts, mercilessly, in front of us, was stunning.

heart-rending vocalization

As suddenly as it begins, it ends. We settle up.  A pittance for a fantastic evening. Walking home; the streets are dark.  The trees brood. The air is dense, humid. There are few people on the streets but it feels safe though otherworldly. Again the pervasive smell of diesel and unburnt fuel. The tenor whine of a motorbike that coughs and stutters into a downshift.  The sidewalks….ok Colin, if you mention the fucking sidewalks one more time I’m going to fly down there and make you eat one!….were…..ok. Can I mention the dogshit again?

Sorry about the hyperbole and blather.  Seems to be part of the package.