Borges & Piazzolla - Tangos & Milongas [1996]

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Borges & Piazzolla - Tangos & Milongas [1996]

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In 1965, Borges and Astor Piazzolla collaborated on an album of tangos and milongas called El Tango. For whatever reason, it was allowed to go out of print and was never transferred onto CD. In 1996, Emmanuel Chamboredon and Envar el Kari decided to “rescue” this work, and they recommissioned a new recording. To assemble and conduct the sizable musical ensemble, Daniel Binelli was chosen – the very bandoneón player who worked with Piazzolla and Borges on the original record. The result was Borges & Piazzolla: Tangos and Milogas, featuring the Argentine singer Jairo and the Chilean actor Lito Cruz, with Daniel Binelli himself on the bandoneón.
And what can I possibly say except “Thank heaven they did this?” Borges & Piazzolla is a wonderful accomplishment, one of those rare albums that seems truly charmed, brimming over with exuberance, wit, and passion. (Be warned: I am about to launch into an unabashed rave.)
When I first got this CD, I played it casually as I was working, just to get a preliminary feel for it. And while I certainly enjoyed it, I must say that most of it passed unnoticed, slipping by my busy and diverted mind. The next night I went out on the town, and as fate would have it, I was carousing with a few friends. (OK, so it’s not exactly stabbing a gaucho to death in a bordello, but nevertheless I did have a certain mind-set.) On my way home I started up my Discman, thinking I had a Beck CD in the player.
Much to my surprise, the unmistakable bars of a Piazzolla tango began. Maybe it was the chilly night with its full moon; maybe it was the walk home through the streets of the city; maybe it was just the result of a few drinks – but suddenly the album gripped me and wouldn’t let me go. In fact, I delayed my arrival home just to finish the CD, mesmerized on the steps of the local library, my head full of knife fights, mysterious candillos, and the romantic streets of a mythical BA. The next day I played it again, and then again, and since then I have not been able to get it out of my player.
Borges & Piazzolla is a short disc, but one that covers a lot of musical ground. Comprised of six stand-alone pieces and a suite based on the story “El hombre de la esquina rosada,” the work calls for a narrator, a singer, and no less than twelve musicians. And while this might sound a bit unwieldy, the whole thing works marvelously, combining elements of a tango band with a chamber ensemble, blending poetry with song, and all delivered with flawless virtuosity, seamless integration and an irrepressible enthusiasm.
The disc starts off with one of the most ambitious pieces, “El tango.” Constructed as a “musical poem,” the band backs Lito Cruz as he delivers a theatrical reading of Borges’ poem. The music is a whirlwind of color and texture, spiked with improvised effects that range from scratching nails across metal guiros, thumping instruments for percussion, and crazy sounding “glissés” gleefully ripped from shrieking strings. While the band in The Rough Dancer and the Cyclical Night was instructed to evoke tangueros playing in a whorehouse, this band seems more suited to a madhouse, and the frenetic energy of the music is perfectly echoed in the urgency Cruz brings to his verses. This is followed by “Jacinto Chiclana,” a milonga that calms things down with a beautiful melody touched off by a gently rolling Spanish guitar. This marks the first appearance of Jairo, a singer with a resumé that includes previous Borges collaborations and a seductive voice that touches every line with trembling passion. As the guitar gives way to a gorgeous violin melody, Jairo delivers the middle stanza in spoken word, underscoring the drama of Borges’ verse. The next song is “Alguien le dice al tango.” The most traditional work in the collection, this spirited tango winds down to a lovely hush before disappearing in a sudden flourish. “El títere” then emerges on a manic tune played on the bandoneón, accompanied by a scratching riff that recalls the opening number. It is one of the most energetic songs on the album, filled with stuttering musical runs, sudden stops, and strings that whistle like sirens. It is followed by “A don Nicanor Paredes,” my personal favorite. A milonga, the dramatic music weaves around Jairo’s lush voice, occasionally falling into perfect moments of pure chamber music. It is a dark song, a romantic evocation of a vanished candillo, touched by melancholy and a slight taste of bitter nostalgia. The final song, “Oda intima a Buenos Aires,” is labeled a “porteño ode” and brings back the narrator. It is also, according to Piazzolla, the most vocally audacious piece – to the narrator is added a large chorus of chanting men and wailing women. The result is a song charged with a sentimental grandeur possessing all the nutty beauty of an old Spaghetti Western score. While this could certainly sound campy, or at least parodistic, there is a certain level of “audacious” honesty present which successfully carries off the effect and draws the listener inside.
The final work on the disc is the multi-part suite, “El hombre de la esquina rosada,” a setting of the story often translated as “Streetcorner Man.” (Or, more properly, “Man on Pink Corner.”) Here we have Piazzolla in experimental mode again, and the work spans a lot of territory over its seven parts, even dipping a toe into the waters of serialism. Back again are the joyful bevy of effects, the scratching, the thwacking pizzicati, the whirring glissés. But here they sound less frenetic, more focused, and the twelve-piece band propels the work along with a sure and steady confidence. The vocal parts, too, are more mannered, especially the harshness of the narration in “Aparición de real” and the unresolved edginess Jairo brings to “Rosendo y la Lujanera.”
For a Borges fan looking to explore the world of Argentine music, I can’t imagine a better start than this disc. Though Valeria Munarriz covers many of these songs on her Chante Jorge Luis Borges – and she carries them off wonderfully – I still prefer these versions. Although whether you prefer a male or female singer may be a matter of taste, Binelli’s band is more comfortable with the complexity and energy inherent in the music, and they play more in the spirit of Piazzolla’s own recordings. The recording quality is excellent – each instrument and effect comes through with crystal clarity, and the vocals are rich, warm, and perfectly positioned. The bilingual liner notes helpfully reprint Piazzolla’s commentary from the 1965 recording, supporting that with remarks from Laura Escalada Piazzolla, María Kodama, and Daniel Binelli. There are also small biographies on Daniel Binelli, Jairo and Lito Cruz. Curiously absent, however, are the actual lyrics – a serious oversight I find difficulty to understand, given the excellence brought to all other facets of the project. I would also have welcomed some explanation as to why the original 1965 El Tango is no longer available.