For me the great thing about Pedro Laurenz (no, not the guy on the picture, this is the singer, as usual) is that his music always complements his singers in such a particularly sensitive way. Not just a nice dance beat and a redundant guy behind a microphone, but a very real interaction. This is, of course, the case for a lot of tango music, especially as far as Caló is concerned, but I find the effect especially notable in Laurenz songs of this specific period.

So, when you have listened to the following song and understood the meaning of the words, I advise you to listen again: try to pay attention to what the instruments are attempting to add to the story, how they complement the very sad character of what the singer is bringing accross. For me this is just a typical early example of the somehow more sophisticated nature of Golden Age music. I shall now stop harassing you with my philosophy, but do not abandon this browser tab before having drooled over Laurenzes bandoneon greatness starting at 3:00 in this video.

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This channel may not work for some people, there are a few alternative videos on YT.

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As I saw her pass by (Al verla pasar, singer Martin Podesta)

Yesterday, as I saw her pass by,
I came to the conclusion that I cannot return,
and I understood that everything has ended,
that we are but shadows of that past.
With so much sadness I watched that what I
thought would be my rescue …poor me!
And in the terrible doubt between
talking to her or not,
I stepped back.

Poor little thing….
she looked so old and pale!
Her black eyes looked at me
without sparkle…
Life wanted to cause her pain and enjoy it….
The thought… that she used to be so beautiful
and now, the world has forgotten about her.
If she only knew
that I have changed too
that my spirit has been destroyed
and that I sometimes even
thought of killing myself
and, well… that for me, everything, everything,
everything has already perished.

(Then, I left that place, trembling and
yearning to cry heavily….
Driven crazy by sadness,
cold in my soul,
ice in my veins.
And I left.. without knowing where to go
together with taunts and laughter.
And now, knowing that I am lost,
without strength, defeated…
I cannot live.)

There is still a lot of great stuff from the Guardia Vieja waiting for us to be discovered. This song combines sophisticated poetry about the bandoneón with an awe-inspiring musical story – listen closely, you will hear conversations going on especially around 1:00. The singer serves as estribillista and appears only for a limited amount of time, but I guess you should read the whole poem, because you may recognize your own relationship with tango music in these descriptions. Towards the end of the song, there is a powerful musical variation that might just be the bandoneóns answer to our tribute!

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Recited: Sentimental bandoneón, soul of our arrabal, with your melancholic accent.. sing, sing, bandoneón!

I adore you, bandoneón!
Because you imitate my grief with your sound,
because you take root in my existence
and beat inside my tender heart.
In your sensitive music
there are caresses, sweet kisses from women,
there are reproaches of passion
and motherly affection…
bandoneón, from our musical arrabal.  

(Bandoneón, when I was sunk in sorrow,
faced with the collapse of a beautiful illusion,
when wandering, without love…. lost…
it was you who consoled my heart!
When my loving mother gave me
that last kiss before passing away
you, bandoneón, with your
sweet-sounding chords,
you relieved my sadness.

Thanks to you I could forget the bitterness
of an odious and vile betrayal,
and you encourage me to sing
even when my afflicted heart cries.
In your sensitive music
there are caresses, sweet kisses from women,
there are reproaches of passion
and motherly affection…
bandoneón, from our musical arrabal.)

This song discusses, like many other tangos, our longing for lost loves, but I find these lyrics particularly beautiful, because the mood that is being created is in one way or another very tangible, very imaginitive. When I listen to this I almost feel like I am actually sitting there, near the lake, while the sun goes down and the night reinforces my melancholy and solitude. Lucio Demare´s dark, misty, subtle music is a perfect match here.

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Another evening goes by

The sun goes down in the lake
and the lark stops singing.
The evening steps aside
and gives way to the darkness.
Once again the spring
is inviting me to dream.
My waiting may be of no use
but I will wait for her anyway.

Another evening goes by
without your cheerfulness
and you are so far away, my love.
Perhaps my suffering is yours,
and you may have already turned around
on that path of farewell.
Another evening goes by,
and in my hope, as well,
another evening goes by.

Once again, the spring
is inviting me to dream.
My waiting may be of no use
but I will wait for her anyway.
Another evening goes by,
and in my hope, as well,
another evening goes by.

(The night puts its cloak on.
On a way without traces
goes the shepherdess of silver
with her flock of stars.
And once again, the spring
is inviting me to dream.
My waiting may be of no use
but I will wait for her anyway.)

Is there anyone here who doesn’t like Roberto Maida’s voice? Every time I listen to whatever song Francisco Canaro has created together with his singer Maida, I am amazed by the quality of this combination…. and after trying to study the lyrics in more detail, I also conclude that they dealt with a lot of particularly beautiful tango poetry, too.

I invite you to listen to a very beautiful and danceable – I love walking to this song at home – version of the following song by Roberto Maida, a rather sad song, with lyrics that are stuck in my head and probably won’t get out anytime soon. You can also listen to a different version by a fellow named Charlo with full lyrics (translated below, too) that you can’t really dance too. It’s a scene from a movie and I always love watching the rather rare videos of tango singers. Charlo was one of the now kind of forgotten but still interesting Guardia Vieja singers, like Carlos Gardel, Agustin Magaldi and Ignacio Corsini.

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I, too, have been dreaming
tales of illusion
since my childhood.
And it was a blue dream*
that deceived me
in my youth.
I dreamt about love,
I felt the warmth of
faithful affection.
Madly, I wasted
the treasures I forged
and in the midst of my sleep,
I was happy in the warmth
of those caresses that I
later would not know.

(The more tender
the love in a dream,
the more bitter
the awakening becomes.)
An iron hand brings
us back to reality
and our dreams change into
misery and wickedness.
I would like to dream,
sleep once and for all
and never wake up again.

(After losing my hope and
faith, I saw her appear.
Pretty as a picture**
she looked at me while
passing through my solitude.
She came closer to me and
I heard her voice speaking of love.
My hope was born again
and now that I am happy
I am afraid of dreaming,
because if this were a dream,
I wouldn’t be able to live any longer.)

*In case you look up what a blue dream means, you probably learn something more about marihuana. The actual intended meaning seems to be a bit archaic nowadays.

** The original words would literally mean ‘beautiful like a sun’, which sounds typically Spanish to me. Therefore, I converted this into a bit more acceptable English expression that, ultimately, has the same meaning.

Even after having heard many of his songs a hundred of thousand times I am still completely amazed by Carlos di Sarli. His elegant, emotional music and I shall be passionate partners till death do us part. There are many different Di Sarlis and I had to choose one, so let us listen to a bit of Di Sarli-Rufino.

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Forgotten things (Cosas olvidadas)

After a long, long time
only now I talk to you again.
What a sensation I get from listening to you,
like as if it were back then!
You see…. I am much older now,
and you too, than in those days when
you loved me so much… so much,
and now nothing remains, everything is gone.

These are forgotten things,
these old love affairs,
and when recalling better times
our glance becomes clouded.
These are forgotten things,
that return faded and
in the solitude of our lives,
open wounds to the heart.

(There is an accent of sorrow
and melancholy in your voice
and in that plea for help my soul
does its best not to cry.
It’s just that we have done ourselves harm
by reviving those dead times
and the heart opened its gates
for the gloom of remembering.)