The violins in the Chacarera of Santiago del Estero always sound a little
out of tune.
On purpose.
So the music will sound good in the mushy volume of the radios of truckdrivers, on old radios with rundown batteries in ranchos, in club dances on basketball pitches / roofed with zinc.
To provide a texture in keeping with the savage heat of siesta-time, sticky
linoleum on tables in roadside bars / red wine / gin / Legui cane brandy.
To match the old shoes, worn and much brushed, of teachers
who earn two bucks and wait for the bus at the doors of those same bars.
Their nylon stockings / buckles / matching watches.
They're a little out of tune because that's the way they are.
To summon iguanas and ghosts.
Because the strings are cheap.
Because they can't play any better.
They're lazy about tuning because who cares anyway.
So the music will be soaked in the resentment and pride
living together in the mestizo - crossbreed.
To accompany drunks who miss the beat when they sing.
To match the untidiness around them.
To show a loose thread.
To blend jokily out of tune with all the absence, all the pain.
Marcos López